#taffy:.....do you still want soup

[musubiki]

Lime gets the Man Flu™ because Mochi cares too much and will dote on him the entire time

its true!!!! shes the "Poor lime :( you must feel so horrible..." while making him soup and putting the cloth on his forehead and he MILKS that shit. "Ah I feel awful.... I'm so cold... can you stay with me instead of going shopping with coco--" meanwhile coco seething in the back "He's faking why do you keep falling for it???"

[heartfullofleeches]

Sugar Harvest

Yandere Candy Entity + G/N Reader

[Candy] gore, faux body horror

Summary: You collect tomorrow's batch of customer praised taffy from your sweet as can be lover

You lift your surgical mask over your nose as you enter the bathroom.

Clouds of cherry scent steam pour out from the fog filled room; your eyes stung from the mist and sugar presence in the air. Small lovehearts stain the mirror, reddish, sticky fingerprints engrained on the warped glass. Puddles of pink tinted water trace back to the bathtub where a fuchsia limb dances atop the still flowing waters; faucet spewing a scolding charge on the body casually kicking their legs in a soup of their own skin. The flesh of their outstretched appendages falls apart and straight into the large container on the floor, exposed sugary bones reaching out to you with glee.

"Gumdrop.... Water's just fine."

You walk over to the side of the tub. The flesh of their upper torso, neck area, and arms had been melted off by the boiling water - most scooped into the various boxes around the tub while the rest floated on its plastic covered floor. Its cherry scent is even stronger up close, mixed with a hint of watermelon. Sucrose had been drinking extract of the same flavor the whole week to see if it would make any difference. The bubbling taffy caked around their injuries pours over the wounds, welding them close throughout the process. Sucrose hops up on their legs and turns so you can see the back of their head.

"What do you think, Hun? I wanted to stock up more than usual this time, plus I wanted to see what I looked like with shorter hair - so I cut it!"

What once was twin ponytails that reached their lower back had been hacked off into a curly bob right at the nap of their neck. The lobbed off hair sits in the tub closest to you, frayed like the dead ends of real hair, but taffy none the less. It'd be back to official length by the following week. You had little opinion on that matter, but more product meant less time you had to spend in this sweat shop.

"Looks great..."

"Aha, I knew you'd love it! You really are the best partner there ever was."

Partners. That's how this all started. You were the first hire to the pink abomination's candy store. The only hand their stubborn self would ever bring on to deal with the sudden, but swift boost in popularity. Your boss got - comfortable with you. Pay raises, making sure you got home every night, teaching you the recipes of their less popular treats.

They warmed up to you so much they forgot to keep the lid on their biggest secret which led to the horrific discovery their highly sought after candy was made of their own flesh and little were nothing more than a walking mound of sugar. Needless to say, you joined them in the harvest out of fear and the amount of money rolling in. Apparently, consuming their parts caused terrible nightmares, but if the flesh is boiled it negates the effect. Sucrose promises that won't have harmed you if you refused to stay. They would have kidnapped you instead.

"Are you ready to get out?"

"Just a moment...... Mm, yup!"

You toss on a pair of latex gloves and reach over to turn off the water - Sucrose's goopy hand stopping you from twisting the knob.

"You're forgetting something~"

The tensing off their jaw and a soft chewing noise tells you all of what you forgot. You couldn't collect the remaining taffy with the water so hot and it should be safe, so you have no say. Removing your mask with their sticky digits, Sucrose kisses and shoves their own severed tongue into your open mouth. They shut your lips and divulge in their taste as you bite through the wad of taffy and force it down. It's cherry flavored, with a hint of melon. More sweet rather than tart like some brands of taffy. Sucrose marks your neck with their melting essence, groaning faintly as you swallow beneath their touch. They stroke it all the way down to the center of the chest, grinning against your mouth.

"Another successful hall."

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Sunshine in the Clouds

This is an incentive request from my dear friend @laffy-taffy-creations. Congrats on finishing your class!

The house was empty, save for Hero’s slumped-over form in the kitchen. This was their third drink of the evening. Funny, they never touched a drop of the stuff before… well, before everything happened. Hero had drawn the curtains, the sunlight outside was too harsh even though it was a cloudy day. They wished it would rain. They had stopped being able to cry weeks ago. Now it was just them and the house.

The TV was on, like it had been for days on end, but Hero had long since tuned it out. Still, they refused to turn it off. If they did that, the silence would be deafening. They hated how quiet it was. They got up and chucked the empty bottle in the trash can, passing a picture of the group. They all looked so happy.

Hero blamed themselves for all of it. They were a Hero for goodness’ sake- they should’ve prevented the murder. Friend had said it wasn’t their fault, but even if that was true, they should’ve seen the signs in Friend at the very least. Why couldn’t they do anything right!? Was this their punishment for not being observant enough? What did they do wrong? Why couldn’t they-

“Breaking news, a fire at [Address] has spread across the entire apartment complex, with many tenants still trapped inside. Firefighters are on the scene. We’ll keep you updated as we learn more.”

Hero sighed. Okay. Let’s get this over with.

…

Hero handed the last child to its mother. Hero was covered in smoke and sweat, and they had a few burns from the fire. Ice covered the entire apartment building where flames had been raging just minutes beforehand.

“Great work, Hero,” the fire brigade captain said warmly.

Hero briefly nodded, then started to make their way through the crowd that had gathered.

“Hero!” a reporter shouted, “where have you been these past few weeks?”

“No comment.”

“Are you heading to the hospital after this?” another asked.

“No comment.”

“Has something happened in your personal life that-”

“I said no comment!” Hero snapped.

As they spoke, a blast of ice erupted from their hands. They crowd recoiled back from the icicles that formed around the crime-fighter. Hero shook their head and stepped over their little fortress. They left, ignoring the cameras that flashed and the buzz of the crowd.

…

Hero flopped on the bed and scrolled through their phone. The doorbell rang just minutes later. Hero grumbled, getting up and answering the door. They hadn’t even changed out of their suit. What did it matter anyway? So what if someone saw them like this?

“Wow, you, uh, you look terrible.”

“Villain,” Hero said flatly, “what do you want?”

“I saw the news,” Villain said, “I was worried about you.”

Hero’s eyes swept over Villain’s figure. In their hand was a backpack, it seemed to be stuffed to the brim.

“So, uh, can I come in?”

Hero looked away, then stepped aside so Villain could enter. Villain thanked them as Hero closed the door.

Villain saw the state of the house. If they were judging, they didn’t give any indication of that.

“Have you eaten today?” Villain asked.

Hero snorted.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Have you?”

Hero gestured vaguely to the empty glasses littering the table. Villain nodded, unzipping the backpack and pulling out some TV dinners, soup cans, ramen packets, and basically the easiest meals to make a la microwave.

Villain sat Hero down at the kitchen table, clearing it off and setting a bowl of soup in front of them.

“Eat.”

Hero didn’t want to, but their stomach had other plans. After growling at them, Hero acquiesced and started taking small bites. They only ate half of it before pushing it aside.

Villain looked down at the half-finished meal.

“Fair enough, we’ll work on that,” they said.

Villain took Hero by the hand and led them to the bathroom. A bath had been drawn for them.

“Take your suit off,” Villain said.

“Villain, I’m not going to-”

“I’m not going to do anything frisky,” Villain said, “but if you won’t take care of yourself then I’m going to do it for you. Suit. Off.”

…

Hero sat on the edge of their bed, wrapped in a fluffy towel. Villain came in with Hero’s pajamas, fresh from the dryer. They looked away while Hero got changed. Hero cleared their throat so Villain would know they were dressed.

“Okay. Thank you. You can… you can go now.” Hero said.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Villain said.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Hero replied quietly.

Villain sat down next to them.

“I know how-”

“Don’t pretend to know how I’m feeling,” Hero snapped.

Villain held up their hands.

“Alright.” They said, “but you shouldn’t have to grieve by yourself.”

So Hero didn’t grieve by themselves. Villain came by every day to help them live in a world that they didn’t feel like being in. Little by little, piece by piece, they started to inch their way back into the land of the living. The curtains had been opened, and though it was a cloudy day, the sunlight was just starting to peek through.

