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goldenraeofsun · 3 years

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There is Only Try, Part I

“Love spell,” Rowena proclaims as she glides down the stairs to the Bunker floor like it’s her personal ballroom. Her midnight blue floor-length gown and elaborately curled hair look especially out of place - Dean’s pretty sure his shirt has pizza stains from at least three different pizzas. The shirt is red, so at least two of them don’t count.

Behind her on the stairs, Sam chokes.

Rowena turns around to face him. “And I thought this was going to be a challenge,” she chides. “Really, Samuel?”

“What do you mean, ‘love spell’?” Dean demands with a fleeting glance at Cas, who’s gone red in the face. Dean doesn’t blame him - between the hooker with the daddy problems and the stabby reaper, he’d be leery of anything vaguely love-shaped too.

“We called you because we need to translate the runes on a cursed box,” Sam says slowly. “We think it’s in some sort of cipher, since even Cas can’t get a read on it.”

“Well, did Tweety Pie touch the box?”

“No,” Cas says, offended.

Dean nudges him with his elbow, saying in an undertone, “C’mon, like it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Dean.”

Dean takes in Cas’s unamused face and scowls at Rowena's tinkling laugh. “Okay, Sabrina, what the fuck do you mean by ‘love spell’?”

“I mean the angel’s been cursed with a love spell,” Rowena says with deliberate slowness, like she’s giving a command to a particularly stupid lap dog. “Was it not obvious?”

Dean glances at Cas, horror trickling down his spine. “No.”

“Hmph,” Rowena sniffs. “Men really are oblivious to matters of the heart.” She waves her hand again, eyes glimmering violet. “Like I thought,” she continues, placing both hands on her hips, “A jardin d’amour.”

“A garden of,” Sam pauses, clearly trying not to laugh, “love?”

“A very basic love spell,” Rowena says disdainfully. “The lass didn’t seem to have any imagination.”

“The witch we ganked two weeks ago was a dude,” Dean says. A beat. “A man witch.”

Sam snorts.

“There you go,” Rowena says, lifting her nose into the air. “Most men don’t have that innate knack for the magical arts.” She turns to Sam, giving him the most obvious come-hither look Dean has ever seen. “There are some obvious exceptions, of course.”

Okay, Dean needs Rowena and her heebs with a large dosing of the jeebs out of the Bunker, stat.

“It starts as a tiny seed, a wee obsession,” Rowena explains, “and grows and grows until it consumes you.” She squints, wiggling her fingers, and Dean just barely stops himself from jumping in front of Cas on instinct. “I’d say the spell’s gone about halfway through its course.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. He throws another calculating glance at Cas. “He’s not writing love songs or grabbing a boombox, so he’s obviously not cursed.”

Cas, still suspiciously silent, shoves both his hands in his pockets and stares hard at a spot of the floor between his feet.

“Oh, but he is, darlin’,” Rowena exclaims delightedly. “I can see it clear as day. Look!”

Cas sneezes as the magic washes over him for a third time, and now they all can see the purple sparkles - really, Rowena? - hovering in the air around him.

“Okay,” Dean makes a face, “Now I’m confused.”

“Not for the first time, isn’t that right?” Rowena says with faux-sympathy.

Dean glowers. He turns to Cas. “Come on, she’s making this all up. You’d know if you got dosed with Love Potion No. 9.”

“I-” Cas says, his gaze skittering from Dean to Rowena and back again. He looks… caught.

“Wait,” Dean thunders, taking a step forward, “You knew?”

“I,” Cas starts haltingly, “had suspected.”

“And you didn’t think you’d tell us you’d been whammied?”

Cas shrugs. “It doesn’t seem to be affecting me at all. My vessel is functioning normally.”

“Sure, because you’re such an expert on normal-”

Cas’s eyes flash. “It didn’t seem relevant considering everything else-”

“What d’you mean every-?”

“Kelly Kline - Lucifer, again - the British Men of Letters - take your pick,” Castiel retorts heatedly.

“We’ve got that under control-”

“Killing a child is not ‘under control’-”

“It is if the kid’s the literal spawn of Satan-”

“I never thought I’d hear Dean Winchester defending the murder of an inno-”

Dean throws up his hands. “Did you miss my ‘spawn of Satan’ comment?”

“No,” Cas says, his expression as stony as the Bunker’s foundations, “my hearing is excellent.”

Off to the side, Rowena mutters in a carrying stage-whisper, “I can see how a wee curse like this is the least of your problems.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam says, running a weary hand down his face.

Dean rounds on them. “What?”

“Do you want me to remove the love spell or not?” Rowena asks, eyebrows raised. “My time is precious, you know. I don’t live to be at the Winchesters’ beck and call.”

“For the last fucking time, it’s not a goddamn spell!” Dean explodes. “Whatever it is, he is not in love. He hasn’t been acting any different.”

Rowena beams. “Well now, if he were already in love, it would have no outward effects. He’d…” Her expression becomes stomach-turningly sly, “...function normally, so to speak.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a firm line. As Dean goggles at him, Cas demands, “Remove the spell, now.”

Dean swallows. Cas can’t be - she can’t be implying - that’s impossible. He’s an angel. They don’t feel things like that.

Do they?

“I’m going to need some ingredients,” Rowena says, looking up to Sam. “Where might they be?”

Sam gestures her forward. “Back in the store room, I’ll show you.”

Rowena pats him lightly on the arm. “What a gentleman,” she simpers as Dean pretends to hurl behind her back.

Dean can’t bring himself to speak until they’re both out of earshot, their footsteps fading off into the distance. He turns to Cas, trying to keep his voice detached and failing miserably. “So, you think it got you after all?”

Cas looks away. “I know it has.”

“Oh.” Dean picks up his empty whiskey glass. He runs a hand down his face, trying to scrub away whatever he’s feeling. It doesn't work. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Fucking witches.”

“I - I could use one as well,” Cas says to Dean’s surprise.

* * *

“So, uh, who’s the lucky chick?” Dean asks as he makes a beeline for the liquor cart in the library off the war room. He grabs an additional glass for Cas and the bottle of Jack, tips the bottle down his own throat to get them started, and pours them out a few fingers.

Cas takes his drink, jaw clenching. He doesn’t look like a dude head over heels. He looks like his normal sleep-deprived, tax accountant self. He stays silent.

Dean thumps heavily down into a chair. “Have we met her?” he prompts because he’s nothing if not a masochist at heart.

“You could say so, in a sense.” Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean’s, face softening, and Dean’s going to hurl for real this time. Cas continues, “There’s not much in my life I keep from you.”

Dean swallows against the ball of self-loathing and disgust clogging his throat. “Some lady angel, then? Been dreaming about plucking her harp strings?”

Cas scowls into his drink. “No.”

“Not an angel?”

“Not a lady,” Cas says, his voice almost unbearably stiff. “And not an angel, either. A human - a beautifully flawed human.”

Dean has no words to say to that, so he drinks. Cas has probably met thousands of people - nice, normal people who aren’t fucked up in the head from ganking monsters their whole lives - since he’s been on Earth. God knows, he hasn’t been plastered to Dean’s side the entire time. Lately, Dean can’t even come up with a good excuse to get him to stay for more than a day or two at most.

“A guy, then,” Dean says to make sure they’re on the same page - because last time he checked, waves of celestial intent cared less about acing a Gender and Sexuality 101 class and more about whether a meatsuit could withstand a holy oil molotov cocktail.

Cas nods, his eyes narrowing. “Your opinion on homosexual relationships is part of the reason I’ve never brought it up before.”

“Hey, I don’t judge,” Dean says, not entirely truthfully. He holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Homo it up, man. Love is love.”

Cas’s nose wrinkles, but he doesn’t comment on Dean’s hamfisted attempt at proving his acceptance of ‘alternative lifestyles’ as Dad might’ve put it charitably one time. “It’s complicated,” Cas adds, like any part of this fucked-up situation could fit under a goddamn Facebook status.

Dean hitches a grin on his face that probably wouldn’t fool a blind person. “So, apart from that, how come you’ve never come to me for help? I don’t wanna brag, but I’m kind of an expert in hookups. Sam’s kind of hopeless. He can’t get a chick into bed without her dying on him.”

Cas knocks back his glass. “I didn’t want to bother you with my feelings.”

Dean automatically grimaces at the mention of feelings. But, hell, he’s not a teenage girl. He can man up and be there for his best friend.

He has to - Cas hardly asks him for anything anymore.

Sure, Cas didn’t exactly ask Dean for anything this time around, but Dean can read between the lines. Now that he’s copped to what’s going on beneath Cas’s still waters, he can see how deep those feelings run. Especially if what Rowena’s saying is true and a love spell is barely a drop in the bucket.

“And, regardless, your ‘hookup’ skills wouldn’t be relevant, anyway,” Cas says quietly, lowering his hands. “I’m not interested in… coupling.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “That reaper really screwed you over, didn’t she? Look, just because you got shanked, doesn’t mean all sex winds up with an angel blade-”

“I misspoke,” Cas says over him. “What I mean is, I would rather have no sexual relations at all if I cannot have all of him: mind, body, and soul.”

Trust Cas to spout the most profound cheese Dean has ever heard.

And also, what the fuck? Dean can’t get behind that idea at all. Dean’s always been a take what you can get kind of dude. He had to be, with what he has to work with - a pretty face, a killer's instinct, and an inability to have a normal relationship if his goddamn life depended on it.

Like, if Dean had gotten the slightest whiff that Cas was down with gettin’ down and dirty with Dean as his last hurrah (which of course he didn’t), Dean would never have bothered with that stupid den of inequity. As hilarious as the outcome was, he would have gone for a little something-something for himself before the end of the world.

Of course, Dean wasn’t in love with Cas yet then. Whenever it came to mind, it was just a fun thought experiment, an idle what if for him to think about during a dry spell. Like his fantasies about fucking Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Or hatesex with Bela Talbot.

But none of that mattered because every step of the way from Castiel, mighty Angel of the Lord, to Cas, their friendly neighborhood angel-man, he never hinted he’d be down for a quick roll in the hay... or something more serious.

Dean remembers very clearly: Anna fell to experience emotions, even the bad ones.

And Dean��s not an idiot - Cas obviously experiences emotions now. Dude’s been through too much not to feel something. But Dean’s never deluded himself that they could ever include all the romantic lovey-dovey, chick-flick moments crap.

Family love, sure. Cas might love all his haloed siblings. Cas has been around for all the Top 10 worst decisions that are the Winchesters’ version of brotherly devotion. Cas even said the big L-word out loud himself, when he was bleeding out in that barn a month ago.

But romantic love? The big kahuna L-O-V-E?

Dean always thought scaling Mount Everest with a plastic beach shovel would be easier than convincing an angel to feel that way about anyone. Cas is a wave of celestial intent; waves of celestial intent don’t do anything as human, as stupid, as fall in love.

But apparently they do.

So maybe that’s why Cas has always been so hard to pin down, so eager to leave Dean all the time. He’s been off pining after this mystery guy.

Awesome.

Cas heaves a weighty sigh and finishes off his own glass of whiskey. Without another word, he half raises from his chair, reaching around the table lamp, to pour them both a second round. “I suppose there is a bit of a relief in finally saying it,” he says in a low voice. “I can’t be with him, but there is a certain amount of happiness in it being known, just being seen.”

Dean wastes no time in downing half his new drink. Throat burning in warning, he forces out, “Why - why can’t you? You’re a freaking angel - thought you could have anyone.” Dean frowns. “He’s not a civilian, is he?”

Talk about a recipe for disaster: Cas plus normal person equals uncomfortable questions and fucked up babysitting gigs.

Cas’s eyes widen. Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. “Ah, no, not really.”

“So he knows about angels.”

Cas gives a slow nod. “He doesn’t have a very high opinion of them, though,” he says ruefully, staring down into his glass. “They’ve made his life very difficult over the past few years.”

Dean scoffs, “He can join the club.”

Cas flinches.

“Hey, no,” Deans says quickly, “Not you.”

Cas raises head, his eyes unbearably bleak. “Why not me? I was the one who set the Leviathans and angels loose on humanity to wage their wars, among a dozen other transgressions.” He adds morosely, “Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if a different angel rescued you from Hell after all.”

Dean blinks at Cas, his stomach turning over with dread at the very idea. He tries to picture some nameless angel yanking him out of the Pit or marching into that barn with all the righteousness of Heaven on his heels. Dean can’t do it.

Or worse, not a nameless angel. Uriel, who was ready to kill thousands without a second thought. Zachariah, that dickwad with the mind games. Even Hannah, who Dean reluctantly liked - he still can’t see her sticking by their side, falling, sacrificing everything for them.

Cas is their third wheel, the stabilizer that keeps Team Free Will upright and moving forward. Without him, they’re a tandem bicycle, and nobody wants a repeat of that opening scene from Gabriel’s sitcom from Hell.

“Yeah, but at least you always tried to do the right thing.”

“There is no try, only what I did or did not do,” Cas answers with a strange, defeated expression.

“Okay, but,” Dean starts, rolling his eyes at Cas’s butchered Star Wars reference, “Yoda’s a lot of things, but applicable to the real world without space lasers, he is not. Sometimes the only thing you can do is try, dude.”

God knows, Dean could never have forgiven Cas for any of the shit he pulled if he hadn’t been 100% positive Cas had the best of intentions. Cas did all those things to save the world, and, sometimes, to save Dean personally. Which gives him the girliest, fuzzy feelings and also makes him want to punch a wall.

Cas throws him a pitying look. “Every time I ‘try’ to make things better, I fail.” He shakes his head. “When you were taken, I searched for months to find you. Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. I’m a… dumbass.”

“I thought you preferred ‘trusting,’” Dean jokes, and it only sounds a little forced.

Cas throws him an exasperated look. “Perhaps a few years ago. But now? I’ve made too many mistakes, and people have suffered - you and Sam have suffered - as a result. You don’t need to spare my feelings, Dean. It’s hardly what I deserve.”

Dean frowns, tapping his fingers against his glass as he takes in Cas's defeated air. “Hey, what’s with the pity party?”

“It’s not a ‘pity party’,” Cas counters. “These are basic facts.”

Dean leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “You aren’t serious.”

Cas stares back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dean rakes his gaze up and down Cas’s face, looking for a break, for a tell - even though he knows he won’t find any. “You saved the world. A couple of times by now.”

“I also personally put it in jeopardy more than once,” Cas mutters. “I trusted Crowley to steal Purgatory. I trusted Metatron to bring peace to Heaven. I trusted Lucifer to take out the Darkness.”

Dean’s heart sinks with every reminder of Cas’s greatest hits. “Come on…”

Cas’s mouth thins, lips pressing together as he raises his glass to his mouth. “You don’t need to stay to keep me company, either,” he says in a low voice. “I’m the one under the spell. If you have anything more pressing, I can wait here for Rowena.”

“Shut up,” Dean says automatically. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas exhales a weighty sigh, his shoulders losing some of their tension.

“Hey, what you need - hell, what we both need - is a win,” Dean says reassuringly. “Everything’s been such shit, you need a reminder to keep going.” He gets up from his seat, his legs itching to move. “Why don’t you tell me more about that man of yours?” he asks quickly, his words nearly tripping over themselves to get out before the regret sets in. “Maybe that’s the key to getting your head back in the game.”

Cas doesn’t say anything as Dean moves to peruse a row of books he has no intention of ever reading. Eventually, Cas protests without much conviction, “My head is in the game. I am still useful.”

Dean’s head jerks around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It isn’t?” Cas asks, head tilting in confusion.

Dean makes a face. “I mean, if you’re feeling down, you… shouldn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

Dean paces to the other end of the bookshelf, unbelievably annoyed at Cas for making him spell it out for him. “Forget it,” Dean says instead. “I still owe you for ganking Billie-”

“But the cosmic consequences-”

“Will suck, but in the meantime you saved our lives. I owe you.” Dean turns so he’s back to fully facing Cas. “So, tell me what this mystery guy is into.”

Cas’s eyes narrow at him. “I’d prefer not to talk about it.”

“Seriously?”

Cas straightens and nods.

“But,” Dean says, words failing as he wars with himself. He could push Cas for more info or keep on living in blissful ignorance. But if he has to choose between his own personal peace of mind or Cas experiencing the one pinnacle of human happiness (or so Dean’s been told in countless chick flicks he’ll take to the grave), it’s no choice at all. He starts again, “If you tell me about him, it’ll make this a lot easier.”

“I don’t want it to be easier,” Cas says, baffled. “I don’t want this to be anything.”

Dean gapes. “Why the hell not?”

Cas taps his empty glass on the table, irritated. “Please, leave it alone.”

“No,” Dean says mulishly. “I wanna help you, man.”

“I don’t want any help.”

“Well, tough shit because you’re getting it anyway. You’re family-”

Cas’s face does a weird spasm.

“-And that’s what you do for family,” Dean continues, a little confused and insulted. They are family; Cas said so, back when he thought he was dying in Ramiel’s barn.

“Drop it.”

“No,” Dean argues, shoving down everything else as his temper rises. “You’re hurtin’, and I can help. Why don’t you trust me? You trusted Crowley, Metatron, fucking Lucifer-”

Too far. Shit.

Cas whirls around, his face a mask of frustration and an emotion Dean has never seen before. “I did, and you know what? They screwed me. And, please forgive me, Dean, but I am tired of being used and used up, over and over.”