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@mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

@electrons2006

[full-of-mercy]

"S'good to be hee-eere-oh fuck."

Breath wheedles out of Nick's lungs as he tenses his abdomen and ribs instinctively. It's nothing like being caught in Legato's mental threads, not at all like the feeling of being crumpled like a discarded soup can, for all that he is keenly aware that Vash is strong. Immensely strong. Strong enough to tear him apart if he wanted. It does not escape him that Vash has lifted him and his weapon effortlessly.

That is delightful when it should be unsettling. Then with pressure comes a cascade of pops along the line of his spine up underneath the Punisher's mass, cantilever push-pull weight and loft and gravity and any other response he might have just.

Clicks.

In his throat.

The mangled remains of words are squeezed out in no discernible order or sense. Soft. Debauched, past parted lips. A whimper that despite its intimacy echoes in the cavernous archways of the ruined ship, exhaled ruffling the feathery hair below Vash's ear. For a few heartbeats after he has his feet again, he sags face-first against Vash's shoulder, every extremity tingling with relief of pain he didn't know he was carrying.

Sometimes aches become a constant companion, easy to forget, such that in their absence one can see in an entirely new light. When he was made into what he is, he was stretched like taffy, excised, flayed open, pieced back together again. For all that there are no scars from that era of his life, that does not mean the hurt went away.

It feels like his knees might buckle.

"...holy God I need a cigarette after that. Jesus. Remind me to return the favor," he gasp-laughs, noodle-stumbling along with an arm draped around Vash's shoulders like a drunkard. He recovers quickly enough, but it is just something. A way to preserve that buzzing sensation, maybe. A way to maintain contact, definitely.

Mounting pillion behind Vash presents its own temptations, but it means he can keep the Punisher balanced for their trek. A bit more weight on the rear tyre will help for traction, at the very least.

"Yeah, yeah, here, just. Put your hands where I've got my hands. S'really nothin' to it, I don't know why you're so avoidant of drivin'."

Grousing good-naturedly, he presses the line of his torso to the line of Vash's back, looping his arms around to set his hands on the handlebars. They are both long-limbed enough that he could technically drive with Vash in his lap, and the image flickering across his reckoning is not helpful and very helpful at the same time, a pleasant distraction from what is to come.

All the same.

"See? Started right up, she's purrin' for you," he murmurs (ever so helpfully) right below Vash's earlobe. "Alright, give the throttle a squeeze. Like this."

They get underway. Maybe with some false starts, but they move. They have a couple of days to burn and a full battery charge to suit. A buffer against the growing dread in the pit of his stomach. The salt flats are merciful and merciless in the same beat. Worms do not breach in the hard-packed halide, stubborn as bedrock. The long wash is almost perfectly flat, shimmering like an ocean in the growing heat of the day, murder for anyone on foot. By design.

“Ain’t a good idea to be booby trappin’ where nothing’s supposed to be. Bodies draw attention.”

Midway up the winding path into the mountains, a chapel sits abandoned, sand drifts piling around the outer eaves, clinging to the nooks outlining the structure. The old bell in the tower up top is a dull declaration, gonfalons tattered from the elements, faded white in the blistering sun.

It is a perfect likeness of the one down in Hopeland.

The facade is exactly the same. All it lacks is a caretaker's cabin cracked open to the beams, its living room exposed to the elements.

But it is just that: a facade. Empty windows gape behind the horizontal slants of boards dry-rotting in the persistent wind like the sockets of a fleshless chapless skull, and all around there is an uncanny stillness, a breathless silence, echoing the rumble of their engine.

A single box, lost amidst the vastness of the desert or shuffled away through a space-tech fence who might advertise it as a colorful novelty for inquiring Earth tourists that wanted to capture a piece of the history here for themselves. They might yet cross paths with it, even without active search.

Vash gulps down a mouthful of water before returning the proffered canteen. Lifting up his arm, he drops the point of his shovel atop the metal overhang with a resounding clang. 

“Absolutely, “ he smirks back.

They’ll figure it out. They always do.

These ships, technology from a lost age, lost and found again, met fates as varied as the passengers they carried. 

Now they descend, hopping down from ledge to ledge like acrobats departing the stage. The last movement takes them down a steep ramp formed by the needle-nosed end of the ship that had broken off and gotten wedged deep into the sand. Vash touches the ground first, giving him ample time to drive his shovel down and aside so that he can have both hands free when Wolfwood slides down next, Punisher and all. 

Vash does not budge so much as an inch when his hands snap out. Catching Wolfwood about the waist with a tight loop of his arms snaked in under the Punisher, he carries the gathered momentum into a series of twirls that billows out the tails of their respective coats. Glowing, with or without the aid of the two suns, he doesn't have any special reason or even any concern that Wolfwood would lose his balance. Merely a desire to indulge in the urge to squeeze so tightly that Wolfwood might suspect Vash of attempting to snap him in half. Hard enough for a surprise pop! bubbled out from Wolfwood's spine.

"I'm really happy you're here, Nicholas," he offers by way of explanation alongside a perfectly uninhibited smile. There is nothing careful about his smiles now, unguarded as they are, plentiful as they are that Vash scarcely has the time to think on it.

The shovels are piled into the sidecar and secured with straps to prevent them from bouncing out. Whether he imagines Wolfwood's gaze boring holes into the back of his head or not, he grumbles. He pouts. He pleads with his eyes, despite having already decided before they even reached Angelina. 

"...I suppose…I can drive." Vash hangs his head dejectedly as he flicks one of the brake handles with his thumb.

In theory, with Wolfwood astride behind him, there would be opportunities to correct any lapses in judgment on Vash's part. Behind them, to the west, lies Hopeland. Ahead, beneath the rise of the suns, the mountain range harboring the Citadel. A straight line between here and there. Travel would be the least complicated portion of this adventure.

"That's it? Just an old, boarded-up church? No booby traps, no evil golems, nothing?" 

Shocking to consider the possibility that the finest contract killers in No Man's Land were forged in the most unassuming of places. Perhaps believing that a den of monsters exists in the shadow of the mountains is deterrent enough. 

[hedera-bellum]

Hi😊 I was wondering if I can request a headcanon with Luz, Lieb, Bull, Nix and Toye and how they take care of the reader when is sick? Thank you🤗

Omg I love this trope even tho I’m so afraid of being sick…and I’m apologizing in advance for some of the poor writing. I really need to learn how to write for characters I’m not head over heels for

George Luz

George wouldn’t really want to admit to you being sick

Since you being around him tended to bring out the pep in you, seeing you sluggish and under the weather would throw him off a bit

Once he got over himself he’d be rushing to get you comfortable and well enough to bring you back as his partner in crime

Would totally bring you candies and such before you had to remind him that Hershey bars and taffy is not sustenance

Added bonus, George’s body temperature is always a little warm so if blankets aren’t available you best believe he’s the best human blanket there is

Joe Liebgott

Definitely would be scolding you if it was something like catching a cold after being out in the winter and refusing to take his jacket

He would not let you do ANYTHING by yourself, even the simplest tasks you assure him you can do

Would genuinely be excited to be able to spend a bit of time with you relaxing, even though it may not be in the best circumstances

He can’t cook too well, but he’ll try his best for you (just don’t expect gourmet chicken soup)

Bull Randleman

So many cuddles oh my gosh

No doubt he’s big spoon though, no compromises

And also cooking that’s better than expected honestly

Tell him what you want and somehow he’ll figure out how to make it

Total papa bear energy

Keeps reassuring you you’re gonna be ok, even if it’s just a little cold that’ll pass in a day or two

Even after you’re better, he’ll insist you come back to rest with him

Lewis Nixon

Would be making sarcastic comments no doubt, but realistically would be worried about you and just wouldn’t admit it

If you weren’t too sick, to make the most of the time you’d probably play a lot of cards and board games to pass the time

He’s not really good at cooking per say, but he can bake and mix drinks if that’s what you’re looking for

Then again, you may have to remind him alcohol isn’t the best for sickness

If you don’t clearly vocalize that whatever he’s doing is helping you, he’s going to get super self conscious about whatever it is and try a million other things until you do like it

The man needs praise, what can I say

Joe Toye

Similar to Lieb he’d be a bit frustrated at first, but more for himself thinking he could have done more to prevent it

When you’re sick, he definitely gets a little quieter than normal, more focused on you than anything else while still having a little bit of that guilt

Obviously he’s tense, so you’ll eventually convince him to just relax and come lay with you

He’d argue a bit that he could do more than that, but eventually with some convincing he’ll be asleep cuddling you in no time

[green-meanies]

What foods do you think the boys like? I know the wiki says pizza and chocolate milk, but anything else? I think it's fun to imagine each of them have specific palates instead of all liking the same things. I like to think them as adults getting more adventurous into trying different cuisines.