Dean blinks, his anger falling away to a raw hurt only Cas can dredge up. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Cas runs a weary hand down his face. He just shakes his head.

“C’mon, Cas, it’s me,” Dean says - pleads, really. “You know me better than anyone else, ’cept Sammy. I won’t do something like that.”

Cas glares. “I do know you, so I know that is exactly what will happen.”

Dean reels back, and he can’t save himself in time before an undoubtedly pained look spreads across his face.

Cas’s hostility cracks, but Dean’s already gotten the message.

So Cas’s one big happy loving family message was only a deathbed thing. That’s… fine. Dean’s done it himself, a time or two. Told Sam to live his life and not go looking for revenge or a way to fix it - all a crock of horse shit, of course. He should’ve figured Cas was more human than angelic with that poison pumping through his veins, making him all weak and sweaty. ’Course he wasn’t above feeling human sentimentality in his death throes.

Face hardening, Dean turns on his heel. “You were right about one thing. I guess I do have more important things to do than staying here with you.”

“Dean,” he hears behind him, but Dean doesn’t look back.

* * *

Dean always hides a spare bottle of booze in the bottom drawer of the desk in his bedroom. It's mostly empty, but, hopefully, by the time Dean's polished it off, Cas’ll be cured, Rowena will be gone, and they all can pretend this never happened - Dean can pretend that Cas stopped keeping secrets because he’s learned they always blow up in his face in the past six years.

Anyway.

First, the booze.

Dean’s barely wrestled the top off with shaking fingers of leftover anger when a knock sounds against his door.

“’S the witch gone yet?” Dean asks without lifting his head.

The door opens. “Dean, it’s me.”

Dean takes a long pull of whiskey.

Cas sighs, audible in the stuffy, tension-filled space between them. He doesn’t approach, instead hovering in the doorway, and isn’t that how it always goes? Always poised for flight, that’s Cas. “Dean,” he repeats, which only makes Dean's blood boil that much hotter.

“What?” he demands. “What do you want now? ’Cause I can’t think of a single thing you need from me, Cas.”

Cas presses his lips together. “You’re making this very difficult.”

“Me?” Dean barks incredulously. “You’re the one hiding things and not letting me help you.”

“You won’t accept this is one area in which you can’t help?” Cas asks quietly.

Dean makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.

Cas shakes his head, his gaze focusing on Dean’s face with his patented laser intensity. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Yeah, I’m just a jackass who can’t get a lady to stick around for more than a few hours. I get it.” He glances up to see Cas’s stricken expression. Frowning, Dean looks away.

Cas steps tentatively into Dean’s room, his face weirdly apprehensive. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sure,” Dean says, tipping the bottle back like it’s water because he needs to be so much drunker to deal with Cas and his love spell bombshells right now.

Cas hovers awkwardly by Dean’s desk, his hands shoved into his coat pockets. “You’re so capable of love.”

“Cas-” Dean starts, but he has no idea where he’s going with this.

Cas keeps talking, thank God. “You don’t acknowledge that side of you very often, but I feel it every time we see each other, every time you’re with your brother. You care, you love, so wholly and completely.” Cas chuckles ruefully. “I didn’t realize it for a few years. I didn’t see how unique it was, how special you are, but you are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.”

Dean’s tongue finally unsticks from the roof of his mouth. Face flaming hotter than the inferno where he first met Cas eight years ago, he rasps out, “Cas - what the hell are you saying?”

Cas swallows, dragging his gaze back up to meet Dean’s wide eyes. “The reason I didn’t tell you about the love spell was because it couldn’t make me love you any more than I already do.”

Dean blinks, dumbfounded, at Cas, the words love you bouncing around his skull like a blocked radio signal. Cas said them; Dean heard them with his own two ears; but the meaning behind the words is getting lost in transmission.

As Dean’s brain struggles to make sense of just about everything, Cas nods once. “Well, now you know. I’ll go wait for Rowena’s cure in the kitchen.”

And then he leaves.

Dean slams the whiskey bottle down on his desk, cursing as it nearly topples over in his haste. He sets it right, swearing more as precious seconds pass by. He hurtles down the hall, half-convinced Cas lied to him to get a head start and is really halfway to Timbuktu.

But Dean finds Cas in the library, sitting more or less where he left him before Dean had his little wallowing session in his bedroom.

“Cas!” Dean blurts, skidding to a halt and grabbing onto the edge of the table for support.

Cas looks up, frowning. “I - “ he gives himself a little shake and starts again, “Is Rowena having trouble with the spell?”

“What?” Dean strides forward on shaky legs. “No - I mean, I don’t know. They could be fucking in a supply closet for all I care.”

Cas’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. For the first time today, he looks almost afraid. “Then why are you here?” he asks, his gaze darting towards the stairs to the exit. “I’m only going to stay in the Bunker until Rowena can finish. Then I will go.”

“Go?” Dean repeats, a spike of panic shooting up his spine. “You can’t.”

Cas inhales a sharp breath. “You want me to stay?”

“You want to bail?” Dean demands, his voice rising.

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “You’re upset. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“I’m not fucking upset!”

Cas throws him an unimpressed look. “You clearly are. Your pulse is rising. Your pupils are dilated. I can smell your elevated levels of adrenaline.”

Dean makes a face. “Dude - lines - crossed.”

“Fine,” Cas says, his face set. He gets up. “I can coordinate with Rowena at a later date. She should focus on the cursed box, anyway. It’s clearly a more pressing concern and the reason we called her in the first place.”

“Hey.” Dean takes a step forward. “Wait.”

Cas’s mouth sets in a thin line. “What do you want, Dean? I did as you asked. I told you the spell could only latch onto my feelings for you.”

Dean falters, his words failing him.

Cas’s shoulders slump. “I did warn you, you know,” he murmurs, trying to pass Dean on his way towards the door.

Dean grabs onto Cas’s bicep before he can disappear. “Gimme a moment. What you said - it’s a lot.”

Miracle of miracles, Cas stops.

Dean can practically feel the power thrumming underneath the trench coat sleeve in his grip, but Cas wordlessly lets Dean guide him back to the library table.

“Okay,” Dean starts, his head still mercilessly void of the right thing to say, “So that guy, the one you’re - well, it’s - he’s me?” he asks, stumbling over his words like he hasn’t since that one time Rhonda Hurley opened her underwear drawer.

Cas nods once, his face impossibly solemn.

“Right,” Dean grunts. He rubs at his chin, Cas watching the whole while. “That’s - wow.”

“Quite,” Cas says wryly.

“Hey, don’t be a dick,” Dean shoots back. “I had no idea.”

“That was the point,” Cas sighs. “But now you do.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling like a tongue-tied idiot. If only he could be more like Cas with the grand declarations.

Cas opens his mouth, pausing for a beat before saying, “I was never intending to leave permanently. I will still help you figure out how to deal with Kelly Kline. I will still assist with research, translations, anything you need.” His blue eyes bore into Dean’s face. “I can still be useful.”

Dean’s chest aches. “Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t about that?” he asks gruffly.

Cas’s earnest expression falters. “Of course,” he says, subdued. “Regardless, know that I am always willing to help the Winchesters.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, “This isn’t - it’s never been - about you being goddamn useful.” He huffs an exasperated breath, frowning harder as Cas doesn’t immediately get it and launch himself at Dean.

God, that would make this so much easier.

“What you want?” Dean says, glaring daggers at the tabletop between them, “That whole, mind, body, soul crap? You got it.”

Cas blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You already have it,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

Cas cocks his head like a perplexed chicken, still as clueless as ever.

It’s clearly time to bring out the big guns. If Cas is going to spout pretty speeches that steal Dean’s breath away and leave him weak-kneed but not actually, you know, make a move, Dean will just have to do everything himself.

Fine. That’s how he’s always operated, anyway.

Face determined, he leans over and grasps the lapels of Cas’s trench coat.

Cas leans back a fraction, his eyes widening in alarm or shock. But before he can utter another word, Dean brings their mouths together.

Cas takes a moment to get with the program. There’s a split-second (that lasts several years) when Cas almost seems to push Dean off him, but he kisses back before Dean can yank himself away first. Cas’s mouth is tentative against Dean’s, like he’s waiting for Dean to end it all and yell, “Got ya!”, but he unseals his lips with a light sigh as Dean gently parts them with his tongue.

Dean unclenches one hand from Cas’s lapel. He reaches up to cup Cas’s jaw, the raspy stubble a physical reminder of the goddamn win he’s finally getting. His knees twinge from awkwardly leaning over, but rampaging Leviathans could burst into the kitchen and Dean wouldn’t give any less of a fuck.

He has Cas right where he wants him, and he’s going to fucking savor it for as long as he can.

When Cas pulls away, his face shows nothing but pure confusion. “Why?” he breathes, raising a finger to touch his lips.

Dean, still half-standing, half-leaning over him, frowns. He falls back to his seat with a thump. “Because you weren’t going to do it first?”

Cas blinks. “I didn’t think you wanted anything like that,” he pauses, “with me.”

Like there’s anyone else around who wants to get real up close and personal with the most dumbass angel in the garrison.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, the faintest inklings of embarrassment creeping in now they’re not kissing anymore and Cas’s first reaction isn’t to look like he got free tickets to Disneyland. “I did. Do.”

“Oh.”

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat.

Cas looks away from Dean for the first time, and Dean dies a little inside. Stiffy, Cas says, “If this is some misguided attempt to show your sympathy for my situation. I don’t appreciate the gesture.”

“Gesture?” Dean echoes, “What the hell are you on, man? I don’t kiss random dudes because I feel bad for them, Christ.”

“Then why?”

Dean grimaces. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Yes,” Cas says quickly, his gaze raking up and down Dean’s face. “I have misunderstood your actions in the past, and I have no desire to do it again.”

Dean groans. “Look, I didn’t think angels could have feelings like that.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Or I would’ve… done something about it sooner,” he says, and that’s mostly true. Probably would’ve tried to seduce Cas, failed, and then jumped off a cliff, but Cas doesn’t need to know that.

“Well, normal angels can’t,” Cas says, “but there’s something broken in me.”

“You’re not broken,” Dean swears loudly, his anger flaring. “You’re… better. A new and improved God Squad, far as I can tell.” He narrows his eyes, daring Cas to talk shit about himself one more time.

Cas bites his lip. “You truly mean it.”

Dean tries for a mocking leer, but it comes out more like a dopey, hopeful smile. “You wanna get it engraved? Put up in neon in the Dean cave?” he asks, eyebrows raised as excitement courses through his veins. Cas loves him. Dean can make good on all those what ifs that have been plaguing him for years. “Tattooed on my ass?”

Cas chuckles lightly. “That would be a start.”

Dean lets out a bark of laughter. He can already feel the insecurities looming on the horizon. There’s always a catch: Cas never stays; Cas might want Dean now, but he’ll fly away the moment Dean fucks up because he has no idea what he’s doing.

But none of that matters right now.

He kissed Cas.

And Cas didn’t smite him. Didn't tell him to fuck off. Didn't flutter off to the moon for shits and giggles.

Cas knows him, knows him better than anyone except Sam. And despite all the fucked up shit in Dean's head, Cas is staying anyway, with his eyes wide open like nobody else Dean has ever been with.

Cas smiles in return. “If I had known a love spell would result in this outcome, I would have sought out that witch ages ago.”

And just like that, all Dean’s happy-ending fantasies come to a screeching halt.

Read Part II here!

#destiel fanfic #profoundnet #fanfic #destiel #rae writes fic #canon divergence #season 12 #love spell au #minor samwitch #there is only try

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lo-55 · 3 years

Text

Tangles Webs of Fate Ch.1

Everyone always said that you shouldn't go into the forest at night. No one but the foolish or the desperate would willingly venture between the trees when the moon rose, high and full above the port.

Marco was both.

If asked, Ace could tell you exactly what made him want to live in a cabin at the edge of the woods. That answer was, quite simply, he was broke.

Notes:

Major AU! None of this takes place in the One Piece world, includes magic spiders and time travel.

Into the Woods

Everyone always said that you shouldn't go into the forest at night. That those who did came back strange and different, if they ever returned at all. Mothers whispered to their children, children whispered it to each other and all but the huntsmen, who were strange and aloof already, skirted the edge of forest whenever the sun began to sink.

No one but the foolish or the desperate would willingly venture between the trees when the moon rose, high and full above the port.

Marco was both.

He ran, bare feet digging into sharp roots and snagging on stray roots until they broke his skin and left a trail of blood in his wake. Shouts echoed behind him, too far for him to hear, as though he didn’t already know the words being hurled at his back.

Normally, Marco avoided this place as much as anyone else, but he couldn’t afford to. Not tonight, not with blades chasing his back and death dogging his heels. He clutched his bag tight to his chest, the small jingling a meager comfort. Was it worth the trouble? The danger?

Was a sack of gold worth throwing himself into the dark space between the trees?

He prayed so.

Between the branches over his head only the smallest flashes of silver light filtered through, glancing off of shiny rocks and a tiny brook that snaked its way through. Marco hissed against the cold when his feet sunk in, stirring up mud and crawfish.

He stumbled only once, smacked his face on a branch, and stopped dead. The air in front of him shivered with heat he couldn’t feel. A spider hung from its web an inch from his face, looking at him with its dozens of eyes.

Marco scrambled to remember what he’d been told, the snippets of warnings wind had carried to his ears. Advice he could use now.

The howl of a hound cut through the night and Marco bowed his head, gripping the treasure he coveted closer to his chest. He pulled out a piece, then two, then three, until he had eight in his hand. With blind fingers he groped for a nook in the trees that walled up on either side of him. The spider was clever, he had built his web a hanging net between a arch of two trees in a close cropping of a dozen. Marco shoved the coins, one for each leg and one for each eye, into a gap in the bark.

“Please,” he begged, “give me safe passage.”

The spider turned its eyes from him. The shimmering air vanished, a cloud passed over the moon and the forest was plummeted into darkness.

Marco ducked under the web and ran through the trees. The hounds voices cut off as soon as he was through. The air felt different, heavier. A light flashed across the horizon, but it was too early to be dawn. Stars fell through the inky blankness of the sky. The moon was gone.

Marco slammed face first into something hard and metal. He bounced back, landing on his butt. The earth had vanished, packed down into what Marco’s fingers told him was a single slab of stone. A massive one.

The boy pushed himself up, his legs starting to shake as the reality of what he had done sunk in. He had broken all of the rules and obeyed them at once. Don’t go in the forest at night, humans said. Pay for your safety, the fae demanded.

Marco touched the metal, his fingers brushing over the smoothest surface he had felt in his life. He ran his hand across it, tracing over a strange indentation and a handle stuck in. Carefully, Marco bent to retrieve his bag from where he’d dropped it. The coins rattled against eachother, a reminder of his crime. A reminder of his escape.

In the blackess he could see the hulking shape of a house. Slowly, so slowly, he walked towards it, calling out into the darkness.

“If I am unwelcome, please tell me,” he asked the Fair Folk that lived here. The only response was the soft chirping of a lone cicada. Where in Gods name was he that there was one cicada and not several hundred?

Two bright eyes erupted out of the darkness, blinding him with a brilliance he had never experienced. Trapped suns flew towards him, stopping short. Marc o threw his hand over his eyes, stumbling back.

A voice shouted at him in a tongue he did not know. Angry, offended. Marco cursed himself for taking the cicada as the wrong sign and bowed low to the two suns that had flown to him in the night.

When the voice, still speaking words he could not understand, turned to one of concern he rose and fled, back into the trees. When dawn broke, he would pick his way back to the spiders tree and thank it for it’s help, and perhaps it would send him back to whence he came.

~ ~ ~

If asked, Ace could tell you exactly what made him want to live in a cabin at the edge of the woods. That answer was, quite simply, he was broke as fuck.

To be fair, trying to feed Luffy took up almost his entire paycheck, and what little Sabo brought in went almost exclusively to their seemingly never ending medical bills. Between the fights the three got into and the fact that they were still paying off the debt from Sabo’s ‘accident’ ten years ago there was never enough money, they were always stretched thin, and consequently they lived in a rickety old house that predated the automobile.

The water didn’t always run, so they kept a supply in barrels around the back, and the electricity liked to go out, if it was on at all, so they took turns working on a dilapidated generator to keeps the lights on and the fridge working.

It was nothing special. It was nothing good, not the way Luffy and Sabo deserved their lives to be. Not the way Ace wanted their lives to be.

It had never impressed anyone before, unless it was sheer amazement that the house was still standing.

Which begged the question, why the man in his living room was looking around him in wonder.

For that matter, how had he managed to get in in the first place?

And what was he wearing?

Ace leaned on the banister, urging a creak out of the old wood that made his ‘guest’ jump about twenty feet in the air. The blond spun around, hair flying about wildly. Ace froze where he stood, caught by bright, golden eyes. They were wide, the man’s shoulders were tense. He took a half a step away from Ace, shifting onto the balls of his feet. Ace would know a fighting stance anywhere.

“Um,” Ace said. He cleared his throat and added, “Hello? I’m Ace. Who are you?”

The man just stared at him, a furrow forming between his brows. He opened his mouth and released a string of gibberish that Ace assumed were words to other people. He looked around, said something else, and looked to Ace expectantly.