Well, Power Lunch gave us an idea of what they like in terms of junk food, and I get the sense that was mostly what they were eating during the ppg days. But as for when they get older…

For some reason I imagine Ace would acquire a taste for seafood, most likely as a result of being spoiled by all the fancy places he went to while touring with Gorillaz. There was one particular lobster dish that he doesn’t remember the name of, but it was the best thing he ever tasted, and he is so sad that he hasn’t been able to find anything like it back home.

Arturo prefers traditional Mexican dishes, maintaining that connection to his heritage. I do like the idea that he takes up cooking, so he often makes these dishes himself, with chilaquiles being one of his favorites due to its versatility. Aside from that he enjoys anything that is spicy.

Despite his childlike mentality, Billy isn’t as much of a picky eater as one would think. Not that he could afford to be picky back in the day. His favorite is still junk food and stuff like burgers and hotdogs because that’s what he was used to eating for so long, but he’ll eat pretty much anything as long as he’s familiar with it.

Grubber, on the other hand, is very adventurous and always wants to try obscure and bizarre (from his perspective, of course) dishes for the novelty of it. He is the same way with vintage recipes but those can be very hit-and-miss. It’s both funny and frustrating trying to convince the guys that stuff like surstromming or tomato soup cake is actually pretty good.

Snake was the only one I struggled with for this lol…He’s definitely the one who loves pizza the most; iirc there were one or two instances in the show where he was the one suggesting they get it. I like to imagine that he never quite outgrew his sweet tooth, so in addition to gum and taffy he also loves baked goods. Wanna become Snake’s friend, or need to bribe him into doing you a favor? Bring him some tartlets from his favorite bakery, or maybe make him some pancakes. He likes those, too.

[foreficfandom]

The Arcana - Cooking For MC (Headcanons)

-- Asra -- 

Life as a street orphan makes cooks of us all. If he wasn’t a child desperately stealing fruit, he was a teenage magician earning coppers to buy scraps from the butcher and bartering for old, bruised squash. He quickly had to learn how to stretch his meager rations as far as he could, and cooking was the way to do it.

He’s come a long way from the one single pot he and Muriel would squat over while hiding away in the docks. Now, he and you happily enjoy a consistent diet of fresh groceries, sometimes he cooks and sometimes you do. 

All his cookery he learned in Vesuvia - pasta, lentils, chickpeas, tomatoes, cumin, basil, ocean seafood. The both of you don’t quite earn enough to splurge on the good cuts of beef, but you never have to worry about going hungry. 

And you don’t have to worry about bland, burnt food, either. Asra can reliably hold his own in the kitchen. He doesn’t exactly follow recipes, just tosses together stuff according to what feels right in his heart. A holdover from the days where he had to improvise all his food. 

There’s more holdovers; he hates tossing away uneaten food, or groceries that have gone bad. He’ll keep the chicken bones to make into a broth for tomorrow. He never peel potatoes or fruit ‘cause the skins contain valuable nutrients. He cringes at people who throw away the heads of fish. The leftover fat in the pan is made into gravy, or pastry frosting, or soap. Occasionally, he and you give away your leftovers to the urchins that hang around the neighborhood. 

When it’s his turn to cook, expect traditional Vesuvian cuisine like flatbreads, hummus, and vegetable soup. Herbs used in the shop are sometimes thrown into the dish, like thyme or myrtle leaves. Asra’s cooking regularly gets to grace your stomach, and it’s very lovely and nice uwu

-- Julian -- 

Everybody who knows Julian holds vehemently that he can’t cook worth a damn. He’s not gonna poison you, but it’s true that he can’t do more than toss various things into a pot and pray that it comes out edible. 

So when he’s forced to cook, everything ends up tasting like the same sort of bland, unspiced mush. And it’s almost always boiled, never roasted or fried. He just seems incapable of not burning anything, so he avoids pancooking ingredients if he can avoid it. And even his soups tend to have burnt residue at the bottom.

Not only that, but traditional Nevevion cuisine ... can be an acquired taste in itself. Like pickled herring covered with beet mayonnaise, cold aspic on toast, and really, really salty fish roe. He grew up eating actually good food cooked by his adopted family, but it’s unfortunately easy to turn a cabbage and potato recipe into nasty gross mush, especially under Julian’s hands. 

He knows he’s shit at cooking, but sometimes it can’t be avoided. Ready-made takeout isn’t always available in their world, so if someone needs to eat, they usually gotta cook. Cue boiled chicken and carrots a-la Julian. At least he added some salt, this time. He blames his Nevevion heritage for lacking an affinity for spices.

With shitty cooking skills come an ability to eat anything. Julian doesn’t turn down a dish if he’s hungry, even if it’s some bullshit. Except for spicy stuff - it’s like the only pain he doesn’t get off on. Just a little jalapeno in his rice will turn his entire face red and give him hiccups.

So say you don’t have time to cook dinner for the both of them tonight, he’d much rather the two of you go eat at an inn than force your divine tongue to be sullied by his dreadful meals. However, he can be taught to cook if you two can find the time, and will eventually get the hang of it. You and Julian in the kitchen, warm and cozy, teaching him how to make a good macaroni? Now that’s an afternoon date in the making.

-- Nadia -- 

Growing up royal meant Nadia never had to cook for herself. To some, it’d be very improper for someone of Nadia’s standing to ever cook, especially in the same kitchen as the servants. But in-between her piano lessons and fencing training and literacy/history/mathematic/public speaking tutoring, she also devoted some personal time in reading up on skills she wouldn’t have been taught - like gardening, jewelry craft, and also cooking and baking.

She had this stint of candy-making when she was a teen, after seeing sugarspun candies in the market that were shaped into different, multi-colored animals and flowers. She would sneak into the kitchen and, with the help of particular cook friend, make candied nuts, meringues, taffies, marzipan. And with the skills she learned making candies, she also learned how to bake and cook various things.

Rarely did she ever get to exercise her cooking skills beyond a mere pastime. She had no one to cook for, nor enough spare time. So very few people knew she bakes a mean butter cashew cake.

One day, she just kinda absentmindedly mentions that she knows how to cook a few things, so you insist she show you, which kinda takes her off-guard and she’s a little nervous, because it’s been a long time since she busted out the ol’ apron, and what if you don’t like what she makes??

She goes to the kitchens and almost bails out, even briefly entertains the thought of passing off the chef’s cooking for her own, but chases that thought from her mind. The palace servants gets to witness the Countess roll up her sleeves with a determined grunt and go ham on some pistachios. 

You wait patiently in the solar (as she instructed), and Nadia brings up a beautiful tray of brightly colored nut-flour sweets with tea. Nadia herself is a little worse for wear, with a dusty face and tangled hair. But she’s thrilled to see you enjoy her cakes. They taste wonderful, doubly so because of the love she put into them.        

-- Muriel -- 

He almost always cooks for himself, ever since his street urchin childhood, and his skills have only improved while living in the woods. He’s no longer scraping mussels off of dock beams to boil in a thin cauldron, he’s hunting 8-feet-tall elk and using every inch of the animal, from boiling the hooves for aspic, to making sausages out of the intestines (the antlers are powdered for their magical properties).

It’s rarer that he ever wants for something he can’t produce himself. He boils his own sea salt, curdles his own cheese, presses his own oil. The problem is that he doesn’t make an effort to make delicious-tasting food. Unlike Julian, who cooks like shit but still enjoys the finer things in life, Muriel has access to super fresh and good-quality ingredients but is ruled by his practicality.

Living in the woods is tough. If the harvest was bad and all Muriel has is last autumn’s rice harvest, then its porridge for the next month. There’s nothing for it; hunting is unreliable even in an expert’s hands, fishing only a tad less so, and a simple wet season or early frost can ruin a garden quicker than a plague. 

Muriel may have said he didn’t need your help around the hut, but your help truly did make a difference when it came to food security. An extra set of hands made for less time and lighter work. Your influence also shined through his cooking; now, he actually does care if something tastes good, because you were eating it with him. Muriel could survive just fine on perpetual pottages, but you deserved better.

Hence, roasts that are actually seasoned, bread with jam and butter, and salt not just for preserving purposes. 

Cooking stopped becoming just a means, but a creative outlet for Muriel. He wanted to treat you, and in turn it became something special for himself, too. 

-- Portia --

The Devorak siblings have one collective braincell, and Portia’s got dibs on it. So she’s got the cooking skills that seemed to have eluded Julian, and she’s very good; the best out of the six. 

As a hand-maiden, cooking isn’t part of her duties, but to even get hired she had to prove she could hold her own in the kitchen on par with royal cuisine. It’s beyond simply being able to replicate a recipe, she knows how to carve game into the right cuts, memorize the seasonal harvests, estimate temperatures by touch, and other complicated kitchen sciences. 

Portia spent her life traveling on ships, so she’s witness many a worldly cuisine and it’s influenced her skills. Nothing impresses a table more than introducing some ‘exotic’ spice and using it right. Her own personal favorites are from all corners of the land. Her dinner spread can consist of Hjalle shrimp pancakes, Galbradian green bean broth, Prakran flatbread, and lamb roasted in an underground oven like they do in Firent.  

Once she has the opportunity to cook (or bake) for you, be prepared for a storm. You’re never gonna have to want for good cuisine again, not if Portia has anything to say about it. Even the little things she makes, like her strawberry jam or workhouse-style bread, taste great. You ask her why she doesn’t pursue a career in cuisine, and she replies that cooking is an outlet for her, not a job. Plus, she’s far from a ‘truly skilled cook’, according to her. That honor’d go to Mazelinka. 

A lot of her budget she’ll happily relinquish to cooking, such as imported spices or the expensive cuts of game. She knows that the smallest difference in quality - such as in the salt, or vinegar, used - can make or break a dish. Her kitchen is always fully stocked with groceries and ingredients. One of her big splurges was investing in an icebox, and before she had you, a magician, in the picture, she was indeed buying ice to keep her meats fresh.

Whether its a wrapped lunch or weekend roast dinner, Portia will always want to spoil you in the best way she knows how; through your stomach. Your waistline might be less happy, but like heck Portia’d take pudge as a negative.

-- Lucio --

He’s been Count for over two decades, but before that he was a rough-and-tumble mercenary. And before that, he grew up in the infamous Scourge Lands, where etching out a living was always a matter that teetered on the brink of a knife.

He had to learn how to live tough. The Scourge Lands are no lush forest like Muriel’s backyard, it’s a flat tundra with limited vegetation and even lesser animals that aren’t more likely to kill you before you kill them. The entire clan’s been living off of bitter turnips for weeks, but finally a family of boars are scouted. Now you just have to take down a bear-sized boar while circling around five others who all want to gore you. 

Even cooking can be a struggle. Life as a mercenary meant trying to strike fires on cold, damp wood in a freezing drizzle, and keeping it lit long enough to roast the skinny fish you managed to spear. It meant knowing which plants were edible and which caused three nights of stomach pains, and also being willing to resort to digging up grubs when you’re really on the brink of starvation.

So does he know how to cook? Yeah, he can roast meat over a fire and know when its safe from pathogens, but other than that he’s lost. He was so happy to finally have cooks and servants to serve him entire banquets. Never did he learn (nor want to learn) how to bake bread, or fry potatoes, nevermind suckling pig or creme brulee. 

If come a time where you and Lucio are away from the precious palace kitchens, he’ll rely on his wallet to buy the two of you a nice meal. If the two of you are lost in the wilderness, don’t worry, Lucio to the rescue and you can trust him to forage something, and grill it on a hot rock. No salt, though. Not even water to wash it down, if you’re really unlucky.

Still, it’s kinda a surprise to eat Lucio’s emergency field cooking, because it’s not awful. The best anyone can do in the circumstance, even. Make sure to tell him that, he’s always fishing for compliments. 

[oneweekoneband]

shouldn’t gay taylor swift fans be given access to the original homophobic version of "picture to burn”? and other post-evermore reflection questions.

Did yesterday last twice as long as a regular day? Does anyone else feel like pulled taffy today or is that the four red wine spritzers I made myself with Sutter Home mini bottles of cab and cherry flavored seltzer? How long has it been since Taylor Swift has been to an Olive Garden? Is the part in “willow” where she’s like “You know that my train could take you home / anywhere else is hollow” about pegging? Does Taylor Swift understand even a basic sketch of the events of The Great Gatsby, a novel commonly assigned in school to teenaged children? Is Taylor implying on “marjorie” that her grandmother is a ghost? Is it weird of me to think it is nice that Taylor believes her grandmother is a ghost? Do I believe my grandmother is a ghost? Is it weird of me to think it is nice to wonder if maybe she might be? Is “gold rush” obviously for the Kaylors, or am I just being prejudiced against men’s theoretical right to be good looking? Last night I peeled myself up from a circle at the foot of the bed and poured hot sauce into canned minestrone soup when I realized it was already hours past dark. After it warmed on the stove I ate on our cramped front porch at the little painted table that is dirty all the time from just the air, I guess, even if you wipe it down twice a day, so when I see it I think of my lungs covered in dust too. But last night it was cool outside and I wanted to get as much air inside of me as possible, dirty or not, before the time came to crack southward at the waist, fall hard, with all my weight, down to my knees, and supplicate myself most disgracefully at the feet of the Lord’s most terrible daughter. The new Taylor Swift album became available at nine pm pacific time. Will there ever be salvation?

Has Taylor Swift ever met up with high school friends in a bar over the holidays and wanted to cry a little the entire time, feeling a battle in her own body between the parts inclined to slide back into the shape of an old self to fit and the hardened parts that can’t? I don’t really think so! But with “’tis the season” she has written a song about fucking your ex while home for Christmas anyway, and it slaps. It is always a wonderful treat when this anthropomorphized Tiffany platinum tennis bracelet sits herself down and writes up a pretty little fiction about the small and ugly things that normal human people do. This is what makes “All Too Well”—a perfect piece of autofiction about her fake boyfriend Jake Gyllenhaal—so good, though if you say that in certain company the reaction is like you’ve shot a dog. When Taylor spins me some shit like this, like about parking out by the Methodist to meet up in those strange, stretchy days at the very end of December for theoretically casual sex that you’ll think about sadly on the plane when you go, I accept it like a pomegranate seed plopped on my tongue by Hades himself and I thank her. If I wanted to know who you were hanging with while I was gone, I would have asked you!!!!!!!!