Ace, not sure what else to do, pointed at his face.

“Ace,” he said slowly. “Portgas D. Ace.”

“D!” the man repeated, a light erupting in him. It flashed behind a hint of a smile. Now that Ace was looking closer, scrutinizing him openly, he could see that whoever this man was he was not dressed for the thirty degrees outside.

His grey shirt was only halfway buttoned up, his black pants stopped long before his sandals, and the closest thing he had to a coat was the sash that jingled around his hips, gold flashing along its heavy folds.

He looked familiar...

“Uh, yeah,” Ace agreed. There was something about the clothes that looked wrong. Something not quite right, a sort of… nonconformity that department stores just did not sell. He pointed at himself again and repeated his first name. The man nodded, slowly. Some of the tension drained out of his shoulders.

“Ace,” he repeated, pointing to the young man. “Marco,” he added, pointing to himself.

It was surprisingly common of a name. There was something about Marco that was entirely uncommon. Something different, like the subtle variation between a King and a Coral Snake. What was that rhyme again?

Red on yellow, you’re a dead fellow. Yellow on black you’re okay Jack? Or was it black on yellow you’re a dead fellow, Red on black you’re okay-

Not the time.

“Why are you in my house?” Ace tried, hoping to be understood. His hopes were quickly dashed by the blank stare Marco levelled him with.

“Fuck,” he said flatly. Manners did him no good when someone couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Fuck,” Marco repeated, which was of course the second word he learn, after Ace’s name. Ace and Fuck. What a vocabulary.

“Okay Marco,” Ace ran a hand through his dark hair, watching Marco perk up at the mention of a familiar sound. “What am I going to do with you?”

The answer did not come. Marco just watched him, weariness ebbing away into curiosity. Had he never seen the inside of a house before or something?

Ace shook his head and reached over to snap the living room light on. Marco jumped, shouted more gibberish at him and pointed at the lamp. Ace frowned at him and snapped the switch off, then back on. Marco looked at his hand, then at Ace, and eased himself closer.

The younger boy stepped back, letting him come to inspect the light switch. This was… weird.

Ace couldn’t figure out what was going on, but he let Marco tentatively run his fingers over the switch before he pushed. The lights when out. Again, the light’s came back on. His fascination was endearing, if bewildering.

Not sure what else to do, Ace went to the kitchen and got a box of Cheez-Its. While he was at it he hunted down a couple of soda’s to split between him and his visitor, but by the time he got back to the living room Marco had disappeared.

Ace was left staring at the space he had occupied, hands full and brain muddled. What the actual fuck was going on around here?

~ ~ ~

Marco sat on the ground, watching the Fair House from a distance. He had left his bag outside when he had gone up to see it, hoping to find someone who might take pity on a traveler. What he had found was perhaps the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life, who did not speak his language at all.

He had taught Marco the magic of his home, and in return Marco had run before he could be offered anything from what was obviously the kitchen. He knew better than to accept Their food or refuse Their hospitality, so he did the only thing he could think of that would satisfy both of those rules.

He scurried out the door, where he had left his bag, and ran off.

At some point in the night he had stumbled across a pair of sandals that fit him miraculously, made out of strips of black leather and something soft that Marco had never encountered before. A gift, perhaps. He hoped at least. If he had stolen from Them…

His stomach growling broke him out of those thoughts. His body wished he had accepted the food but his mind knew it was for the best that he hadn’t. Even if he hadn’t eaten since yesterday it was better not to eat the food of Faerie than to risk never being able to eat his own food again. Assuming he managed to find his way back to the spider tree he had come through in the beginning.

He’d been trying to retrace his steps all night but it wasn’t working. He had no bearings in this world. He had no one to help him, nowhere to go.

Then again, when did he ever have those things?

Marco sighed. He had been alone for God knew how long, and he would stay that way until he could book passage on a ship and get to the larger port than the tiny indentation on his home island. Somewhere where he could disappear from the miniscule world of his birth and find a true place in the sea.

Marco allowed a dreamy sigh to flit past his lips. He had been so close. So close to being there and now-

Now he was a world away.

The door to the house opened, slamming against the wall and a whirwind of a boy came sprinting outside, his smile the sun his eyes warm and brilliant. Marco tensed and slid back against the tree, into the brush he’d taken shelter in in the wee hours of the morning.

The Fair Child secured the hat on his head and spun to walk backwards towards a massive metal cart sitting in front of the building, hollering behind him. Minutes later a blond boy in blue emerged at a brisk jog, dragging his overcoat on he went. On his heels was the beautiful being Marco had met before.

He looked even better in day time, sunlight spilling across his tanned skin, tracing over the freckles on his cheeks and waving over his dark hair. He shook his head at the antics of what had to be the youngest of them and ushered him to the cart.

With a laugh the smallest of the trio showed Marco that it wasn’t a cart at all, but a carriage.

Either way, did they expect to pull it themselves? Marco hadn’t seen a barn, or a stable, or a single horse since he’d arrived. If horses existed here.

Abruptly the carriage released a roar that sent Marco skuttering back, his heart pounding in his chest. The beast growled and moved on black wheels that crunched the stoned under its wake, tearing asunder the earth. Two eyes, like the twin suns that had almost struck him down the night before, swivelled towards him.

Marco drew back in fear, sliding as far into the foliage as he could. The boy did not fancy himself a cowards, but the working of the Fair Folk were far beyond him.

He waited until it was long gone before he crept out of the greenery.

Marco realized his hands were shaking. Was he excited? Was he terrified?

He turned and wandered into the forest, looking for the spider.

~ ~ ~

Ace was exhausted by the time he got back to the treeline. His arms felt like noodles and if he heard one more request to speak to the manager he was going to cut his own ears off. He longed for the day the pits of hell would open beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

Ace waved to the bus driver and dragged his sorry ass onto the path that would get him to the house. Sabo had the car today, so he could get home after the buses were finished running, and Luffy was staying over at Vivi’s house with the rest of his friends for weekend party. Ace would be the only one home for quite some time.

That was probably for the best. He shivered when a cold wind blew, pulling his jacket tighter around him. A few snowflakes drifted in front of him.

Ace’s mind drifted back to the boy he’d seen in his house a few nights ago, the one with the soft blond hair and the wide, wonderous gaze. He’d been thinking of him ever since he disappeared, trying to puzzle out who he was and what he’d wanted. And, where he’d gone.

Ace paused at a break in the path. From here he could continue down the well worn dirt until he was back at his house, start a fire and see what he could scrounge up for dinner. Or, he could go right and make his way into the forest, along the deer trails and into the shadows. He could disappear into the night and never have to go back to the call center again.

He could do it. He knew how to hunt, how to fish, how to build a fire. He could walk away and never look back again.

Then he thought of his brothers. Of Sabo and Luffy, who depended on him, who he depended on. He couldn’t leave them. He couldn't.

But he could pretend, for just a minute, that he might be able to walk away from the pressure, the responsibility, the fear that no matter what he did he would never get out of this cycle of bills, being broke, and never going anywhere.

He walked into the trees.

There was no fear for the boy here, he knew these trees like he knew his own hands. He could find his way home blindfolded here. Here, where the lights of the city only brushed the clouds of the horizon. Here, where the air was fresh and crisp and the water ran clear.

Ace walked the familiar lines between the wood, trailing his fingers lightly across the gnarled bark as he passed. He always felt better out here, where no other people were around to bother him. It was a small escape, but one he found himself relying on more and more these days.

From inside the shuttering branches of the aspen he could see steam lifting off of the pond where snow tried to settle on water not ready to freeze just yet. Standing on the shore was the same blond man.

A frown drew his brows together. Ace could see him shaking from where he was. Had he been outside this whole time?

“Hey!” Ace hollered at him, emerging from the trees. It was the second time he’d gotten Marco to jump out of his skin. He was holding something to his chest, a rucksack, like his life depended on it.

“Hey,” Ace repeated, walking out. The wind blew again, tousling his hair and lifting his hat. Ace shoved it back on his head quickly. He walked towards Marco, who stood very still, clutching the back close to him.

Marco watched him wearily. He said something, paused, and told Ace, “Hello.” which Ace hoped was a greeting and not something he was supposed to respond to.

“Hey,” he said for the third time. “Are you okay? You’re going to freeze out here. Do you even have a jacket?”

Marco stared at him for a long time. He didn’t loosen his grip on the bag at all. Ace sighed and shed his heavy coat, walked towards Marco and offered it to him. The blond stared at him wide eyed.

“What? What do you want for this? You can’t have the bag!”

Ace frowned. He had no idea what was being said, but Marco was turning an unhealthy color. He pushed the coat at him again, insistently.

“Seriously man, just take it. I have more. You’re gonna freeze,” forget what he was saying had no effect on the boy. He pushed the jacket into his hands, jostling the bag.

Marco jerked back, his foot caught a stray stick and he fell. Right into the water.

“Fuck,” Ace said, looking down at him. Marco looked back up at him, frowning deeply. He didn’t accept when Ace offered him a hand up.

~ ~ ~

Marco clutched the fleece blanket tightly around his shoulders, shivering as he sat right on top of a small slat in the floor that blew in warm summer winds, so contrary to the flurries of white that floated outside.

Marco didn’t let his sack out of his sight, even when he reluctantly allowed the beautiful boy to take his clothes and replace them with some of his own. They were softer than anything Marco had ever felt, in colors that only those with money could afford. A violet shirt and pants a dark color of blue, finery that Marco had barely ever dreamed of.

He watched Ace move around the cabin, cleaning up and setting things straight. The smell of cooking meat tried to entice Marco into the kitchen but he didn’t dare go in. Didn’t dare look at the kitchen. If he did, he might never go back.

The slithering thought that asked what he had to go back to was violently crushed.

No, no. He had the sea to go back to. He had the gold to spend and places to go. Somewhere. Somewhere.

Ace knelt next to him then, offering him a glass of water. Marco swallowed thickly. He hadn’t drank anything in days.

Slowly, he shook his head. He couldn’t accept the offering. He had already taken too much.

Ace frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

�� “I may not understand you, but I’m not foolish enough to accept anything to eat or drink,” Marco tried not to sound too irritated. His kind were well known for tempting humans. For testing their will and their intellect.

Ace sighed at him, shook his head, and wandered off.

Marco was left alone to lean on the wall. The warmth and the comfort lulled him until he had to drag his eyes open to look up at the door when it swung open to let in the blond Marco had seen leave a few days previously. He dragged his had off and draped his long overcoat across the banister.

For just an instant Marco met his eyes before he looked away again, slumping on the wall. He couldn’t remember ever being this comfortable. He felt like he was being dragged down into the warmth with no way out.

The two fair creatures were talking in the kitchen. Marco could hear there, even if he didn’t know the language.

The blond one appeared in front of him with a plate of food that Marco was quick to shake his head at. He couldn't, no matter how much his stomach hurt.

The blond frowned at him.

“You really should eat something,” he said.

“Why are you so adamant about me staying trapped here?” Marco asked. The mans pale brows drew together.

“Ace? Do you know what he’s saying?”

“Honestly, you could just chain me to the wall. You’re probably stronger. Or do you need permission for that?” Marco was just talking for lack of anything better to do.

“Uh. No. If I did, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

The blond looked at him again, frowning deeper. “I’m worried about him.”

Finally, Marco looked straight at him and said, “Fuck Ace.” Whatever that meant.

The blond stared at him for a long moment before a grin broke out across his face and he started laughing, doubling over on himself until his butt hit the ground. A spatula covered in green sauce came flying out and smacked him clean in the temple, but that didn’t stop the peels of laughter that shook his shoulder.

Some of the green splattered against Marco’s face and arm. He swallowed thickly, looking down at the droplets. The plate of food still smelled so good. Surely, just a taste…

~ ~ ~

“I’m glad he finally started eating,” Ace said once the sun had gone down and the moon come up. Their little house guest was curled up tightly on the folded out couch, covered in as many blankets as the pair could spare. His bag was still clutched tightly to his chest.

Sabo nodded along, watching the boys shoulders rise and fall. He sat on the stair two down from Ace’s head leaned on the poles that held up the handrail. Ace had stretched himself across the landing halfway up and was methodically flicking a lighter open and closed. The firelight danced across his freckle dusted cheeks before going out again, leaving him in darkness until he struck the fire back into existence.

Normally, Luffy would be stretched out across their backs, taking up the rest of the stairs, snoring like a chainsaw or laughing at half told jokes.

“You like him, huh?” Sabo guessed.

Ace sort of shrugged. It more the sound of his shirt moving than anything else.

“He looks like he needs help. Did you see the bruises on his arms?”

“Someone’s been hurting him for a while,” Sabo confirmed. “Wanna bet whatever’s in that bag is everything he’s got?”

Ace grimaced before the fire went out. “I wish I thought you were wrong… We have to help him.”

“Yeah.”

They both knew they could barely feed the three of them, but neither was willing to turn the strange, wild eyed boy away. He needed them.

“Ace… What are we getting ourselves into?”

The oldest of the trio shook his head. He had absolutely no idea.

None of them did.

~ ~ ~

Marco woke up to more food being set down beside him.

He forgot his fears and inhibition and promptly inhaled the thick cut ham and the golden eggs, eating like the starving man he was. A glass of the finest fruit juice he had ever touched followed it and Ace, beautiful, smiling Ace added more to his plate.

Marco watched his face now, from closer that before. He counted the freckles on his cheeks, watched the light in his dark eyes and the soft waves of his hair. There wasn’t a malicious shadow that fell across his smile, no teeth baring grin that spoke of dark intentions.

Just Ace, kind Ace who pushed the full plate back towards him and offered him more juice.

“Apple Juice,” Marco pronounced carefully. Ace beamed at him with pride. Marco’s chest warmed and, feeling less skittish and less fearful than he had in years, he pointed to what was on his plate. “Home, eggs, taste.”

Ace snickered and shook his head. “Home,” he gestured to the cottage around them, “taste,” he pointed to his tongue. “Ham and toast,” he pointed to the plate.

Frowning, Marco repeated the words slowly, pointing as he did so. Ace clapped his shoulder when he got it right and spoke what Marco hoped were words of praise. He couldn’t understand any of them save his own name.

It was enough, he supposed, that he could understand that Ace was proud of such a meager accomplishment. Sabo had already left in their car, to go… wherever they went in the day. To town, if such creatures had a town.

If ever Marco had doubted that he had fallen in with the fae, that was banished from his mind the second he ate their food, slept in their house, wore their clothes. There was no possible way such things were made by mortal means.

It was luxury, but there was something about Ace and Sabo that made Marco wonder if it was a luxury for them, or just for him. Were they fae of the royal courts, like Ace’s beauty and Sabo’s clothes made them out to be? Or were they common folk, living in the woods away from others?

Did the Fair Folk even have such a system as his own?

Marco shook himself free of the cobwebs of curiosities that clouded his brain.

He looked up and froze when he realized Ace was inches away from him. Oh. Up close he was even prettier. The dusting of freckles framed his wide, concerned black eyes. His lips, full and poised, were parted with a question Marco couldn’t understand.

Fae were beautiful, and they were supposed to be tempting and Ace was certainly all of those things.Marco hesitated. Perhaps…

He leaned forwards on impulse and kissed him.

#marco the phoenix #ace x marco #portgas d. ace #mugiwara no luffy #fluff #sabo #sabo one piece #one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece au #fae #fairy au #time travel

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hedwigstalons · 4 years

Text

High Expectations - Ch9

This was meant to be just a quick bit of practice at freehand drawing so I could work on doing neat straight lines and circles. Then I found my old glass paints that have been in a box for...8 years (?) and suddenly I now have a WASP suncatcher. I’m a bit wobbly with the relief edging, probably not helped in that the tubes had gone a bit firm and funky, but I’m predicting more sun catchers and maybe a few candle holders will appear soon.

Many thanks are due to @willow-salix who has provided much hand holding and head pats.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Nine

Gordon fell into line amongst the other hopefuls. For the next few days he wasn’t Gordon Tracy, Olympian and heir to one of the largest fortunes in America, he was Number 14 and the anonymity suited him just fine. The elastic armband around his bicep was the sole identifier to distinguish him from the other candidates as the assessors marked down their observations. Only the course leader had the information that linked names to numbers; each stage of selection was kept separate to avoid bias.

“Atten...shun!”

The command was barked out by the officer placed in charge of his group and Gordon found himself jumping to the alert and snapping his feet together automatically. Evidently something had remained buried deep in his memory from all the times watching Scott being taught drill by their father or practicing out in the yard in Kansas all those years ago. The rest of the group also snapped to attention with varying degrees of success.

“Group C, your first test is pool fitness. You have two minutes to fetch your swimming kit and fall back into line. Go!”

There was a mad scramble towards the door of their temporary accommodation as Gordon and the other potential recruits allocated to group C raced to retrieve their kit from their bunks. They had barely been on base for an hour but had already learnt that failure to meet a time limit or just being last to complete a task would result in being given punishment press ups. By the time they had reassembled groups A and B were nowhere to be seen, evidently separated off to undertake one of the other selection tests.

As they marched across the base to the pool Gordon couldn’t help but feel slightly pleased that his group was getting to swim first. This was his natural environment and he justifiably had every confidence in his own abilities. It would also give him a good chance to stretch out his muscles after sitting around in the airport and then being cramped in an airline seat; domestic flights were always taken in coach class for a Tracy son travelling solo.