Why doesn’t Taylor just call this a bunch of b sides that didn’t fit right on folklore? That’s what it is. And why deny that? They’re largely very good b sides. I love “dorothea”. Do you love “dorothea”?  Are you still the same soul I met under the bleachers???? If Taylor really is going to release a third part of this moody forest saga come March, will the government show some real leadership for once and declare a purge so that we the people might rise up and bring this despot to the justice she so richly deserves? Why is Taylor Swift the Patricia Clarkson in Sharp Objects to our sweating and shaking Amy Adams? Why do our mouths loll open helplessly to accept her poison spoon when proffered? Mama, please... Do you think, strictly within the cinematic universe of “no body, no crime (feat. Haim)”, wherein Olive Garden regular Taylor Swift avenges canonically murdered Haim sister Este by killing her husband and (my favorite bit) implicitly framing the mistress, that after all that is squared away she and alive Haim sister Danielle bang it out? Why did the lilting piano ballad, “champagne problems”, about refusing a marriage proposal from a college boyfriend make me cry this morning on my pathetic little walk around the neighborhood? Was I thinking of the night I was 22 when I said no and no and no then yes to a drunk boy asking me with flashlight eyes to give him a nonsense forever promise, which I did because I knew in the morning we’d have forgotten, or would pretend to? Is it because I know that night so well, can still feel and smell and see, though I never mentioned it to anyone, everything about the few hours in the dark where I fought sleep because it felt nice pretending I was someone I knew I couldn’t be? Or was it just because on Twitter someone made a video setting the song to clips of Sersh & Timmy frolicking together wearing the same vest in Little Women? Is “coney island (feat. The National)” the first duet between Taylor and a man that isn’t an atrocity and an attack or is that purely my Matt Berninger derangement disorder speaking? Is “coney island (feat. The National)” degrading my nervous system like a wasting disease even as we speak? Did I close my fist around something delicate???? Did I shatter you??????? Will my own horrible hand ever come out of the Arthur meme clenched fist into which it furiously curled when I first listened to the, yes, fine, extremely lovely “coney island (feat. The National)”??????? It’s been almost a full day and typing like this isn’t very efficient.

Is “cowboy like me” my dual reward for fighting with so many annoying guys in my “The Cowboy in the American Imagination” class lo those many years ago and, plus, for always believing that country Taylor would never die for good? Did Taylor Swift watch Brokeback Mountain for the first time this year? Would Taylor Swift like me to email her a pdf of the Annie Proulx story? Does Taylor Swift want to buy me the too expensive D.S. & Durga “Cowboy Grass” perfume I’ve been coveting for years? Is all cowboy content inherently queer? Just kidding—that one isn’t a question. Now that Taylor is once more in the business of recreational yeehawing shouldn’t she, as a gesture of goodwill, make the forbidden original homophobic version of “Picture to Burn” available exclusively to those gay fans who wish to have it? (i.e. the elite gay fans with a sense of history and place.) Does she not owe us that much? Isn’t that really the only respectful thing to do? Is it not the very, very least this monster could do?

[lia-jones]

Growing Together - Chapter Twenty-Two - Goodbye Is a Silent Word (Part One)

Author's note: So sorry for the no-show! I just got a new job and training was exhausting, and it was hard to keep up with the writing. Hopefully, everything will normalize now! I hope you enjoy, and if you can write me a line, it always makes my day! Lots of love!

Things moved swiftly after we received the terrible news of Mina’s passing. As expected, after the initial shock, Victor quickly assumed his focused, hands-on demeanor and in less than an hour, we had picked Owen up from school, gone to the apartment to speedily pack our bags, and got in the car to go to Terry’s ranch, where we would spend the next two days, preparing for Mina’s final goodbye.

The drive was tense, to say the least. Victor and I had yet to say a word about our previous argument, so it felt like all the accusations, all the anguish and potential apologetic words were buzzing between us, wanting to be heard, yet superseded by the noisy chaos of the recent events.

Victor was silent, seemingly calm, focused on the road ahead. It took a wife’s keen eye to notice by his posture that there was tension on his shoulders, and that although his eyes seemed focused on the road, I could see the struggle in them, telling me he was weathering an emotional storm.

Understandably, Victor was in a fragile place, so I decided to forget about our fight and the unresolved issues between us, at least for the time being, and simply be there for him in whatever way he needed me to be.

Mina’s death seemed to affect my son as well, despite having only met her a few times. He was unusually silent, kept within himself, his mind busy with thoughts that I didn’t know but worried me.

“Terry’s organizing Mia’s funeral?” I decided to break the silence, as I felt it suffocating me.

Victor let out a long exhale.

“I am.” He finally spoke after a long moment. “I already spoke with Terry, I’m taking care of everything.”

“Have you spoken to any of Mina’s relatives?” I suggested. “We should call her family before making any major decisions. Maybe there are traditions they want to see followed.”

“We are her family.” He answered in a low voice. “She had no one else.”

For a moment, I could swear I heard a twinge of guilt in his tone. There was a glint of sadness in his eyes, lasting but a second, only to be replaced with his well-known poker face. I kicked myself internally for bringing the subject up. I felt like holding his hand, telling him that he did the best that he could, he couldn’t have known, he shouldn’t feel guilty. But given the circumstances, and how evasive Victor was being, I wasn’t sure if my gesture would be well received. I decided to refrain from reaching out, waiting for him to come to me when he felt ready.

“Do you think dying hurts?” Owen spoke from the backseat, diverting my thoughts.

I froze, not really knowing how to answer his question. By my side, Victor tensed, his grip on the wheel tightening even more.

“I don’t know, Bug. I guess it depends on how one dies.” I tried to close the subject.

“Do you think Mina hurt?” He looked at me with inquisitive eyes.

“No, I don’t think she did.” I lowered my voice as if whispering my answer would be less painful for Victor.

“What about my mother?” He asked again. “Does killing yourself hurt?”

My heart sank with sadness, seeing my son, at such a tender age, already considering things like death and the loss of a loved one.

“I wouldn’t know. I hope it doesn’t.” I gave him a tender look.

“Do you think there is a Heaven?” He kept going, this time not even pausing to get an answer. “Do you think Mina went to Heaven? Do you think my mother is there? Miss Dillon says hurting yourself is a sin, do you think God forgave her? And if He didn’t, where do you think she is now? Do you think Mina can tell her I’m alright? Do you think they can see us from-”

“Enough!” Victor roared inside the car, making both me and Owen jump. After a sharp, deep breath, he continued in a flat tone. “Can we please make the rest of the trip in silence?”

“Maybe we could talk about it later, ok, Bug?” I reached back, squeezing his knee, trying to soften the blow of Victor’s outburst.

Silence fell between us, pregnant with words that wouldn’t be uttered. Owen, however, seemed to have more to say.

“I’m sorry Mina died, Dad.”

Victor’s face contracted in a very brief grimace. He felt guilty for yelling, I could tell.

“Yes.”

Victor’s expression swiftly shifted back to his characteristic emotionless one. And I could swear that, at that moment, I could see him diligently rebuilding those unbreakable walls, the ones he surrounded his heart with, the ones that protected the sensitive and fragile side of him from the rest of the world. Only this time I felt I was being kept out as well.

The iron gates that led to Terry’s ranch, the same we had seen covered in flowers and lights nearly a year ago, were now adorned by a black ribbon tied in a single knot, signaling the death of a loved one in the house. As they opened wide and we passed that threshold, we all felt the weight of that new reality: a life without Mina.

Mina was not someone we saw very often or that would take much time in our lives, but when she was present, she filled them with love. She was wise and kind, with an assertiveness that wasn’t imposing, but welcome, just like a bright sun entering a room, warm and cozy, staving away the darkness. And now that she was gone, all the space she filled now vacant, I couldn’t help but think of all the things that we would miss about her.

We would no longer be greeted by her bright smile and warm hands holding ours, and I would never see again the tender gaze she had for Victor, and how he responded in kind, with a calm welcoming expression he saved for her alone. I would no longer feel the warmth of how much she seemed to dote on him, always surprising us with his favorite foods or a box full of taffy, and calling him Hummingbird, although he insisted on being called by his name. I would no longer feel the occasional hand squeezing my shoulder, usually when we were alone, her way of approving of me and the way I loved her boy.

“You will stay with Owen at the ranch while I take care of the funeral arrangements.” Victor stated as he stopped the car in front of the mansion.

“No, I want to go with you.” I declared. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Victor let out another long tired sigh. When he finally opened his mouth to retort, he was interrupted by Terry tapping on his window. He rolled it down.

“Come inside, already.” She smiled widely, although I could see the sadness in her eyes. “The food will get cold.”