Once within the pool building more orders were barked giving a time limit to get changed. Gordon quickly found a space on the bench and started stripping. Some of the other recruits seemed a little uncomfortable about changing in the communal space but Gordon figured that privacy would often be hard to come by within the submarine service and now was not the time to be worried about modesty. After years of completing the action several times a week he could be in his kit almost as quickly as he could swim 200m and he was one of the first ready.

He snapped on his sunshine yellow swimming cap drawing a few strange looks but Gordon shrugged them off; so what if only a couple of candidates in his group were wearing them? To Gordon the cap was just a standard part of his kit, however he was glad he had decided to leave his Team USA branded items at home and opt for his plain training set; there was no need to draw more attention to himself than was strictly necessary.

Out on the poolside the elastic armbands were replaced by numbered stickers slapped on shoulder and thigh. From the way the sticker pulled tightly at the skin Gordon just knew that ripping it off later would be a painful experience. Once numbers had been applied everyone lined up expectantly, awaiting further orders.

“Right, I want two circuits of the pool as warm up. No cutting the corners. No touching the wall. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir!” the chorus of voices responded in unison.

“Into the water, in number order. Go!”

One by one the men allocated to group C were counted into the water to complete their circuits around the perimeter of the pool. The pace was frustratingly slow for the Olympian whose number placed him towards the rear of the pack and it took a lot of self control not to stretch out and overtake those ahead of him.

The slow pace allowed Gordon plenty of opportunity to look around the facility. WASP evidently invested in its sporting areas for the pool itself was up to Olympic standards even if the viewing and changing areas were a little more basic than Gordon had encountered at some of his competitions. If he was given the opportunity to continue his swimming training, and it wasn’t unheard of to encounter military participants released for competitions, he would have no complaints about the standard of the Marineville pool. Unfortunately his appraisal of the facilities nearly earned him a kick in the face, he hadn’t realised how close he had got to the swimmer in front and had to drop his pace yet again to maintain some distance. For him the actual tests and the chance to stretch out his limbs couldn’t come soon enough.

With warm-up over the first eight swimmers were allocated their lanes. Gordon watched the action even more closely than the assessors, critiquing the style of others was all part of his ingrained training and he winced at some of the sloppy dives and mangled turns. Still, the tests were about meeting a minimum standard rather than being competition ready.

Soon enough it was time for swimmers 9 through to 16 to claim a lane. It didn’t escape Gordon’s notice that his number placed him in lane six and the coincidence struck him as lucky. If you had asked him just a few months ago what his favourite lane was he would have promptly answered four but after his Olympic success he has developed a soft spot for his current position, after all it had been good enough to earn him gold and a world record. He adjusted his goggles and wiggled his toes on the edge of the pool, he would have preferred to use a starting block but he could adapt.

The sound of the whistle had him launching into the water in a clean dive. There had been no stipulations on the stroke to be used and Gordon automatically found himself using his preferred butterfly, unaware of the raised eyebrows this was causing among the onlookers; his rejection of freestyle making him stick out almost as much as the yellow hat. That and the fact that he left the other candidates in his wake. He shot through the water, powerful muscles propelling him towards the finish at a rate that far exceeded expectations.

Less than 2 minutes later and Gordon had completed his fourth lap and finished the test. He had taken it easy, or at least he thought he had until he turned and realised the next nearest swimmer was almost a full lap behind him. He returned bemused stares with a shrug and a smile before placing his hands on the poolside and launching himself out to sit on the edge and wait for the others to finish.

The remainder of the pool tests passed in much the same fashion with Gordon easily outstripping his cohort. He could swim faster, dive further and hold his breath for longer than any of the others. His techniques were sharp and in the water he moved with a strength and grace that were enviable. Even skills like casualty towing, which wasn’t part of his usual repertoire, came naturally to him and he aced the tests with ease. The assessors scribbled some hurried notes on their pads; when it came to the water based activities at least candidate 14 was marking himself out as someone to watch.

xoxoxox

The first day drew to a close and Gordon was thankful when his group were released to the freedom of their dormitory. The pool session had been swiftly followed by a run then a drill lesson in one of the large parade squares dotted around the base. His muscles were weary and clearly grumbling at the lack of deep stretching after his swim but he was in a better shape than many in the room. WASP only accepted the very best to join its ranks and the selection tests were designed to weed out those not up to standard. Already three beds in his room were empty after their allocated occupants had withdrawn, either having had a change of heart or to avoid the shame of being rejected at the end of the course having already failed too many of the test elements.

Tempting as it was to just flop down onto his bunk Gordon knew from painful experience that he would regret it the following day. He settled himself on an empty patch of floor and started running through some yoga poses to try and work out the tension in his back and legs. Just because the instructors hadn’t given them much opportunity to stretch didn’t give him the excuse to neglect his body. It also gave him something productive to do while waiting for his turn in the showers.

His activities drew some curious looks and half-sniggered comments from the others in the room but he zoned out and ignored them, instead focussing on his form until the showers came free. He didn’t have long to wait, two showers came free at the same time and both he and Number 13 grabbed their towels and headed through to the wash rooms.

He stripped down to his shorts and picked experimentally at the stickers left in place after the pool session, the glue was strong and part of him was tempted to leave them except the edges were just beginning to lift and annoy him. He gritted his teeth, pinched the loosest corner and ripped back sharply. He swiftly repeated the action on the second sticker then rubbed briskly at the angry red patches left on his skin.

“That looked painful. Not too sure I want to do that to myself”

He looked up, met the eyes of Number 13 and grinned.

“It’s just like pulling off a band-aid. Nothing to it.”

“Rather you than me. I think I'll try and get mine in the shower.”

They went their separate ways into the empty cubicles and Gordon turned the shower up high. The accommodation might be spartan but he was glad the water was hot and plentiful. The powerful drops blasted away the sweat and chlorine that had built up on his skin and he turned his face into the stinging stream. Much as he would have liked to stand there for longer he knew others were waiting their turn and it wouldn't be fair to hang around. The temptation was strong but he hadn’t been impressed by the amount of time some candidates had taken and it wasn’t fair to keep the last few waiting longer than they had to.

All too soon he was back in the chilly dorm room, hauling himself onto the bunk that had been marked out as his. Eight sets of bunk beds lined the room, with thirteen of the individual beds now filled. He wondered how many more gaps would appear as the selection course progressed. Murmurs of conversation broke out around the room as the participants made use of the first real chance they had to get to know each other since arriving. The instructors had kept them busy all afternoon and unnecessary chatter during the tasks had been swiftly quelled by punishment press ups, but now, with no instructors around, the candidates could speak more freely.

Gordon lay back and listened. It was the usual first-night whispers he remembered from some of his swim camps; name, city but unsurprisingly not their favourite distance and stroke. The introductions travelled around the room; it seemed Marineville saw applicants from the west coast right through to the central states. Gordon knew it would soon be his turn and he resolved to say as little as possible, he was enjoying being just another person in the crowd.

“So what about you 14?”

“Gordon, I'm from LA.”

If he thought he was going to be able to get away with the bare minimum he was sorely mistaken.

“So what were you doing before you decided to try out for WASP? You're built like a tank and you swim like a fish. You some personal trainer or something?”

“Me? Uh, I've just high finished school. I do swim competitively though.”

Thankfully the candidate doing the questioning latched on more to the school part than the swimming.

“Only just left school? You don't act like some kid, I thought you were at least 20, maybe 22.”

“Nope, only 17.”

“Jeez, that makes you the baby of the group. So what do your family think of you heading off to sea first chance you get?”

Thankfully Gordon was spared answering by a bellow from the doorway.

“This is a military base, not a holiday camp. If you lot have enough energy to gossip you obviously aren't working hard enough. Now if I hear another sound from this room I will have you outside running laps until you drop. Do you understand me?”

A chorus of “Yes, Sir!” rang out before the room descended into total silence.

Gordon rolled over, wondering what challenges tomorrow would bring.

xoxoxox

The second day of selection started with the sound of drums at daybreak. Sleepy heads were raised in confusion. Others who were quicker on the uptake, Gordon included, leapt from their beds and started throwing on clothes. He was glad he hadn’t skimped on the stretches the night before, some of his contemporaries were looking decidedly stiff after the exertions of the previous day.

The now familiar sound of shouting filled the room.

“Up! Up! Sports kit on and outside for PT before breakfast. Move!”

Gordon was no stranger to early morning training. As the first beats had sounded from the speakers in the corners of the room he had been on his feet, all shreds of sleep disappearing in an instant. It was an enviable skill and obviously not one possessed by all in the room. To the observing instructor in the doorway Number 14 shone through yet again as one of the stronger candidates.

There was no denying that WASP selection was a taxing experience. The group was whisked from one set of tests to another. If it wasn’t their bodies being tested it was their minds as they sat exam papers or explored leadership scenarios. By lunch time another member of his group had dropped out, and judging by the numbers sitting down to eat groups A and B were now similarly depleted. Even those that lasted the distance had no guarantee they would be accepted to wear the prestigious grey uniform; the standards might have an absolute minimum but it had been made clear that if more met the standard than was needed then only the very best would be made an offer.

While many were struggling Gordon was relishing the challenge. It was as though he had found his niche. Even the written tests, which he had approached with some trepidation, had been well within his comfort zone which helped his confidence soar. Theories and concepts which had seemed so abstract at school seemed to make more sense when applied to a real life scenario and for once in his life Gordon walked away from a classroom without feeling a failure.

After lunch group C were to take their turn on the obstacle course, a gruelling array of beams, walls and aerial wires that would require both strength and agility to navigate. To Gordon the course looked like a massive playground and he couldn’t help but grin at the prospect.

The instructors divided the group into smaller teams of four and Gordon’s team set off onto the course first at the sound of the whistle.

The group raced along, leaping over pits using rope swings and stepping along narrow beams as quickly as their balance allowed, each candidate aiming to be the first to reach and therefore clear each piece of equipment. It was every man for himself. That was until they were brought up short by a 10 foot wall. Number 6, who was keen to keep his early lead, took a running jump at the obstacle. His fingers caught the top edge but he was unable to keep a good enough grip to climb over and he soon fell back down again.

To Gordon the solution was obvious; it was quickly becoming apparent to him that this test was different to those that had gone before and if they were to have any hope of making it through successfully then teamwork would have to be the order of the day.

“Look, if any of us are to stand a chance of getting through this course we are going to have to work together.”

Number 6, after a second failed leap, was quick to agree. Numbers 3 and 10, arriving a moment later, could also see sense in the plan.

“Sure. So how are we going to tackle this one.”

Three sets of eyes turned to Gordon expectantly. Having been the one to voice the idea the others were evidently expecting him to come up with the solution. He thought for a moment then turned and planted his back against the wall, bending his knees to make a step.

“6, you’re tallest, you go first. Use me as a ladder to get up but stay on top of the wall, don’t drop down the other side. You can then help up 3 and 10. Once you’re all on top you can reach back down and haul me over. Got it?”

There were three nods of agreement.

Gordon braced himself as first his legs then his shoulders were used as steps. Once. Twice. A third time. His clothes became marked with muddy footprints but he didn’t care, the plan was working and he was soon being bodily lifted up and over the obstacle by the team he had helped up first.

Having made the decision to work together the group soon found themselves speeding through the course. Many obstacles, while able to be attempted solo, could be cleared much quicker with careful cooperation and support; Gordon had evidently read the situation correctly.

Despite being the youngest the others seemed happy to defer to him as their leader and Gordon found himself naturally assuming command of the team. He directed the group to make the best use of their combined talents. Before long the band of four found themselves at the far end of the course, just one final obstacle to navigate their way over then the run for home.

Using their now tried and tested method the team were soon atop the final wall despite it being the biggest yet. From here they could look back over the whole course, the other candidates and their assessors were indistinct figures in the distance.

“Wonder who that is come to visit? Probably from the World Navy. Best make sure we put on a good show, they might be important.”

From his lofty vantage point Gordon looked back towards the start point. Number 6 was right, someone new had joined the cluster of watching assessors, the dark blue of their uniform a stark contrast to WASP grey.

“No idea. Come on, let's finish this as a team.”

The group jumped down from the final obstacle and began the mad sprint back to the beginning of the course and their waiting assessors. As they closed the gap between themselves and the waiting officers, making sure no one was left behind, the mystery figure resolved itself into a familiar form for Gordon

Recognition led first to confusion and then to anger.

Scott.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #my art #high expectations #Gordon Tracy #WASP #sun catchers #military selection

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unlockthelore · 4 years

Text

in other words

Part 3 of Know-It-All a.k.a the modern AU snippet series that no one asked for. To find other parts of the series, follow the know-it-all tag.

Exam time was a critical point in the lives of many students their age but also a terribly stressful one. From time to achieve goals set by parents and educators who believed they saw the “best in you” to competing with friends or the chance to avoid supplementary lessons, it was an endless haze of pouring over textbooks and mock tests. Nene often tried to escape the confines of her room and her parents’ worried glances by flitting off to the Tsuchigomori-Yugi household or the Akane household.

Aoi’s mom was always happy to take her and would be up for her habit of baking when she was trying to distract. Although, it wouldn’t be long before Aoi was there to drag her off to hit the books. Everything made sense when Aoi was explaining it but she was studying intently and Nene didn’t want to disrupt that. Tempting though it was, she didn’t want to trouble her with her nonsense and there was someone who needed her presence a little more.

Where Aoi was capable of balancing studying and breaks, one such Yugi Amane was incapable of even understanding the concept of downtime. Tsuchigomori welcomed her when he opened the door, a curl of smoke exhaled out the side window in the entry hall.

“Oh right, and I brought you…” She rifled around in her bag after toeing off her shoes, pulling out a see-through pouch filled with chocolates and patterned with spiders.

Tsuchigomori plucked it from her hand, holding it up in the air and inspecting it with a cursory hum. Clasping her hands in front of her, she smiled nervously as he peered closer. Daring to breathe once he gave a curt nod and started back inside.

“I’m hoping that there isn’t only sweets in that bag of yours,” he said offhandedly, making her tense up as she gripped the strap of her messenger bag tighter.

There were a few more treats but they weren’t for him and certainly outnumbered the amount of study materials she brought. He glanced over his shoulder, eyeing her quietly then cracking a grin, tipping his head toward the stairs.

“Amane is up there, try to get him out of his head,” he looked toward the stairs and his wry smile dipped into a frown for a split second before his hand covered his mouth from view. Another inhale of smoke from his pipe as he went toward the sitting room, tossing the bag up in the air and catching it while he walked.

“You can count on me,” Nene blurted out, her cheeks burning when he gave her a thumbs up before disappearing from sight.

Her gaze shifting to the stairs. With the low lighting, the shadows seemed thicker than ever and daunting. Her lips pressed together stubbornly and she shook her head, tightening her fist as she started to climb, one hand holding onto the banister. The number of pictures on the walls had increased since the last time she’d been there, only about a week ago. Perhaps Yako had come by with her camera and hung the developed photos up despite Tsuchigomori’s protests at redecorating his home.

A familiar argument that she often found herself caught in the middle of when questioned of what was drab and what was pragmatic. Quite frankly, she didn’t know and wasn’t sure which to agree with when trapped between Tsuchigomori’s pensive and Yako’s sharp stares.

Times like those, she deferred to Amane who was quite adept at reading the room and the pair. His smile mischievous as he thinks about whether or not to help her before dragging her along by the hand with some half-assed excuse, laughing while they escape to the safety of the rooftop and he ropes her into watching the stars.

The folding ladder is up as she passes beneath it, reaching up to try and tap the string. Her fingers brushing shy of it and she huffs, hopping from one foot to the other then straining to try and catch it.

“What’re you doing, Yashiro?”

Amane’s voice cuts through and she freezes in mid reach, knowing that she must have looked a sight and cursing quietly that she didn’t look to see if his room door was open. Sure enough, when she looked to her right, his door was open and he was looking at her from his desk.

His cheek resting against the palm of his hand, sunset-colored eyes narrowed with barely kept amusement and his lips curved into a grin. While she wanted to be a little miffed, she couldn’t help but notice the weariness beneath his eyes. The slight twitch in his hand resting by the open textbook and the slight drawl to his words.

Pulling her hand behind her back, she wrapped her fingers around her wrist and squeezed. “Nothing,” she manages to say in what she hopes is a convincing tone. The arch of his brow tells her otherwise but she dismisses it with a hum, stepping into his room and closing his door with a backward knock of her heel against it. Once it dawned on him that she was staying, he sat up straighter but sagged in his chair, casting a weary glare toward his study materials. HIs eyes warmer as they met hers.

He was pushing himself too hard again and was getting closer to his breaking point. Likely worn out from trying to be the best of the best. Her heart aching for him as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, dragging his hand down the side of his face.

Amane might not have been considered as being one of the top of their class but he certainly was. On par with Akane, to the other boy’s dismay, and Aoi. The Three Aces of Kamome, they were called, and Nene was still unsure of how she was even got to be friends with all of them. Her own scores weren’t all that bad but she wasn’t the most studious. School simply didn’t appeal to her and thankfully, all three of them got that.

But she hated what it did to Amane. He seemed tired and so close to snapping that not even his favorite spot on the rooftop would unwind the knot he twisted himself into. Setting her bag down on his bed, she flopped back onto the star-printed quilt and smoothed her fingers over the cool fabric. It was nicely made, likely hadn’t been laid on even for a moment since he got up.

“… I brought you something,” she said, bolting upright and rifling in her bag. His eyebrows raising and the weary look shifted into one of confusion and interest as a bag of doughnut-shaped treats were lobbed at him.

While she didn’t have any express interests in doughnuts, it meant the world to see his eyes light up and his wide smile as he tugged at the string. Practically ripping the bag open to take out one of the treats and pop it in his mouth.

His hum was loud and the pleased noise made her heart flutter, her bag clutched to her chest so that she wouldn’t yell or cheer. They dissolved into talking about plans for the weekend, mishaps with Amane’s pet rabbit, Mokke and how it matched up to Black Canyon’s escape habits. Though with a sideways glance at the clock, Amane’s eyebrows furrowed and the easygoing expression he wore shifted into one of deep contemplation.

“I’m guessing you didn’t bring your books,” he points out with an amused smile, his eyes practically glowing as she sputtered.

“Some,” she countered, pouting as he laughed. “You know there’s more to studying than just hunching over a book like an old man.”

“Hey —“ Amane snapped, though it lacked its heat and he was clearly trying to fight back a smile. “Don’t talk about Tsuchigomori like that.”

They stared at one another for a moment before breaking into giggles and full-blown laughter. A sneeze heard from downstairs making them laugh even louder until tears were brimming at the corner of Nene’s eyes and Amane was clutching his stomach.

“But really, there is more to studying than being over a book…”

“Really?” Amane wiggled his pencil between his fingers then pointed it at her. “Alright, like what?”

Whether he was willingly giving her an opening or it was one of her own creation, Nene didn’t care. She patted down the pockets of here shorts, pulling out her phone and flicking through the selection of songs. Holding it further away as he got up and walked closer, trying to peer at the screen. There was now ay that he needed to know about her music choices or the playlist that she had labeled ‘Amane’. It was already bad enough that he heard the poem that she wrote about him when they were kids, this would stay a secret she took to her grave.

Finding the song, she set her phone face down on his bed and turned the volume up to where the sound filled the room. Amane stepping back and looking at her confusedly as the sound of the guitar and the faint patter of rain filled the room.

She wasn’t very sure about this plan as she stood up and held her hand out to him. But the tiredness in his features spurred her on and she wiggled her fingers, prompting him to lay his hand in her own. Lacing their fingers together, she dragged him in a bit closer, swaying lightly to the beat.

“Fly me to the moon, let me sing among the stars,” she sang, watching as his eyes widened and he drifted closer to her as if pulled in by gravity. Keeping his gaze, Nene reached for his free hand and the pencil that he’d been grasping clattered to the floor as his hand found purchase at her waist.

“Let me sing what spring is like,” she continued, taking a step back with him and guiding him across the carpet, avoiding his desk and his chair pointedly. Though Amane looked nowhere else but at her, and the attention made it difficult to look at him. “On Jupiter and Mars…”

Amane squeezed her hand and she lifted her chin, meeting his eyes, his gaze so warm and bright that she nearly had to look away. “In other words, hold my hand…” He continued, his voice deep and thrumming in time with her heartbeat as he leant closer to her, his breath warming her ear. “In other words, baby kiss me..”

Of course he knew this song. She wanted to roll her eyes and tease him but as he pulled away, she noticed the scarlet staining his cheeks and the slight squeeze to her hip. His arm winding around her waist as he shifted, guiding her around the room. The light slanting from the windows haloing him and her heart skipped a beat as he stepped closer, nearly coming chest to chest wit her.

“Fill my heart with song, let me sing forever more…” his gaze searched hers and his voice trembled, though not enough to crack. The carefully playful smile that he wore was all but gone, a shyer one in place. Her heart pounded against her chest, mesmerized eyes staring up ash I’m as her vision tunneled. “You are all I long for… all I worship… and adore.”

He leans forward and Nene’s eyes waver, and she can practically feel the blood rushing to her face. His eyes half-lidded as his forehead rests against her own and the words are on her tongue. The music continuing and the small reprieve they have makes her wonder. Can he hear her heart beating fast?

Is his own?

Was she helping him or not?

Squeezing his shoulder, she swayed with him to the beat and hesitated. Tasting the words on her lips, sweet as though they were, the bitterness of what could come if they were taken in jest or dismissed was heavy.

“In other words,” she whispered, averting her gaze, her stomach twisting and turning as her heart fluttered. The giddiness and anxiousness making her sick.

“Please be true,” he finished, and her eyes widened, flicking toward him to meet his own. Scarlet darkening his cheeks and the tips of his ears, his choppy black hair making his eyes seem brighter in comparison. Her own reflection in them along with a myriad of emotions that almost made her stumble. Her foot catching on the ball of his chair and his arm supported her back, bringing her closer before she could fall.

“In other words…”

Amane’s eyes crinkled at the corners and he tipped his head back, the warmth of his forehead against hers leaving and she missed the contact. Though the press of his lips against her forehead made up for it and her heart leapt into her throat as she squeaked.

“I love you.”

She could feel him press a smile against her skin. Her grip on his hand and shoulder loosening immediately as she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly around his middle. His body trembled as he laughed, wrapping his arms around her in return, his cheek resting against the top of her head as they swayed to the beat.

“Thanks, Yashiro…”

#jibaku shounen hanako kun #toilet bound hanako kun #yugi amane #yashiro nene #hananene #know-it-all

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rassilon-imprimatur · 5 years

Text

As he entered the cave, the Doctor placed the burning torch into the slot on the wall. It was heavy and he was glad to dispose of it.

Death was waiting for him silently, seated on a stool beside the table. Her hood was pulled up but the Doctor could still see her face as he took his place on the stool opposite her. The table was circular and had been carved out of wood with a fine blade, but he saw no scythe, nor any reason why it might have been that particular instrument, or why he'd even supposed that she had made the table herself. Without a word, he looked down at the board and the pieces on it.

Black was losing. Or was it white? And which side was he? He couldn't tell. He made his move nonetheless, picking up the ivory figurine as though it were a lethally destructive weapon and then set it down again.

He sat back, a frown beset on his brooding face. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his ruffled hair as though making sure it was all still there. He placed his hat and umbrella on the ground.

He looked at the board, at the hourglass beside it, and at Death, his frown unchanged. ‘The third time,’ he said at last with only the slightest hint of weariness.

‘The third time,’ agreed Death hollowly. And then she made her move, taking the piece he had sent like a lamb to the slaughter into her line of advantage.

The Doctor pondered over the Knight's capture for a long time before speaking again. ‘Three,’ he mused. ‘A very important number in the book of evil. Knock three times at the Gates of Hades and they will open the door for you. Witches often travel in threes - and the Weird Sisters gave Macbeth three prophecies each time he met them. Three is the standard crew for a Dalek shuttle. King Lear had three daughters. There are so many other examples that elude me for the moment.’ He looked back up at his opponent. She thought she could see him smiling. ‘In human superstition, the Devil appears three times before claiming his victims.’

Death chuckled. It was a pleasant, off-putting chuckle which the Doctor wasn't sure he liked. ‘Come now, Doctor,’ she said, ‘both you and I know that neither the Devil nor God exist.’ And then, after a pause, ‘At least, not in the context people believe them to exist in.’ She smiled at him knowingly, because he too possessed the knowledge that amused her so. He made another, better move, while she added ‘And the Shakespearean allusions are hardly legitimate examples. Not after the hand you had in them.’

The Doctor's thoughts were still on the board, scanning each piece like a hawk. ‘My knowledge of structure was better than Will's,’ he replied, as though it justified things. ‘But the poetry was all his. I just told him where to put it. And you can talk. Context is hardly the medium to measure belief by. You know that as well as I do.’

When he looked at her again, her smile mocked him rather than agreed with him.

‘Whose life do you come to offer me this time, Doctor?’ she asked. ‘Who is the sacrifice? What bargains have you come to make with me now?’ Her laugh, hollow and empty, seemed to come from somewhere else in the cave.

His eyes were dark and he remained still. ‘No sacrifices,’ he said simply, ‘I haven't come here to bargain with you, Death.’ And she could feel the hatred he bore towards her. It was a feeling she liked.

‘Then why have you come?’ She glared at him. He could see her ghastly white face beneath the hood. ‘I am Death. This is my realm. None can come and go as they please. Not even you.’ The same mocking laugh again. ‘Do you think you're Odysseus? Or Aeneas?’ And she kept on laughing. ‘They visited the Underworld and then were able to leave again. But they paid the price. Are you prepared to pay the price, Doctor?’

He hadn't missed a beat. ‘Just put it on my account,’ he said, still calm and composed. It took more than Death's laughter to unnerve him.

She continued. ‘Aeneas saw three things, didn't he?’

The Doctor nodded. ‘The number again. But then, that was a book you had a hand in, wasn't it? The book of evil? So you're as guilty as I am.’

‘All are guilty of something,’ she purred. ‘Some of us more than others.’

He turned away, darkness shrouding his face once more. ‘Not always by our own choice,’ he murmured.

‘Three things.’ Death resumed her recollection of the past. ‘Guilt, Peace and Destiny. I could have shown you those three things, had the circumstances been different.’ She rose from her stool and went into the shadows. ‘If you were Ace, I could have shown you your doomed lover, as Aeneas was shown Dido, suffering at the unnatural death he forced upon her. But as Guilt, he serves a different purpose when shown to you.’ And then another figure stepped out from the shadows, an unseen light case across his face. A tall man, bestowed with a handsome ugliness and an accusing smile.

‘Jan Rydd,’ whispered the Doctor, ashen-faced. He searched for Death's dark shape lingering nearby and rose his voice. ‘There's no need for this,’ he pleaded.

Death shook her head. ‘Oh, but you're wrong. There's every need. As a symbol of Guilt. Your guilt. If I recall, you played a particular part in sending him to me, did you not?’ He could feel her leering smile, even though he could not see her. The apparition raised a silver goblet, toasting the Doctor's contribution to his fate. Death took the goblet from the outstretched hand, coming back into the light, carrying with her a flask.

‘It wasn't my doing,’ the Doctor insisted.

‘Wasn't it?’ questioned Death. ‘Then why does it disturb you so?’ As she spoke, the apparition faded away to be replaced by another. A man the Doctor didn't recognise. ‘If you were Bernice, I might show you Peace. The father you have been searching for.’

The Doctor nodded at the new figure, this well-built man with closely-cropped white hair, wearing a space fleet uniform and a smile. But unlike the previous apparition, it was not an accusing smile, but the smile of a man at peace. That made sense. ‘Commander Isaac Summerfield, I presume?’ the Doctor grinned.

But Death was not about to allow him a moment of relaxation. ‘The reason she travels with you is partially in hope that she might find her father, is it not?’

‘I fail to see why you ask, since you seem to know all the answers.’ The Doctor frowned again. ‘So he is here, then?’

‘Bernice's father?’ Death shrugged as she sat down again, the apparition dissolving behind her. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Many dwell here. He may be one of them. There is only one way you could ever be certain.’ She poured wine from the flask into the goblet and sipped. ‘So why have you come?’

‘No reason. Just to warn you.’ The Doctor fixed his eyes on Death and she dared not break his stare. ‘To warn you to be ready.’

Death considered this, then offered him the goblet. He accepted it and she poured more wine into it. ‘I've always been at your shoulder. I've never needed any warning that I might be required in matters involving you. So it seems that I must also warn you. Your time is almost up, Doctor. Soon you must face your fear.’

The Doctor gave her a bitter scowl. ‘I'm not scared of you, Death.’

‘Not yet.’ Death rose again and turned away from her guest. ‘The third thing applies to you and none other. I could show it to Ace or Bernice and it would be meaningless. Destiny. That was the third thing Aeneas saw, remember?’

‘Of course.’

Death turned back to him. ‘Many lives have many destinies. Yours is the fate you have avoided for all time. Although you have forced others to face this destiny, you have always denied it of yourself. You must face your fear. The fear that has always followed you and haunted everything you do.’

He watched, unimpressed. ‘Everybody faces their fear eventually. I'm not afraid to face mine.’

Death shook her head. ‘I would be, in your place, Doctor. I would be terrified. Because yours is a particularly dangerous fear. I have seen the things it can do. I have fed on the carnage always left in its wake, and I do not know that you are strong enough to confront this fear and survive. Not even Time's Champion has the power to battle such an enemy.’

The Doctor took another mouthful of wine. But it wasn't wine in the goblet, it was blood.

Death's laugh was nearing hysteria. ‘I think your fear will destroy you,’ she told him gleefully. She came closer and he could see the malicious joy in her terrible eyes. ‘I think your fear will consume and swallow you, as it has done so many others. Shall I show you your fear? Look into the wine!’

She sat back down, and she examined the chess board, contemplating strategies for soldiers of ivory. The Doctor wiped the blood from his lips and looked into the dark thick red of the goblet.

He stared hard and began to visualise things in the wine, the blood of destiny. Dark, terrible things that clawed and snarled at all he believed in. But he wasn't scared. Not by them or by Death. Then more things swam up to greet him, trying to pull him into the pits with them, trying to claim his soul as one of theirs, and showing him other souls they already owned. Souls he recognised. Two faces. Ace and Bernice, transformed into ghoulish temptresses, inviting him to join the pain and suffering they revelled in. But he still wasn't scared. He'd been frightened by experts in his time.

Another shape was forming. He peered deeper, trying to make out what it was. One single shape, rather than the multitude of nightmares that had preceded it. Was this it? And then it was a familiar face that stared back at him from the world within the goblet.

He saw himself, and then he was scared.

The hourglass shattered, glass and sand scattering in tiny fragments.

‘No bargains? No sacrifices?’ Death taunted. She moved a piece. He could not tell if it was black or white. ‘Check,’ said Death, and gestured with a gaunt, bony hand. ‘Your move.’

But the Time Lord shook his head, put down the goblet and got up, hat and umbrella in hand.

‘You can't just walk away from here, Doctor,’ warned Death, but he did just that. As he walked away, she called after him, ‘Are you ready to face your fear, Doctor?’

He stopped and turned back to her. ‘I don't know,’ he admitted. And then he left.

Death watched him go and found herself almost admiring his foolish courage. ‘We will meet again,’ she murmured, ‘and I will ask you the question once more. Perhaps then you will have found an answer.’

Until then, she could only wait.

- A Visit by David Lawrence, featuring the Seventh Doctor and Death. Published in The New Zealand Fan Club’s TSV Fanzine, issue 47.

#Seventh Doctor #Death #the Eternals #Menti Celesti #Virgin New Adventures #David Lawrence #Doctor Who #VNAs

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whisker-biscuit · 6 years

Text

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em...

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Rating: T for language and innuendo

Summary: In a place that’s literal Hell, it’s gonna be hot, and there’s bound to be heatwaves. It kind of comes with the territory. But some days are a lot worse than others and for a rundown hotel barely managing its electric bill, much less air conditioning, the residents are forced to rely on some rather…unorthodox methods (yes, even for them) to beat the heat.

“If one more fucker makes a flaming phoenix joke in the next hour, I swear to everything that’s holy they’re gonna be reincarnated just so I can kill them again.”

It was far too hot in Hell today for most souls, and in a run down joint like the Happy Hotel, the occupants were just trying to keep from melting.

Husk laid flat on his stomach on top of the bar counter, arms stretched out in front of him. His long red wings drooped down on both sides and wisped lightly against the carpeted floor. Sweat was pooling steadily from beneath the feather tips. Not far away, Angel Dust chuckled from where he sat propped on the ground against a chair leg, two pairs of arms limp while the remaining ones worked slowly at untying his corset.

“C’mon Husk baby, it’s hard not to say somethin’ with those bee-autiful feather peckers,” he said with lazy eyes. “You gotta take it as it is.”

“A compliment?”

“A come on.”

Husk grabbed at the nearest bottle and took a long swig.

“Anyway,” Angel tactfully ignored such rudeness by dropping his gaze to the uncooperative bodice around his waist. “You’d think Miss Mime Face would be rich enough to get AC out here, her being a princess or whatever the shit. Not very accommodating for us working poor.”

“Miss Mime…? You talkin’ about Charlie?”

“Shhh, don’t say her name, Husk! Might summon her.” The spider demon made a show of looking around the room in mock nervousness.

“Don’t be a dumbass. That’s not even possible out there; definitely not here.”

Of course it was this moment that the bar doors slammed open with the force of Charlie’s outstretched arms, startling Husk so much he rolled sideways and fell off the counter with a loud thunk and a groan. Angel smirked.

“Speaking of the devil lady. Aha!” He succeeded in pulling off his corset, breathing a deep sigh as he dropped the piece of clothing in his lap.

Charlie came strolling in with her hands clasped behind her back. She looked at Angel, half naked on the floor, to Husk, who was currently picking himself up off the floor. There was a brief pause.

“Did I – interrupt something?” The girl asked politely.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, okay then.” She took another moment to flick her ponytail behind her shoulder. “Sooo, what are we doing in here? Some kind of meeting?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I see. Well, since you can’t seem to make up your minds, how about we spend some quality time with the rest of the staff? It won’t do to hole yourselves up like this!” Her statement was accompanied by a well-meaning hand clap.