“We assumed you guys skipped lunch, so we prepared a meal for you.” Susan welcomed us, as we entered the mansion.

“Nothing too fancy, just some soup.” Terry chimed in. “I’m not much of a cook, most of the cooking was done by-”

“Do you have the documents?” Victor interrupted, still standing by the door, clearly uninterested by small talk at the moment.

“They are in the study waiting for you as I promised.” Terry walked to Victor and took his arm, pulling him inside. “But now it’s time to eat. It won’t do you any good to go through today on an empty stomach. Besides, your son wants to eat, right, Owen?”

“Right.” Owen almost whispered, his expression still a sullen one.

“Are you sad, sweetheart?” Terry came closer to Owen, ruffling his curls. “No long faces, Mina wouldn’t want that. She wanted all of us to be happy, and live long and fulfilling lives. That’s how she would want to be honored. Now, let’s all eat and spend time as a family.” She waved at us to come inside the kitchen.

Victor turned away, excusing himself, as Owen and I sat at the table.

“Do you mind staying with Aunt Terry while Dad and I are away?” I squeezed the boy’s shoulder lovingly.

“Of course he won’t mind!” Terry made a face at him, making him laugh. “Susan can use some extra help in the stables. Will you help her take care of the horses?”

“Can I?” Owen’s face lit up.

Before any of us could answer, we heard the sound of an engine starting outside.

“Is Victor leaving?” Terry got up from her seat.

Without much thought, I ran outside, not believing he would leave without me. Sure enough, Victor was in his sedan pulling away. Noticing my presence by the front door, he paused his departure for a moment, catching my glance. The pain in his eyes was unbearable for me to watch, and I lowered my gaze. A second later, he started moving again, leaving in a hurry, a cloud of dust billowing up behind him.

“He took the documents from the study.” Terry came by my side. “He must have gone to the morgue.”

I stood at the door for a moment, considering Victor’s actions. Clearly, there wouldn’t be a chance for reconciliation in the near future, since he didn’t even want me around.

“The food is getting cold.” Terry grabbed my arm, a knowing look on her face.

I couldn’t say a word after, lost in my own thoughts, playing with my food. At least Owen was doing much better than I was, the prospect of playing with the horses distracting him from his father’s mood and sudden absence. Truth was, in a blink of an eye, I felt like I had lost my footing. Victor and I had fought before, and some of those fights were incredibly ugly, but never have I ever felt so distant from him. Never had he deliberately walked away from me. That was more painful than any nasty words he could ever say to me.

Susan took Owen to the stables after lunch, while I stayed behind with Terry, helping her clean the kitchen. Again, we worked in silence, Terry probably remembering Mina going on and about in her duties, while I was wondering how Victor was, if he missed me by his side, if I should call to check up on him.

“This is the last one.” I declared, putting away the last clean plate. “Do you need my help with anything else?”

“I’m so glad you asked.” She laughed with relief. “Follow me.”

We entered Mina’s room like it was a temple, silently and respectfully. The room was large, humbly yet tastefully decorated. Over the antique dresser, nothing but a vase with some dried flowers and a book. It was amazing how the whole room spoke of Mina. It was simple and modest, but it had a cozy and loving energy, just like her: a silent yet powerful tenderness.

“Susan was supposed to help me with this, but it’s best that she stays with Owen. And I didn’t want to ask Victor. It would be too painful for him.” Terry apologized, opening one of the drawers. “We need to find something suitable for Mina to wear.”

Silently, Terry and I went through Mina’s clothes, taking several items out. Terry took a box out of the wardrobe, sitting on the bed with a ragged sigh as she opened it.

“Victor should have this.” She handed it to me.

It was a simple shoebox lined with wrapping paper, but inside there was a treasure. There were many little objects: a children’s uniform tie, a Rubik’s cube, a pair of baby socks. The rest of the box was filled with pictures of Victor throughout the years, and newspaper cuttings from articles about him since he started LFG. It was the kind of thing a mother would have. My mother had the same things for me and my brother. I gave Mina a silent thank you for loving my husband so well over all these years.

“When my sister-in-law left to live in Paris, Victor was in a pretty bad state.” Terry commented, as she took the small tie from the box. “I never understood how she could leave Victor behind like that, especially knowing my brother and how he always treated his son. It always got to me how Victor idolized her, still does, and she never deserved any of his love. Mina was his real mother.”

She handed me the tie, and for a moment I could picture my husband as a child, poised and oddly mature, wearing that uniform. And I wondered if he had his poker face even then, or if he had sadness in his eyes, the same emotion he now hid, at that time so perfectly open and visible to the outside world.

“Mina would ask him to help her in the kitchen, and they would talk for hours on end, as they peeled potatoes, or baked a cake. She was his biggest support in that cold house. Until Greg decided his son was spending too much time with the help.” Terry let out a bitter laugh. “God forbid he would let that boy have something good in his life.”

“What did he do?”

“One morning, he simply told Mina to pack her bags and leave immediately. Victor begged his father to let her stay, but Mina decided it would be best to leave, and not make any more trouble for the boy. She ended up at my doorstep, asking for a place to stay while she looked for another job.”

“And she stayed ever since.” I smiled at Terry, my heart full of love for her.

“I hired her on the spot, knowing how much that would mean to Victor. And she became my family.”

I looked at the room again, her presence feeling so much stronger now. She was so simple, so humble, yet she could take so much room in one’s heart.

“Don’t take Victor’s actions too seriously. He needs time to wrap his head around this. You must know as well as I do that he isn’t very good at dealing with his own emotions.” Terry squeezed my arm.

My eyes immediately filled with tears, all the painful recent events coming to mind.

“No, it’s that… Things are not well, Terry.” It hurt to talk, my throat suddenly feeling incredibly tight. “We had an ugly fight today, that’s probably why he is avoiding me. Owen’s grandmother showed up and filed for custody, we are at risk of losing him... It’s been stressful.”

“Dear God, Andrea! No wonder both of you look so stressed.”

“And now he is cold, and he doesn’t want me near him. And I feel like I’m losing it all, everything is slipping from my hands…” I sobbed in desperation. “I don’t know what to do. I’m so sorry for breaking down like this.”

“No need to be sorry, we are family.” She stroked my back soothingly, as I let out the tears I had been holding all this time. “I understand how you would feel that way, but I know my nephew and I know you. First of all, it’s Victor, that woman does not stand a chance. He will not let his son go due to anything in this world, of that I am certain. And second of all, Victor adores you. In no time, he will be here with us, fussing over you like he always does. You love each other, I’m sure you will work it out.”

Looking at the bigger picture, Terry was probably right. We were going through a stressful time, and we just had a fight, as many couples do. From the point of view of the observer, we had been tried and tested many times before, and we always stood strong, no matter how much we swayed. But I knew Victor, and I knew this wasn’t just a lovers’ quarrel to him. He never let himself feel too much, but when he did, he felt deeply. I had gone against his plans, questioned his decisions, when he was trying his best for our family. Maybe he was right to be angry at me. I should have been more supportive. But I also couldn’t ignore what my heart was telling me.

After we picked the outfit for Mina, Terry went to the study to make some work-related phone calls, leaving me to my own devices. I was tired of thinking about the past few days, overanalyzing each one of my and Victor’s words, so I decided to go to the living room and read something while I waited for Owen to return from the stables. Or Victor. And that’s when I saw it.

The piano must have felt lonely in that living room, looking like it hadn't been touched in decades. I sat on the stool and opened the lid, my finger running over the keys without pressing them; a greeting of sorts. For a moment, I wondered why there would even be a piano in Terry’s house, since it was evident that nobody played it, but then it hit me: it must have belonged to Victor’s mother. Victor’s parents owned the property for a while, so they probably left it behind.

“You can play it, it’s tuned.” Terry spoke from the hall.

“I don’t want to be disrespectful.” I said as I slowly closed the lid.

“It’s actually very fitting. Mina loved when my sister-in-law played it.” Terry smiled, coming close to me to open the lid again. “That gives me an idea. Would you play some music at the funeral?”

How could I refuse?

“What do you want me to play?”

“There is one that Mina liked in particular, I don’t know which.” Terry went to the bookshelf, retrieving an old leather folder. “But I have some scores here, see if there is something appropriate.”

I took the folder from her hands, opening it. On top of the first sheet of music, I could read the title Serenade, by Schubert, Listz’s arrangement.

It wasn’t a hard piece to play I had learned it around the age of eleven. It took me a while to get reacquainted with the melody, but after a few strokes of the keys, it became second nature all over again, allowing me to submerge deeply into the music, letting feeling take over, so much that I didn’t even notice Terry leaving the room. At that moment, I was a lover serenading someone, and my beloved responded in kind with the higher notes, telling me my love was reciprocated.

A hand came from behind me, pressing on my dancing ones, a dissonant chord echoing in the living room. It was Victor, a shadow in his eyes I had never seen before.

“Not this one.” He declared in a tired tone.

“Terry asked me to play for Mina’s funeral.” I hurried to answer, almost scared he would scold me. “I assumed it was her favorite one.”

Without a word, Victor took the leather folder, skimming through it. He handed me a few sheets of paper. The title read Reverie - Debussy.

“This one.” He declared as he turned to leave.

“How did it go?” I spoke before he disappeared again. “You left without me.”

Victor stood without a word, his eyes on the ground, not daring to look at me. The clench of his jaw told me he was deciding to ignore me yet again.

“Dad! Dad!” We heard Owen run towards us. “Susan let me feed the horses! And Onyx was so cool, he did one of those tricks you taught him.” Owen jumped with excitement to Victor, arms up, expecting his father to pick him up like he always did.

“Right.” Victor muttered, ignoring Owen’s silent request and leaving the room.

I couldn’t react for a moment, seeing how my husband, the most loving father I had ever seen apart from my own, was acting towards our son. This wasn’t the Victor I knew. This was someone else entirely.

“Why is he mad at me?” Owen’s voice trembled. My heart broke as my eyes landed on my son: he looked like the scared little boy we had picked from the orphanage, small and fragile, his shoulders slouched and his head down, afraid of making the slightest movement.

“Come here, Bug.” I opened my arms and he ran into them, taking refuge in my embrace. “Dad is not mad at you, he’s just sad. Some people show sadness by crying, your father gets weird like this.”

“Just like when he looked scary but just wanted to be my friend?” Owen spoke against my chest.

“Exactly like that.” I stroked his red curls. “Your father will always love you, as I will. You’re just too adorable.” I tickled his ribs, making him giggle.

“Can I watch you play?” He gave me that honest and bright smile of his, comforting my heart.

“Not until you do a scale with me.” I pretended to scold him. “You won’t be able to progress if you don’t practice, Mister.”

After practicing the scale for a few moments, I turned my attention to the score Victor had given me. I almost didn’t need the score for this one, I knew it by heart, my teacher was a big admirer of Debussy. I started playing the song, putting my entire soul in it, reliving my teacher’s expressions as my fingers brought the music to life.

And then I noticed it in the reflection on the piano’s reflective varnished wood, above the keys. The sunset had revealed him, standing by the doorway, secretly listening to me play, his head down. I didn’t look back or acknowledge his presence. Instead, I put all my love into those notes, hoping it would soothe his heart, would bring him the comfort he wouldn’t allow me to express.

[wiltingpierrot]

Gem Glow: Part 1

Welcome! Well, this isn’t really made to entertain. I’m just doing this to recover from trauma and get a good grasp of the show’s lore while having my girls react with me. Feel free to tag along.

We’ll be watching four episodes a day and react only to the major events as tackling all of them is a toughie.

 Sharpie: “I want to see real tears, Wilt.”

Wilt: “Tears? At the very first episode?”

Sharpie: “Yes. Otherwise I’ll make you cry by some other means.”

Wilt: “I have these tear marks. Those count, yes?”

Sharpie: “Real tears, I said.”

Wilt: “Ahh, how iconic.”

Spinel: “The area around the lighthouse is lacking a lot of flowers. That’ll change someday!”

Sharpie: “Yes, after a lot of blood, ink and tears had been shed first.”

Spinel: “Here we have a shot of the show’s hero, lamenting the discontinuation of a certain ice cream snack brand.”

Sharpie: “Is this triggering your PTSD yet?”

Wilt: “Not really. I thought it would but surprisingly I’m still okay.”

Lars: “Well, if you miss your wimpy ice cream so much, why don’t you make some with your MAGIC BELLY BUTTON?”

Spinel: “Hey Sharpie, let’s make foodstuff with just the energy in our gem.”

Sharpie: “And you still owe me 86 years’ worth of happiness.”

Wilt: “What is this civil conversation you’re having? That’s not how I wrote you two.”

Sadie: “Uhh Steven? Do you want to take the freezer with you?”

Spinel: “Think what would’ve happened if Sadie didn’t let him take that freezer home.”

Sharpie: “Does… does the cat’s face looked different to you?”

Spinel: “I love the lighthouse. The view up the top is always so breathtaking.”

Sharpie: “I’m not so happy with our roommate though.”

Wilt: “…I might have to draw this someday.”

Spinel: “Don’t you just love it when your pets greet you as you enter your house? I wish you would greet me whenever I fall asleep.”

Sharpie: “You’re just my nightmare.”

Amethyst: “’Sup, Steven.”

Spinel: “AME!!!!”

Spinel: “I AM IN LOVE.”

Sharpie: “You can stop replaying this 5 seconds worth of Pearl now.”

Spinel: “It’s 4 seconds worth of Pearl, you heathen.”

Spinel: “HOOO MAMA. Remember when Garnet kicked our ass?”

Sharpie: “She kicked your ass. She kicked your ass so much I had to start a switch to intervene. Now that I think of it, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Sharpie: “Being sliced open is one thing. Being pulled apart is another.”

Spinel: “It’s good that we’re stretchy.”

Sharpie: “I can disable that function and tear you apart like that, actually. Ever wondered why it doesn’t hurt when others pull at you like taffy but I can?”

Spinel: “I can do the same and prevent you from escaping my hugs.”

Sharpie: “*sigh*… I hate you.”

Spinel: “Ahaha! Pearl is so cute!”

Sharpie: “Ahaha! I love this technique.”

Wilt: “It’s good for breaking a hole through walls in maximum security prisons, yeah.”

Amethyst: “Uhh you guys, these things don’t have gems.”

Garnet: “That means there must be a mother somewhere nearby.”

Sharpie: “That’s a fascinating thought.”

Wilt: “It’s similar to how Pearl can project figures that can maintain itself while independent of the source. In this case, the main centipeedle can project independent but smaller versions of itself.”

Sharpie: “How come 2nd Projections aren’t like that, I wonder. Like we can’t have separate bodies or anything…”

Wilt: “Probably because the 2nd Projection has a personality of its own and it stems from the original gem, while Pearl Projections and mini-centipeedles are pre-programmed projections that would act accordingly to the original’s commands. Like, if Spinel makes a projection separate from her, it wouldn’t be you.”

Sharpie: “Fair enough.”

Spinel: “Speaking of Pearl Projections…”

Sharpie: “No.”

Pearl: “Steven, until you learned to control the powers in your gem, we’ll take care of protecting humanity. Okay?”

Spinel: “I want Pearl to snap my neck like that.”

Sharpie: “As if impaling you wasn’t enough.”

Spinel: “PFFFTT-“

Amethyst: “We went out and stole a bunch!”

Spinel: “That’s my Ame.”

Pearl: “I went back and paid for that.”

Sharpie: “That’s…. that’s very Pearl of her.”

Steven: “He left his family behind!”

Spinel: “AHAHAHAHAHA”

Sharpie: “What’s so funny about that?”

Sharpie: “Oh my stars. I hope we don’t have to bear another one of those.”

Wilt: “It’s catchy. I like it.”

Sharpie: “What a happy little family. It’s a shame that they’re doomed to a life of madness onwards.”

Amethyst: “Quick! Try and summon your weapon!”

“Awww, no weapon.”