Husk collapsed onto a stool and sagged against the countertop. He squinted at the Princess of Hell like she had grown a halo.

“How the hell are you even moving in that outfit?”

Charlie’s smile faltered in bemusement. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, look around Char-Char! We ain’t exactly freezin’ over today, if you get my drift.” Angel laid forward on his stomach and reached out one hand towards the woman. It made contact with her right shoe and he tapped a claw against the leather. She squeaked and hopped away.

“Oh come one you guys, we can’t let one measly heatwave stop us on such a wonderful day! I doubt it’s even that bad, you just wanna find something to complain about.”

“Charlie, if you can find one other person in this hotel who isn’t dying again right now, I will give you half of the register money.” Husk said completely deadpan.

“But…you already do that anyway?”

“That means fuck off, doll-face.” Angel murmured, stretched across the carpet as the heat started overcoming him. His hair-fluff drooped and dripped with sweat.

“Fine,” the princess’ chin lifted in stubbornness. “I’ll go find someone else who’s not a spoilsport. And then I’ll be back to show you both how childish you’re being.”

With a flip of her ponytail, Charlie turned and walked calmly out of the bar with fisted hands at her sides. Husk and Angel exchanged one feverish glance and then simultaneously closed their eyes and let nothingness overtake them.

Ten minutes later, the doors swung open again and Charlie crept in looking considerably more weary and sheepish. Husk opened one eye to watch her lazily. Angel didn’t even bother to be that courteous.

“Okay, so. It seems I was maybe a little hasty to brush off your concerns.” She fidgeted, tapping her fingertips against each other. “Everyone else is sorta…out of sorts too.”

“Ya don’t say,” Angel growled without moving. His face was buried into the carpet.

“Yes, well, I do say. So in order to bring everyone’s spirits up, I’ve decided to make an executive decision.” Charlie paused, for dramatic effect and the chance for questions. Neither guy took the bait so she plowed on. “My decision is to beat the heat…through a bonding exercise! Yay! How’s that sound?”

“Terrible.”

“Like a fucking nightmare.”

“Great! Mandatory attendance in the main lobby, be there in two minutes or there’ll be consequences!” The last word was sung at a higher pitch as the princess skipped out of the room, considerably more chipper than during her entrance.

Husk sighed and got off the stool, swiping the whiskey he’d drank from earlier. He padded across the room and nudged Angel’s body with his paw.

“C’mon.”

“I don’ wanna.”

“Get your sorry ass up, if I have to do this then so do you.”

“Ugh,” the spider lifted himself off the floor with shaking arms. “Fine. But I’m going bare-chested. And you owe me a French 75 on the house afterwards.”

“I don’t owe you shit, let’s go.”

When they arrived at their destination, it was to find Vaggie slumped in a lounge chair, who gave a halfhearted wave, and Niffty humming some wayward tune as she sat at a table with her head propped up by her hands and elbows. Her face scrunched up at Angel’s topless upper half.

“That’s not very proper, deary.” Niffty tittered with a head tilt.

Angel gave her the finger listlessly as he dropped to the floor again. Husk rolled his eyes and joined Niffty at the table. The four of them stayed that way, listening to the obnoxious ticking of a wall clock nearby, until Charlie came down from upstairs. She was armed with several objects shaped like cartoonish, oversized guns. The spider demon perked up immediately.

“Are those weapons I spy?” He sat up and looked them over. “They look kinda flimsy.”

“That’s because they’re not the kind of weapons you’re thinking of, silly!” Charlie dropped the guns on the table with a clatter. She hefted a larger one up against her shoulder. “These are water guns! This is how we’re gonna cool down.”

Vaggie frowned from her seat. “Uh, Charlie, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Sure it is, don’t worry!”

Niffty oohed and aahed over the neon colors while Husk stared at the pile, disinterested. He took a drink of whiskey, stared again, and managed to look even more disinterested. Angel, meanwhile, crawled over to peer at the toys from the table ledge.

“What’re water guns? What kinda bullets they use?”

“They don’t use bullets you moron, they’re kids toys.” Husk downed another gulp. “She’s treating us like kids is what she’s doing.”

“Pff, no I’m not. These things are fun for all ages! And all immortals!” The princess held out the one she was holding for the rest of them to see. “Look, you fill this cap with water, right here, and then you press this trigger to squirt it. I already filled them all so don’t worry about that, but I was hoping we could each pick one and head into the backyard to have a water gun fight. Sounds fun, right?”

Husk shook his head and curled into the chair with his whiskey. Niffty seemed not to have heard Charlie; she had picked up the most colorful gun and was cooing over it. Angel stayed where he was, two pairs of hands clutched around the table’s edge while he peeked just over it at the plastic weapons. Vaggie stood up and moved to Charlie’s side, placing one hand on her shoulder.

“Listen, I know you’re trying to help us with the heat problem,” she spoke quietly to her partner, “and we really appreciate it, but I really, really don’t think this is the best idea.”

“Come on Vaggie, the backyard is totally safe from malicious demons, I’ve been putting charms around the perimeter so we don’t get any unwanted guests.” Unwanted guests mostly meant Sir Pentious but nobody was going to say that out loud.

The girl still looked skeptic, so Charlie smiled sincerely at her.

“And it’s not like I filled the guns with acid, so what’s the worst that could happen?”

“ACK!”

Angel flinched back violently as Niffty sprayed water in his face at close range. She giggled delightedly and sprayed him again, forcing the cursing spider to duck under the table.

“Hey, not inside! Outside!” Charlie scolded as Vaggie facepalmed.

But it was too late. One spidery hand whipped up over the table and groped blindly for all of two seconds before landing on a hefty-sized water gun, which was quickly pulled under the makeshift wooden hiding spot. Then the furniture was knocked sideways, sending Husk and Niffty sprawling as Angel popped up and held the trigger down, spraying indiscriminately.

Husk made a yelped curse and his wings drew up to block the sudden barrage of water. Niffty gave a cry of both glee and astonishment, responding by trying to shoot her own weapon. Her aim went wide and sailed past a cackling Angel right onto Vaggie’s chest.

She squawked and fell on her butt, to which Charlie mirrored. Vaggie flicked water off her breasts and growled.

“Charlie, give me your gun right now.”

“But, but outside –”

“Now!”

Angel was having the time of his life, right up until Vaggie came up behind him and smacked him with the gun itself. He stumbled forward and nearly tripped on the upended table.

“What the hell?!”

“This is your fault, Angel!” The girl demon yelled and sprayed him in the back. He tensed up at the feel of cold water against his uncovered body, whipping around with a deranged snarl.

“Eat acqua bitch!” He pulled the trigger like it was a machine gun. Water hit Vaggie right in the face and she started spraying back.

While those two remained locked for dominance, Niffty turned her sights to Husk, who was trying desperately to get out of the line of fire. She twittered maniacally as she pounced on him with her weapon, and with no proper way to defend himself the poor winged demon did the next best thing – he dumped his whiskey on her. She screamed, in disgust or delight it was hard to tell, and he took the chance to jump up and hightail it out of there.

So stood Charlie, standing helplessly as Angel and Vaggie threw obscenities and H2O at each other, Husk fled the scene, and Niffty brushed at her alcohol-covered outfit and licked her fingers. She made eye contact with the princess and gave a toothy, dangerous grin, lifting her weapon up slowly like a bringer of doom. Charlie’s gaze hovered down to the remaining water guns left on the floor.

“Well,” she decided, “if you can’t stop them, join them!”

A half hour later and huddled in the safety of his locked bar, Husk rolled his eyes as a third loud crash sounded through the hotel. Someone screamed and demonic laughter echoed with a suspiciously Charlie-like voice.

“Idiots,” Husk declared to himself, still drying his fur off. “Idiots and children, every single one of them.”

I'm so excited for this show, and I can't wait to get to know each of these wonderfully zany people. Just so everyone’s aware, this is my personal take on the characters based on what little we already know along with some educated guesswork. I might come back to this after the show airs and we get a better feel for the characters, or I might leave it as-is as a kind of...AU? I guess? I just like patchwork family dynamic haha. Hope you enjoy!

#hazbin hotel #charlie #angel dust #husk #vaggie #niffty

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pipesflowforeverandever · 6 years

Text

Pink Snow

Have you seen @aceofintuition do their pink!event for their Joey “Snowy” Drew? Well I ended up doing some writing for the inevitable after: when Snowy finally has to confront the embarrassment of going home. Thanks for such a fun event, Ace!

A wheel screeched to a standstill and the normally relaxing rumble of the engine sputtered into silence. A click of the door followed by an especially solid slam and finally Joey Drew was home after this infernal day from hell. Not that most days didn’t give him a reason to groan, but usually they didn’t leave something…-

He spotted a pink stain of a reflection in the car’s metal, his scowl underneath.

-…that came home with him.

A growl rumbled his throat as Joey ran his fingers through his hair. This ‘do wasn’t exactly as soft as it looked in the first place- did you think it got in that magnificent shape on its own without gel? You’re dreaming- but now it was dry, crusty even, and as he pulled his hand away rosy flecks of paint stuck to his skin.

After what must have been at least a minute of lament, Mr. Drew managed to pry his gaze away from the clown in front of him. “Pull it together, Joey,” he mumbled to himself hoarsely. Indeed, he DID have to compose himself. With a gravely sigh, his sight landed upon the door he parked in front of. His own house.

And his family inside who didn’t have an inkling- or maybe a paintling today- of an idea what he had gone through today.

“Goddammit!” he may have griped as he may have kicked over the nearest trash can in reflexive rage. Its tinny sound echoed down the alleyway and somewhere, a cat began to complain about the noise. And just on queue-

Ice blue irises rolled up toward the top of his head as he felt a raindrop slither down it.

And soon the sky started to grumble and pout, too.

He thought about it- trust him he had thought about it- but after trying to wash his hair six hours out of this eight-hour workday, he knew soaking it in rain wouldn’t do anything but make him a sopping wet mess.

…Again, of course.

Yes, it was hard to believe that his day once had been going so, so well- or as well as it could with an extra 180 gallons of pink paint than he needed MONTHS ago. Valentine’s special, see? Wanted to make a big splash. Well that splash came long too late; the paint they ordered at first never arrived. They pulled it off with another vendor, but…the studio soon found out it was not 20 paint cans they had ordered at first but 200, hence why it took so long for their arrival. And Joey, great boss he was, signed off the form.

And then Franks went and dumped one on Joey’s mop by accident…although that last word was debatable. It seemed to dye his hair pink at least for the foreseeable future, as no matter of towel rubbing had done anything but put the neon curse onto other objects as well. His hair seemed fond of its new tone and would not let it go.

And in all his fuming and embarrassment, Joey never stopped to think that maybe his wife would have appreciated a warning call.

Or rather that one would do him a lot of good right about now.

He flicked his gaze towards a window, a square glowing yellow as the sky grew darker and darker with both night shade and rainclouds. A silhouette stood inside, thankfully one that hadn’t spotted him yet. But she would. Living in the same house kind of makes it hard to hide such…drastic cosmetic changes. With one last eye roll only to himself, the man stomped through street puddles towards the inevitable.

He had forgotten that the inevitable included something a little bit warmer than the rest of the day, and it may have made the entire ordeal worth it.

Joey hung up his coat- which had only just begun to drip with rain- and he leaned down to untie his shoes. He blinked, and suddenly tan colored knuckles found the same color next to them- that also of two tiny bare feet. A stare panned onto a face with eyes matching his, but while his were glossed with the stress of the day, hers shined with the absolute wonder that walked through her door this evening.

“PAPA!” his daughter yelled at the top of her lungs, flaring her arms to her sides and then throwing them to her face. “P-…p-…!” And as her mouth gaped more and more, you could almost see her breath being lost to a toddler’s whimsy. “PINK!”

And as stars glinted in her blue eyes, the pink reflecting in them like magic cotton candy, Joey remembered Henry’s last words to him this afternoon:

“It’ll all be worth the trouble when Joy sees you, you know,” his dear friend had hummed. Joey in all his upset nerves had shrugged it off- and if anyone but his cofounder had said this it’d have been a tease worth firing for- but…

An expression weary with shame and broken pride began to stretch into a beaming smile, Mr. Drew finally finding a silver lining among thunderclouds. The day may have been utterly nightmarish, but tonight would be one of storytelling that’d fill his little Joy’s head with rose-colored dreams about her papa’s adventures at his own animation studio- another admittedly strong notch in his belt to help his daughter believe that he truly made dreams come true.

Her dreams, especially and particularly.

Not even the belting laughter of Ana that soon came from down the hall could take that away.

#batim #batim fanfic #batim joey #joey drew #batim oc #snowy #my writing #tak writes #come on down to recording town #i love snowy a lot okay #a lot

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taizi · 6 years

Text

lying in the gutter, aiming for the moon

final fantasy xv pairing: gladio/ignis/prompto (mentions of ot4) word count: 1331 summary: Prompto is better when he’s busy, so he pours all of his time and energy and care into relief efforts, and hunting daemons, and helping displaced refugees make a new home in fortified Lestallum. Ignis and Gladio don’t have much to say to him anymore, but that’s alright -- he can take care of himself. And if this little kid has nobody else and nowhere to go, then Prompto can take care of him, too.

read on ao3

chapter 1/?

There’s a light ahead, filtering through the trees, that looks like it belongs to thunder bombs.

Prompto gives his partner a nod, watching after him as Ace moves ahead soundlessly to take point. Then he turns to face the group of world-weary refugees he’s helping escort through a once-idyllic countryside to the safety of Lestallum.

They’re clustered beside an outcropping of rock, as much shelter as there is to be had out here anymore, and their lights and voices are low -- strained with exhaustion, and the worry bordering on paranoia that’s kept them alive until now. Every one of them has noticed the light ahead, too. At this leg of the journey, Prompto doesn’t need to tell anyone to be still and quiet.

He can afford to give them a few more minutes. The terrain is rough for civilians, and as much as he wants to get them behind city walls as soon as possible, he doesn’t want to deliver them half-dead on their feet.

It’s the work of a moment to sweep through a quick headcount, to make sure everyone’s accounted for -- and then Prompto pauses, frowning, and counts again.

“We’re missing someone,” he says. His voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the absolute stillness like a knife anyway. He shelves the immediate alarm, refusing to act on it just yet.

Sometimes this happens -- someone steps away for a moment of privacy, to be sick or catch their breath, despite the endless warnings Prompto will have given them along the way to never step away without letting him or his partner know.

But no one pipes up with a “my sister is just over there,” or “my husband needed a minute, he’ll be along right away” and that means they have a problem. Prompto watches as the people react to his words -- some of them look alarmed, and reach out reflexively to seize their friends, or their children, or their lover, and hold them close against a similar fate.

But some of them don’t react at all, staring hard at their hands or away at the ground. It’s those people that Prompto moves in on.

His heavy boots step soundlessly through the forest litter, in the way that was ruthlessly trained into him by necessity and survival, and Prompto crouches in front of a sallow-faced man with a teen tucked under his arm.

There’s a cold pit opening in Prompto’s chest, at the idea of one of his people hurt or lost or gone.

“It’s my job to get everyone safely from point A to point B,” Prompto says plainly. “You really don’t want to get between me and my job.”

It’s as much of a threat as it needs to be. The man swallows once, twice, throat bobbing. Then he says, “The little Niff boy hurt his ankle. He fell behind a little while ago.”

Prompto jerks upright, and turns on his heel to scan the group again. His earlier alarm is crawling down off its shelf and taking up shop in the middle of his chest.

There should be a little boy, with hanks of uneven blond hair and big reproachful gray eyes. He had been walking with a little girl his age, and Prompto had assumed they were friends or siblings, that the girl’s mother would be keeping an eye on him -- but when Prompto’s gaze finds the woman, she’s clutching her daughter with a look of horror on her face.

“I didn’t realize,” she whispers. “I didn’t know.”

Ace is at his shoulder the moment Prompto spins around to look for him. He says, “Go ahead,” and his voice is as tight and angry as Prompto’s probably would be if Prompto could even speak. “I’ll call you back on the radio if I need you.”

So Prompto lifts his gun and plunges away into the dark, back the way they came. He’s searching the ground so hard he would probably walk right into an iron giant before he noticed it was in his way. He hasn’t prayed to the Astrals since they took Noctis away, but he finds himself throwing words up to any of the Six that might listen -- please, he’s just a kid, please, I’ll watch him closer next time, please --

Gladio says Prompto cares too much. Prompto doesn’t know why he says it like that, like it’s something Prompto can change, like it’s a dial on his personal settings that he can turn down.

But after hardly ten minutes of backtracking, he finds the boy -- tucked up under some foliage, his back to the trunk of a tree. He’s clutching his ankle, and his eyes are wide and terrified, but he’s alive. Somehow, all on his own out here in the daemon-infested night, he’s okay.

Prompto feels lightheaded with relief, closing his eyes for a second and breathing through it.

Then he shoves his gun back into its holster and kneels, offering the little guy his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, scraping up a smile. “It must have been scary. How about you walk with me from now on?”

The boy hardly needs any coaxing to spill forward into Prompto’s arms, clutching at him with shaking fingers. He’s cold, and Prompto manages to maneuver his jacket off without dislodging him, wrapping it around the boy’s thin shoulders.

The ordeal must have worn him out, because he dozes off there against Prompto’s chest as they pick their way back to the group.

Whole pounds of tension go out of Ace’s shoulders when he sees Prompto and his little charge, lines of worry easing out of his dark face.

“Thank the gods,” he murmurs.

“Or something,” Prompto replies. Then he turns sharp eyes on the people behind him, mouth working furiously as he tries to come up with a way to explain to them succinctly just how fucked up he thinks this whole thing was.

“It’s not our job to babysit orphans,” someone pipes up. They don’t sound cruel, they just sound tired. They have a little boy of their own on their lap. “We have to look after our own family first, don’t we?”

Maybe Prompto would have said something different two years ago. He was kinder back then, he thinks. Or the world was kinder.

But that was two years ago, and Prompto says, “None of you are my family. Should I leave you behind when you slow me down?”

The silence that greets the question is heavy and heaving. If he left them, they would be down to one protector where even two doesn’t feel like enough. He’d never do it -- and he’d never do that to Ace -- but these people don’t know that.

But at the stricken looks on some of their faces, the plain horror on others, Prompto relents. He looks down at the dirty blond head nestled against his shoulder, and says, “It can’t be like that anymore. There’s nothing left. All we have is what little we can give each other.”

He thinks of Ignis and Gladio, and how little they have to give each other anymore. How they seem to have nothing to give Prompto anymore. But when it starts to hurt, he thinks of Noctis, and what Noctis would say if Prompto gave up on them, too. What Noctis would say if Prompto gave into the bitter gray feelings always creeping in around his periphery.

And he manages to summon a smile instead.

“So shape up,” he commands without any heat, “and let’s get a move on. Lestallum’s only another hour west. You’ll be home before you know it.”

Ace gives him a companionable nudge as they fall into loose formation again. Most of the civilians don’t seem able or willing to make eye contact. The mother from before approaches Prompto with her hands out, a clear apology and a clear offer in her eyes.

Prompto shakes his head, holding the bundle of boy and coat a little tighter.

“It’s alright,” he says, “I got him.”

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #gladiolus amiticia #polyship roadtrip #my writing #ffxv fic #aiming for the moon

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tetsuo-and-red-blog · 6 years

Text

Sweet Child ‘O Mine (Drabble)

“Will you?”

Tetsuo paused his work, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and letting out a slow sigh as he placed the small knife on his knee. The hum of Red’s motors was such a familiar sound by now that his mind only took it as a sign of her presence, like recognizing someone’s footsteps. Crouched in tilled dirt, sweat soaked through his shirt, the mechanic was tending to the two or three short rows of tato plants he was growing not far from the boathouse.

“Again?” he asked, then groaned slightly as he pushed himself up, stepping to the next plant. “Ain’t that the same one we did yesterday?” The softer earth shifted beneath his boots as he lowered himself down again. “And don’t you have to patrol the road up north right about now?”

“.... Please?”

A huff escaped as a hiss between Tetsuo’s lip and teeth, and he shook his head. He didn’t understand how Red chose what she liked and what she didn’t, and he wasn’t sure even she knew how she chose. But still... how could he say no to that tone? Well, not tone. Red had the same inflections and articulation regardless of her mood, but Tetsuo could swear that he was beginning to hear a bit of her intent in her voice. And the way the normally verbose sentry simplified the request trampled straight over whatever weary objections the mechanic might have held.

“Alright,” he conceded, beginning to prune the wayward vines of the plant in front of him. “But we ain’t doin’ this every day, or I’m goin’ to get real tired of this song. I don’t want to hear no complainin’ about me bein’ off key, either.” Pausing again, Tetsuo pivoted to face Red, and held up a finger. “And you’re goin’ to finish your route after we’re done, you hear? I ain’t gonna stand for you gettin’ lazy on me.”

“Of course.”

Tetsuo adjusted his sunglasses with the back of his hand before continuing in his task. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, a bit of a begrudging drag in his voice.

For a brief moment, silence took the air again, before the sudden and clear sound of a single guitar dancing through notes shattered it. Tetsuo began to nod along to the beat subtly, trying not to look too much like he was enjoying the song. Of all the things in the library that Red had absorbed, it was far from the worst. The lead singer didn’t sound angelic by any means, but it was better than that AC/DC guy.

As the song kicked into the first verse, Tetsuo began to sing along, a bit off pitch, but keeping up with the beat.

“She’s got a smile that it seems to me reminds me of childhood memories, where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky.

Now and then when I see her face, it takes me away to that special place, and if I stare too long, I’d probably break down and cry.”

He left the vocal acrobatics to the singer, staying silent for a moment and waiting for the next verse to roll around.

“She’s got eyes of the bluest skies, and if they thought of rain, I’d hate to l--”

Tetsuo stopped suddenly as the music cut out, looking over his shoulder at the sentry with a raised eyebrow.

“Movement on the southern road,” Red reported, whirring increasing in volume as her hydraulics kicked in, and she picked up to start moving. “Multiple triggers, they seem to be moving quickly.”

The mechanic rolled his eyes from behind his sunglasses, grabbing a crude leather sheath from nearby and slipping the knife into it. “Great,” he muttered scathingly, placing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up to stand. “Just what I needed. Stockton caravan ain’t due for another few days, are they?”

Red began to turn and roll towards the boathouse. “No, I do not believe they should be coming by this early. Nor any other caravans to my knowledge.”

Tetsuo moved into a brisk walk to keep up with the sentry as they both made their way towards the tiny ridge that separated the garden from the house. His hand instinctively moved down to pat where he kept his 10mm holstered, making sure it was still there. Less than a minute’s walk, and they were at the yard of the house, and Tetsuo took a few steps towards the southern road, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes from the sun.

“Aw, shit.” From this distance -- five hundred yards or so, if he had to guess -- he could spot six or seven indistinguishable forms of humans walking spread along the road, but that wasn’t what bothered him. What quickly put a nervous knot in his chest was the lumbering shape of a sentry rolling along behind the line of people.

“They have their weapons drawn and are moving aggressively,” Red said, coming to a stop beside Tetsuo. “They have rifles and some type of armor.”

“Glad your eyes are good,” the mechanic commented, pulling off his sunglasses and shoving them into his pocket.

“Should I engage?” Red asked, and Tetsuo could have sworn that he heard an edge of eagerness to the question.

“From this distance? Nah,” Tetsuo answered, turning slightly towards the house. “I don’t want to waste bullets. Wait for them to get three hundred and fifty or so yards out, then give that big boy a surprise.” He started walking towards the house, heart pounding in his throat despite the forced calm of his voice. “You always wanted a chance to try out your new toy for real, right? I’m gonna grab the three-oh-eight. Show ‘em what you got, then I’ll help you clean up the rest if they still want to fight,” he said over his shoulder, before jogging towards the door.

“Oh, I’ll show them,” Red said, frame settling down low to the ground with the hisses and whines of hydraulics and pneumatics. A small metal spike extended from her front leg into the dirt, a wire running up from it towards her power systems. The miniguns lowered, in favor of the long barrel of the railgun that slid up and forward over her shoulder. A high-pitched whine filled the air for a few seconds, winding up from a low octave until it passed the capabilities of the human ear, as the bank of capacitors along her back soaked up every bit of power they could from the three fusion cores. And there, ready and waiting, Red stayed, optics locked on the approaching hostiles.

Tetsuo came jogging back out, a bolt-action rifle in his hands. “You all set?” he asked, knees hitting dirt about thirty feet away from Red. He went prone in the grass near the road, propping up on his elbows, and looking down the scope.

“Ready to go,” Red replied, dead still and impatient.

Letting out a slow breath, Tetsuo’s eyebrows furrowed. “The hell?” he declared, turning his aim across the line of people. “Are they... wearin’ bits of robots? And are those skulls on that sentry?”

“It appears so,” the sentry answered. “That seems... rude.”

Tetsuo shook his head. “The hell’s wrong with people up here.” Tense silence filled the air as what seemed like an eternity went by. He had to double check to make sure they were actually getting closer, trying to steady his sight picture against his rapid heartbeat. Then...

“Firing.”

Tetsuo had been there when they test-fired the railgun. Only, he had been quite a bit further away. As soon as the word started coming from Red, Tetsuo dropped the rifle to slam his palms over his ears.

It didn’t really feel like it helped.

A sound like a hundred simultaneous lightning strikes shook the ground, the house, the nearby woods, and kicked up a halo of dirt and dust that washed out over a stunned Tetsuo. He had felt the shock wave in every part of him, and had to stop and blink a couple of times before he could compose himself, picking up the rifle once more, and trying to ignore the loud ringing in his ears.

He lowered his head, looking down the scope. “Ho-ly shit,” he breathed, then, despite himself, began to cackle gleefully. Through the narrow scope, he could see the smoldering lower half of a sentry bot, the scorch marks on the road around it from the secondary detonation of its primary power systems, five unmoving bodies, and small bits of bot just beginning to rain down from the sky. One of the remaining humans had already staggered back to their feet, and was running swiftly back the other direction, while the last was on all fours, groggily shaking their head.

Tetsuo pushed himself up, and looked at Red as he slowly walked over towards her. The barrel of the railgun was glowing a dull orange, steam and smoke billowing and writhing off of it. A series of crackling sparks, quickly decreasing in intensity, jumped from the grounding spike at her leg into the ground.

“Looks like they’re rethinking their decision,” he said, mouth hanging open slightly as he looked at the devastation. He brought a hand up to remove his cap and run his fingers through his hair, and after a pause, he gave a couple solid pats on Red’s arm. “Nice shot, kid.” He turned, beginning to walk towards the house, letting the rifle hang loosely at his side.

Red’s head turned towards him, and there was a pause, brief for most people, but uncharacteristically long for the fast-thinking sentry. “Thanks, dad.”

That stopped Tetsuo dead in his tracks. A hundred thoughts and a thousand feelings hit him like a ton of bricks, racing to the point that he couldn’t focus on one before another pushed it aside. Where had she learned that? Did she have a concept of family? Was it from being around Betty, or Casey, or did he say something about it among his answers to her endless questions? Was she really his--? How could--? What--?

He looked down, not realizing that he had dropped the rifle. Leaning down to pick it up, he swallowed hard, trying to force his throat, which had seemed to clamp shut, to let words pass.

It was a short moment before he could focus enough to get a sentence together. “I’ll go grab the de-rad kit, and we’ll see what all’s left down there,” he said, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. “Keep an eye on that last guy, he takes one step closer, drop ‘em.” With that, Tetsuo continued towards the house, eyes wide as the torrent of thoughts returned to flood his mind.

God, he was going to need a drink tonight.

#drabble

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sunshinepunks-secretsanta · 6 years

Text

M3h’s Secret Santa Gift

For @justm3h, tried to fit all your requests. Merry Christmas!

This wasn’t how he wanted things to go. How exactly did this, come out of delivering papers to one of the Marine outposts? Honestly it wasn’t like he had to do the odd job, Coby was far along his dream of becoming a Marine Admiral. He was only three weeks of his official promotion to being one of the top three people in the Marines, but no he just had to volunteer his ship to do the pit stop because he just happened to be going in that direction!

Coby can almost hear Helmeppo rolling his eyes at his well-meaning actions. His best friend was always complaining about the pink haired boy being much too nice for his own good, though Coby always ignored his words as a good friend should.

If he got himself into the mess he can get himself out through hard work and strong will, that was the one thing Luffy taught him above all else. (Coby is willing to lay down his life to prove that straw hat wearing man was right in saving him)

His ship arrived on the post being attack by a no-name pirate crew, and Coby had his men joining the ferry as soon as they could. The pink haired man was quick in saving some of the cooks held hostages shaving to the side of the possible first mate. As he took care of the fool he missed the crazed look of the captain. She shot two of his men in the chest, forcing Coby to put pressure on the wounds in order to not lose them.

She had attacked the post for the rumored devil fruit they managed to uncover, though no one had any recording of the particular fruit or it’s possible powers, and she wasn’t about to let the Marines rush in and ruin her raid. By the time Coby turned his sights to her- after making sure a medic could save those wounded- she had already broken the safe, holding the blue spiked apple.

One pirate taking a bite of a fruit, shooting a colorful beam at him which he should have dodge but doing so would have meant someone else getting hit and that- that wasn’t acceptable was all it took to have everything he knew ripped from him.

Now, look at him.

He was a short, chubby, soft-fleshed kid trapped on a fat pirate’s ship, where he was treated badly. Again.

It was disheartening to have his mind know what to do but to have his untrained body unable to go through with it.

When Alvida had raised her club at him, Coby was so in shocked of going from a battlefield to a boat with the screaming hag above him, his first reaction was mostly reflex of jumping out of the way and throwing a punch.

He was not pleased with the pain that came from his knuckles, nor with the way Alvida had gone at him for attempting to fight back. It was painful, but nowhere near Garp training painful so after she was done he just laid there confusingly staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell kind of fruit that had been.

A Devil Fruit with the ability to Time Travel or at the very least to send a soul to another dimension, such a powerful thing in the hands of a bloodthirsty criminal doing who knows what with it. Coby really hopes someone stops her before she does more damage with a power like that.

The only consolation to this dis-aging was that Coby managed to returned the day before he meets Luffy which meant he was getting out in only twenty-four hours.

In that time he needed to figure what he was going to do, because while he’s devastated that his hard work had been ruined…he’s not as broken up about as he should be. Don’t get him wrong, it burns that he was sent back before his office promotion but it was the only real regret, and even then it wasn’t regret as it should be. It was more of a annoyance similar to stepping in mud.

The biggest feeling is more positive then it should be over his predicament.

He’s excited about a do-over even. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

On one hand, Coby could find a way back make it so he can return to the life he had built for himself through sweat, blood, and tears.

On the other hand…..

The screams both in a battle cry and a shout of mercy, the sound of blades clashing and fists meeting flesh, the booms as cannons fire into the sky with ash and smoke in their wake and the small figure holding up a body, blood surrounding them both as the smallest cries in agony.

Coby stands to the side feeling horror bleed into his veins as he watching the strongest man he’s ever known breaks down before his very eyes and being unable to do anything to help.

Coby is loyal to the Marines for all that they should stand for. But he owes a man a life debt that sometimes feels it feels heavier then the duty he swore to and sometimes when sitting in his bed, he turns his head to the wanted poster he pinned up on his wall. A far too bright smile for their far too dark world staring back at him underneath a straw hat, makes his stomach twist in guilt knowing that the people he works for are crueler then he likes to admit.

He’s high ranking enough to have seen things that made him question who the real monsters were in the world. The marines protected people but they also terrized them as fast as flipping a few coins. They saved them from death but killed faster then a bullet being loaded. They stop pirates from ruining their lives, but allowed them to be enslaved like the sound of chains didn’t echo through many streets.

He has a dream but he also has a heart.

One that beats for someone it shouldn’t.

With those though circling his head the chubby boy wills his sore body to stand, intending on finding a quite place on the ship to start training. He needed to whip himself back into shape as soon as possible. Because he had come to a decision, one that would change history for good or for bad, and he had to be ready for the changes.

He had seen what life was like a Marine, but come sunrise he will see what life is like as a pirate, in order to pay back that life debt.

This time it will be Coby saving Luffy….by making sure Portgas D. Ace does not die. Somehow he’s going to have to find his way onto the Whitebeard Pirates and keep that stubborn fireman from getting caught. (and if he asks for his blessing to peruse Luffy along the way then all the better for him)

First thing was first.

He had to get to the New World. Should be easier if he train himself along the way and he already knew it pretty well, right?

Marco was not prepared for the boy. He was not expecting anyone to approach the Moby, especially not a flimsy looking lad in a rowboat, with nothing but his crack glasses and a stubborn frown. No clean clothes, no food, and no water….and yet still standing tall when he yelled up permission to come on board.

It takes guts to do something like that, real guts that younger generations of pirates have seemed to forget. This was proably why Pops allowed the young man to climb on board. He was…not as impressive as his voice made him out to be. The pink hair stranger was covered in wounds, his body was not that of a cillian but not that of a fighter either but his voice carried command and strength that showed a glimpse to the monster he would be in just a few years.

“I’m looking for Portgas D. Ace.” The stranger says, back straight, head held high and throwing all the body language of a no good marine. It makes the crew weary (they don’t want to kill the kid, he’s far too young) but Pops seems to find him amusing because he calls for the Second Commander after ordering Thatch to get him something to eat.

The way the boys eyes grow grateful as the chef runs off to do as he told lets Marco know he’s dealing with a polite fellow. Which is always good as it means his siblings won’t break into a fight with him. It’s not until Ace steps through the crowd that his real problem with the visitors rises, as the boy takes notice of the second commander.

Marco does not appreciate the way the kid eyes his boyfriend. Does not like the way pinky’s face gets warmer the moment Ace steps in front of him.Say what you will, but he’s a Phoenix, which means his territorial. It’s in his very soul to puff out his chest and let blue fire flicker around his shoulders as he notices someone else trying o steal his shiny treasure. (Ace’s hair in the right light always looks like it’s made out of jewels and it drives Marco absolute wild)

If it wasn’t for Thatch elbowing him in the side, The First Commander may have killed the brat.

“What do you want from me?” Ace asks somehow being polite enough to not come off as rude but hinting at it with his tone of voice. He was talented like that.

Pinky straightens up, staring at Ace like he’s the answer to the universe, which Marco hates to break it to him but Ace is taken and no way is he-.

“My name is Coby, I have sailed from the East Blue by myself and I will like to formally ask your blessing for Luffy’s hand sir!” Coby blurts out, nervous and red but still with a straight back “I will, of course, be willing to serve you and prove to you I am worthy of Luffy! If- if you will have me that is!”

All of Marco animal instincts to rip the youth apparent with his talons come to a screeching halt as the deck falls unnaturally salient. The first commander is actually thrown for a loop, stumbling to make sense of the words he just heard.

Luffy? As in Ace’s precious little brother, his lover will never shut up about? As in the cause for Ace’s terrible brother complex? Did he sail all the way to the New World to ask Ace for permission knowing that Ace may kill him on sight?!

Because by the way he is eyeing Ace, Coby knows this is a death warrant knows that any wrong move- hell any move will be his last. He came here expecting Ace to burn him alive and came anyway just to do right by the one who captured his heart.

Holy shit. Marco thinks, respect rising for the pink hair lad easily ignoring that he almost took the boy out a second ago. Now that’s what I call love.

“No.” Ace syas flatly flames licking the back of his shoulders. His quite rage, promising danger would have made anyone sane realize how bad that idea was. The heat surrounded the boat rises, making a few men sweat. Coby forehead is covered by a thin layer of sweat, and his knees are shaking under the weight of Ace’s barely restrained haki but he doesn’t step down.

He meets Ace’s eyes evenly saying in a surprisingly strong voice. “I know that I don’t look like much now. But I truly love Luffy. So please allowed me to prove it to you.”

Ace’s haki snaps as he hisses hands balling into fists. “I said no.”

It’s the sight of Coby not even flinching at the fire slowly rising from Ace’s being that makes Marco hope he’ll lie through this. Because he recognizes that look on the obviously straining to stay on his feet boy’s face. It’s the same one he wears whenever he thinks of how the world would try to take Ace away from him if they ever found out about his dad.

His boyfriend does not like that reaction. He muscles tighten up, and the wave of heat is either by heat or by haki it’s hard to tell with the difficulty it is to breath suddenly. Marco rises one eyebrow as the Coby’s stumbles but he does not fall, it’s obvious that his body can barely handle the pressure but his eyes are steel and ready to fight.

Marco’s approval rises for him.

“My answer is no.” Ace’s voice is practically ice which is somehow more terrifying then the literal flames around him. “Get back on your little boat and row away boy. We are done here.”

Everyone on the crew takes a step back, when Coby stubbornly shakes his head and Ace growls (secretly Marco drools over how protective Ace is. If they were to ever build a nest together Ace would guard it with his life and that is one of the most attractive things about him) “No, you- no one is good enough for my Lu. No. One. Is. ”

“You’re right. That’s why I have to get better. Luffy is going to be Pirate King, I have to become the best for him. He deserves only the best” Coby answers without hesitation, and it is impressive when the pressure forces him to his knees yet he never breaks eye contact with Ace. Never shows signs of rolling over.

It’s said in such a matter tone that many of the Whitebeards are thrown for a loop. Even Ace, who looked like a second away from frying the boy alive is surprised into cooling down long enough that Coby can stand once more.

“That’s why I am asking you….please help me become a man that is good enough for your brother.”

It’s all Pops needs to hear, stepping in before Ace can even respond. Marco is glad, he likes this kid’s spunk would be a shame if he died because of Ace before he could reach his full potential. Standing up to a Whitebeard commander was a great start.

________________________________________________________

It’s a few months later after Coby proved to be a diamond in the rough, strong and a great leader one that just needed to train his body Up. A perfect addition to our family, who fits in just fine even though he tends to be more merciful then a pirate should be. But it was thanks to that merciful nature that they were able to save Thatch.

Marco is woken by a pale and sweating Ace one night, after waking up screaming name.

He had a nightmare it seemed.

A nightmare about Luffy’s wedding.

“Luffy is going to fall in love with Coby and I can’t kill him, Marco. He’s part of the Whitebeard crew, he saved Thatch from Teach and he’s trying to steal my brother. Pops won’t let me kill him Marco” Ace whines like it the greatest offense their father could do to him.

“I see you dilemma and I offer cuddles as a means to cope yoi.”

“Cuddles won’t make that pink haired brother stealing lunatic go away.”

“You were the one that helped him get stronger. Now you have to deal with Cody looking for your brother in Alabasta.”

Ace is silent before a grin stretches on his face. Marco feels his hair stand on end because he knows that look. Knows it all too well. His boyfriend- soon to be husband if things go as planned at Ace’s next birthday- just got a horrible idea that he plans on roping Marco into.

The sad part is, the blond isn’t sure he can say no. Not with Ace looking at him like that.

“So Marco, you ever wanted to go on a couple vacation with me? I hear Alabasta’s sunsets are romantic.”

#masss #massecretsanta2017 #merrimasss #merry mas #justm3h

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amongthefae · 7 years

Text

Breaking Ian

just a 5 page short story highlighting the traumas that shaped Ian the most in the first half-ish of his canon story. Would have written more but that means finishing the book and thats just asking a lot.

trigger warnings self harm mentions, anorexia mentions, substance abuse mentions, severe trauma, blood/gore, and possibly a few more.

Darkness cast over the city of Altone, the quiet of night set in in such a way that Ian could feel it in his bones. The still, unnatural silence that fell over the city was both unnerving and relaxing for the constantly busy teen. Laid back on his twin sized bed, he stared at the white orange peel ceiling with eyes dead and tired. Once sparkling emeralds full of wonder and hope, Ian’s eyes had faded to a dark lackluster green with large blobs of brown as the world wore down his mind and body. He had begun to look constantly exhausted by way of heavy bags under his eyes by the time he was fourteen. Life had not been so kind to him in his eighteen years, and time had worn his soul down to almost nothing. As his weary mind began to cast colorful swirls onto the chalky ceiling, Ian felt his eyes slip closed and the air thicken with a sickening familiarity.

For moments all was calm, the sound of rubber on asphalt was as soothing as the gentle music coming from somewhere below. It was the not so gentle thump of the car as asphalt turned to unpaved country roads that jolted Ian’s eyes open once more as he found himself in his mother’s car, his sister chattering excitedly as they grew closer to their destination. In the front seat was his mother, her curly black hair cascading over her shoulders and enveloping the headrest in it’s incredulous volume. Fragments of her pale, freckled face came only into view long enough to flee behind those voluminous locks once more. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to hug her and feel safe in her arms for the first time in almost a decade, but instead he was jostled by an incoming head of wavy brown hair accompanied by a boisterous giggle. It was his sister, all sweet and innocent with big brown eyes, and a goofy gap toothed smile on her face.

“Are you excited?!” Her childish voice ever so chipper and full of glee. At only four years old she was enthralled by the idea of seeing cows, ducks, and sheep. Ian gave her a grin and nodded happily just as he had back then.

“Yeah Samantha, I can’t wait!” His voice had been so much higher back then, so sugary sweet that adults would fawn over the curly headed tot.

With a blink of his eyes Ian found himself in a barn with a beautiful, tame cow, his uncle Will, and his mother whose leg he clung to. She smelled of lavender and chemical sterilizing agents, as well as her sweet rose perfume. He knew why he was here in the barn, but he couldn’t escape it, no matter how desperately he begged his feet to move, this dream would play out just like the real thing. The clattering of the shotgun being loaded was his first indicator as he hid half his face in his mother’s thigh. They talked indistinguishably as Ian felt his little heart race, he didn’t know why he had asked to tag along, perhaps too young to understand the word slaughter he had just wanted to see the cow. Then came the gun shot, the sickening splatter of blood that ensured the cow was dead, and the deafening cries of a horrified little boy, his dress splattered with little specks of red. He’d not touched meat since then, especially beef the memory staying with him always.

Hiding his face now entirely in his mother’s thigh a few more breaths and he was back in the car. Older now, the minivan from before had been replaced with a sleeker, smaller family car. His sister, excitedly kicking her feet for her first trip to the beach, it was no small drive but she was sure to be excited the entire ride. It was his eighth birthday and Ian himself was excited, riding behind them with the window half down and a stupid smile on his face. It was a beautiful day to go to the lake and swim, just slightly too hot for comfort and mildly sticky. His hair was a frizzy mess that rested in a pony tail on his back just over his light blue bathing suit cover, in the end the heat would be more than worth it. A familiar dread grew in the young boy’s stomach, the feeling he got when something would go wrong without a doubt. It was then that everything became fuzzy, a sharp pain erupting on Ian’s forehead and the left side of his head. He was dizzy and could hear only screaming and the screeching of tires. He felt for moments at a time that he might fall entirely out of his seat only to feel firmly planted there again. His Forehead was continuously battered by something, before a harsher, sharper pain grew in his nose and right eye socket and the young boy passed out entirely.

When Ian open his eye again the world was upside down, and his right eye wouldn’t open. He groaned against the distant sirens and grabbed for the front seat.

“Mom…?” His voice came out wet, the taste of iron and salt filling his mouth, but the only voice that came was that of a young sounding man.

“We’ve got a live one!” Suddenly everything was bustling and noise, even as the young boy coughed up blood and wished it would all go away, more stimulation came. There were hands all over him, some touching places that hurt more than any pain before. He was pulled from the car with some shouting and effort, his view from the gurney granted him the view of a smashed in car, and his mother’s face caved in around the steering wheel. The airbags had never deployed, and the wind shield had utterly shattered, leaving his little sister nearly decapitated. Across the road was a semi truck, perfectly intact but with a sobbing female driver. She had tried to fight sleep for forty eight hours and lost, costing Samantha and Amanda McClaine their lives.

Ian clenched his eyes closed, wishing it all away and shaking his head in utter denial. This horrid reliving of a life changing tragedy didn’t melt away until the paramedic announced them both long dead. His right eye socket and maxilla had been broken that day, several ribs shattering against the restraint of the seatbelt and impaling his left lung. Several others had only just barely missed his heart. Later in the hospital quite a few doctors and nurses would tell him he was lucky to be alive. He didn’t think so.

As one realistic dream faded into another, Ian found himself in bed at home with a dull ache in his chest and dried tears on his face. He was now twelve, the signs of his first puberty starting to show in the typical feminine ways. The ache in his chest was from ace bandages not removed the night before, and the tears from the very first throes of dysphoria. He didn’t know the word for what he was yet, no label of transgender was known to him. He called himself many things, most kindly the term ��tomboy.’ He felt shaky legs swing over the bed and land on papers on the floor and he felt his pajama pants sting the razor bites on his thighs, but still he stood and shuffled to the main room. It was nine in the morning on a Sunday, the light would be filtering in through the crimson curtains his mother had bought and waking his hung over, or still half drunk father soon enough. The house was a disaster, with beer bottles and garbage covering the floor, it reeked of stale body odor and two broken humans that simply didn’t care anymore. At this time Ian had been unnaturally thin, only finding the motivation to eat when the pain was so bad in his gut that he had to. Now was one of those times.

His father in contrast turned to eating away his feelings. Once slender and business man like, he was now incredibly fat and looked like the unemployed shell of a man that he was. The pay out from suing the car company had been huge and should have sustained them both for a decade or two, but was now nearly gone due to someone’s drinking and gambling habits. Ian snuck close to his father, less interested in him and more interested in the pack of cigarettes by his side. He’d done this a million times over for beer or cash but never for a smoke. He couldn’t have known the plastic would make enough noise to wake the sleeping man on the couch, but learned this lesson quickly as a loud groan came from the previously sleeping man.

“Don’t.” Is the only thing the hungover man said, swatting the boy’s hand away. Ian of course sighed and backed away, knowing the next warning wouldn’t be so kind. He instead retreated to his room for a cold shower that would sting and remind him of his own existence. Just briefly in the bathroom he caught a glimpse of himself, the hideous scars that covered his face and body like a road map more evident now than they ever had been. He wondered if anyone would ever see past him, or if he would only ever be as interesting as his scars.

As the bathroom door closed behind him, that cold, harsh reality faded to a vaguely brighter one. The sun was striking Ian’s lacy black curtains and refracting off of the crystals hanging from the ceiling. The room was cleaner now, a previously pink room turned black with chrome accents as Ian grew into himself. Different plants hung in pots around the room, some common flowers and succulents, nothing too hard to take care of. The room was still a mess but no where near as bad as it had been. He was fifteen now, fuller of frame and much more mentally stable. Slinking into his bathroom he gave himself a once over, running his fingers through his hair. He’d just had it cut, he looked clean for once. His chest was now bound with a cheap, but safe binder and he wore entirely male attire. Those scars had faded away to a dull pink on his pale face, the vague freckles a stark contrast and a constant reminder of his Irish heritage. He knew what today was, he didn’t want to be here.

Nonetheless his feet carried him towards his door, shaky hands turning the handle. His father was on the couch, a thinner cleaner version of his previous self. He had a beer in hand and some was fixated on some football game, heavy bags under his eyes to match those under Ian’s. While things had improved, Derek McClaine was no less a bitter man. Four years of being near constantly drunk had taken their toll, but he worked two jobs and provided his living child with the basic most necessities. He had only glanced up at the noise as Ian came out of his room, standing awkwardly by the television and chewing his lip. His dad’s brown eyes eventually moved to look him over and a small frown appeared on his face.

“You’re unbelievable Ian.” The gruff voice of a chain smoker filled the room, chilling Ian to his core. His little hands balled into fists as his shaky voice broke free from his throat.

He wanted to scream at his father, but instead he barely managed a whisper. “I didn’t ask for this dad, the least you could do is support me through this.”

Derek’s frown turned into a deep rooted scowl, his brows furrowing at the child before him. “Support what Ian? A high school dropout Average with no future ahead of them but certain death?! I think not! I think you’ll have your things moved out by the end of the week and if you have any goddamn brains in your head you’ll warn that spider freak to stay out too! As far as I’m concerned, I have no son.” His words came harsh and brought tears to his eyes, but he none the less moved to the kitchen to prepare a meal for himself so he would have the energy to pack.

Walking through the living room, however, brought him to his apartment. All was quiet for a moment a stillness setting in that was unnerving to Ian. For a moment, he might have thought he was awake, but the opening of his door without any warning proved otherwise.

“Ian, my man! Guess what I have in store for you today!” Titus burst in, a dumb smile on his face as the ridges where most had eyebrows raised nearly halfway through his forehead. He was an odd little man with odd gifts. His abilities however, cost him all of his hair and apparently most of his sanity. To most of Altone, Titus was the sole defender of the west border known as The Obsidian Spider. To the community he was stoic and calm, but Ian knew he was a party animal and a play boy that wasn’t fond of clothes or knocking.

Turning slowly to his teacher the boy raised an eyebrow and tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket in silent questioning. It was amazing to him that his neighbors never made noise complaints about Titus. Maybe they were deaf, or maybe they didn’t care.

Rolling his eyes in frustration at Ian’s lackluster response, the older man continued. “We’re going on our first mission! There’s a mermaid terrorizing some poor fishermen on Lake Plan D'eau!”

“I don’t go to the lake, Titus.” Ian cut in, now shuffling to the kitchen to make himself some green tea. He was in no mood for this today.

“Well, you’re going today and we’re flying there in style!”

Another blink of the eye and Ian felt the cold breeze off the water hitting his face contrasting the sharp burn against his feet from the sand. Some time around five years prior, something had infested the waters of Lake Plan D’eau, something vicious and man eating. The locals had come to call them mermaids, but no one knew their origin or the origin of the word.

The creatures were nothing like the mermaids of old, hideous in every way they opted to chase down their prey rather than lure it into those murky depths. They of course preyed on the average variety of humans, those dumb enough to think they could survive a quick dip in the water, or that their boat would protect them. Ian hated the lake.

Titus, however, paid these beings no mind. Clad in nothing but his boxers he dove into the water and heroically brought the man and his boat to safety. The horror came when one of the mermaids latched on to Titus’ foot as he exited the water and a scream filled the air like none Ian had ever heard before. As the foul being rolled much like an alligator to tear off this part of its meal. The boy knew now was the time for action, and he felt his hand reach for the dagger at his side. It would be so simple to sink the blade into the mermaid’s skull, right between the eyes. But if it was so simple, why couldn’t be move?

Paralysed in fear the young apprentice was useless until the agonized scream turned to pleas for help in the boy’s ear, his mentor clawing at the ground before him in a desperate attempt to get away from the sharp teeth the threatened to take his foot. Before he could even register what he was doing Ian lept into action and sunk the blade into the mermaid’s skull without much hesitation or thought. His sense of remorse only kicked in as it wailed in pain and dug at its forehead in the moment’s as it’s life drained away.

As Titus pulled himself from the bloody water, and the rescued man called for an ambulance, Ian fell to his knees and buried his face in his hands. As if an entire decade of trauma came pouring back over him. He’d come so far, been through so much and only ever broken down once or twice.

Now, without family or a friend in the world, he could no longer remain strong.

The sound of springs popping and a wretched gasp fill the air as Ian shoots up in bed, tears streaking down his face. He wanted to go home, to curl up in his familiar room with his dog and feel a comfort he hadn’t felt since being kicked out. The reality of his memories frightened him but there was nothing he could do besides bring his knees to his chest and cry, a broken man of only eighteen.

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