Wilt: “He’s struggling. A sign of a well-rounded character. The progress is dramatic if we compare this episode to the last ones. And it only took him a few Earth years.”

Sharpie: “And it took us like what, 86 years to get this far and we’re still inferior to most we meet in our travels.”

Spinel: “God I love Pearl.”

Sharpie: “Can you even pay attention to anything that isn’t Pearl?”

Spinel: “I’m capable of paying attention to a lot of things and to nothing at the same time, Sharpie. Be amazed.”

Steven: “Can one of you just explain how to summon a weapon?”

Pearl: “Oh! I’ll go first.”

Wilt: “I love Pearl.”

Spinel: “I love Pearl.”

Sharpie: “…”

Spinel: “AUUGH! Pearl is so beautiful.”

Wilt: “This is so anime.”

Spinel: “This scene makes me wanna stand underneath a cherry blossom tree with her in a Friday afternoon and confess my love.”

Sharpie: “God both of you disgust me.”

Pearl: “Pay attention to these petals, Steven.”

Pearl: “The petal’s dance seems improvised, but it is being calculated in real-time based on the physical properties of this planet.”

Wilt: “HELL YEAH, I LOVE PEARL.”

Pearl: “With hard work and dedication, you can master the magical properties of your gem, and perform your own dance.”

Pearl: “Like so.”

Spinel: “HELL YEAH, I LOVE PEARL”

Sharpie: “So… Pearl’s approach is tuning into the technical reality of the universe to tap into her gem’s energy,”

Amethyst: “Listen Steven. All that practice stuff is no fun. Whenever I need to summon my weapon, it just happens.”

Sharpie: “And Amethyst’s approach is just winging it. Considering Ame is a gem made for war, of course summoning a weapon is natural instinct. Pearl however… She had to learn serious fighting, something most Pearls aren’t made for.”

Spinel: “We’re the same, ain’t we? Spinels ain’t made for violence but we can whoop butt just fine.”

Sharpie: “We just got lucky… and incredibly unfortunate at the same time.”

Sharpie: “Gems are such nuisances. So much that in other places of the world, a group of humans actually built little Distortion Bombs capable of disorienting corrupted gems to a point of repelling them away. Unfortunately those things are powered by tiny bits of gem shards, which is obviously not an easily obtainable source of power. The project was discontinued.”

Spinel: “The invention worked on us, too, which is kind of impressive!”

Sharpie: “The best those little bombs done to us were to irritate us, or temporarily disable our senses. Corrupted gems have warped sentience I think, so they would rely more on instincts and run away from the source of irritation as much as possible.”

Sharpie: “They say if enough energy is given into the device, it’ll have high enough amplitude to potentially dissipate a gem’s physical form. But this is just a fever dream. There’s no way they have access to that amount of energy without slaughtering a Diamond first. Still, props to the engineer who thought that was a good idea.”

Spinel: “So instead of using gem shards, he decided to use us by writing the function into Springy. If we poof, we can give bad gems nearby a head ache and make them go away. We can protect people even if we die in battle! He basically turned us into heroic suicide bombers against corrupted gems.”

Sharpie: “Necessary, considering every time we poof we somehow cause part of a building to catch on fire, killing the people we’re supposed to protect in the process.”

Spinel: “Uh huh… yeaaahh….. I mean, where else is the excess energy supposed to go?”

Sharpie: “I dunno. Some other harmless form of energy apart from heat? The sparkly dust clouds were already perfect and you just had to change it into something deadlier. Thanks to you, seven people that stood close to us turned into soup.”

Spinel: “Well, there was that one time where the fire storm actually saved us from a meanie who wanted to crush us. We can’t just ignore that.”

Sharpie: “Seven people died, Spinel. Seven people that happened to be our allies.”

 Wilt: “Please stop. We have to finish this episode.”

Steven: “So I’m supposed to work really hard and not try at all at the same time?”

Garnet: “Yes.”

Garnet: “Or…”

Garnet: “You can link your mind with the energy of all existing matter, channeling the collective power of the universe through your gem.”

Garnet: “At least that’s my way of doing it.

Spinel: “C’mon, kiddo. It’s not that hard to understand. It’s how Springy lived for the past 40 years. If she can do it, so can you.”

Sharpie: “I bet this makes the most sense to you, huh Wilt?”

Wilt: “It does. Considering we are all just ripples of energy on the surface of the large lasagna we call the observable universe.”

Sharpie: “What a nerd. Also we’re half-way through the episode. You better cry, Wilt.”

Wilt: “I’m saving this shot for reference.”

[heli0s-writes]

Good in the World

Request: So nice thank you! Is there a way you could change the Endgame ending? You were a woman saved by Steve during his time on the run who in the years became your best friend but he leaves you behind all alone. He comes back years later as he realized he was in love with you. You are now struggling (mental health) and you do not want to forgive him as the heartbreak was too much. He does everything he can and in the end you both can move on together. 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

A/N: My first request and I promised I would deliver something good for my boiiii. I tried! It’s angsty and deviated from the prompt a LIL. I slammed it out in a day and please God let it be AITE.

Images of him come to you in flashes.

Terrible little souvenirs of shared dinners and evening conversation. The once white and red stripes of his suit, grimy and soot covered. The way he held his arm out and asked, “You okay?” the first day you met after the shooting incident in the park.

Three days later, him at your door, checking in on you.

Steve Rogers, on the run, had grown out his hair and beard, had hardened into a fatalist. But he showed up with a cup of soup and sat with you until you stopped crying.

“Hey. It’s okay. Take your time.” In between blubbering stuck syllables of “Wh-wh-why? Wh-what the f-fuck?” as your brain tried to process the sequence of the trauma. A random act of violence in the park. Two shot dead. Four others bled out on their way to the hospital. You, missed.

Why them? Why you?

And he kept showing up. Not too often, but often enough to where you started to expect him.

He turned on the lights for you. Offered to warm up your food when nothing mattered and everything was cold.

Days turned into weeks turned into months and the fugitive Captain America turned into your… something. Perhaps a confidant, maybe your therapist, at the very least, a semi-stable-unstable fixture.

You imagined that outside of his cohort of similarly hidden friends, you were the glimpse back to reality he could have.

The memories of him sting you inside out.

And now that half the world had been reduced to cinders and ruminations and your life turned into one long and desolate dream, sometimes you cling onto his memory because it is all you have. He’s still out there, you know, because the news channels broadcasted every Avenger who was dusted, and they didn’t broadcast him.

He’s out there, but he hasn’t come back.

The fatalist in you has resigned to being just another human, blipped out to him like all the rest.

--

You teach the art therapy class held every Thursday at the local YMCA. It’s a shit-show, in all honesty, and you’re sure that everyone who’s there can see that you are in no shape to be leading it. Even with your shiny groomed hair and soft pink lipstick, performing the necessary task of femininity, they can see. You have nothing but the meager paycheck and the emptiness of a single studio apartment in a now-dilapidated building.

The current session is dragging when one of your students breaks down half-way through and smashes the canvas. You’re up on your feet, pulling him aside to practice the crisis-prevention strategies you’ve learned throughout the years. He’s sobbing and rocking in your arms, falling apart as he wails.

It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. Why did I survive? I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here.

You tell him a joke. You hold his hand and run it under cold water. Strategies to replace the overloaded emotions with anything else. You remind him that he’s going on a date next week with someone he’s been very interested in. That the people he loved—loves, would want him to be happy.

He tells you the man he’ll be seeing is also in a group. Grief group. They met by chance. Talked about their grief. Cried over salad about their grief.

Yes. It’s okay. That is okay. Take small steps to move on and soon enough, you’ll have moved so far you won’t be able to see where you started. Go on the date. Let yourself find love and happiness.

The words pour from your mouth like running water, trickling evenly until he is all covered and cool. After a few minutes, the two of you return to the paints, and you pat his back and tell him he’s doing just fine.

The image comes, then, of a heavy brocade comforter wrapped around your shoulders, a cup of tea between your hands burning so hot Steve has to take it from you. You are staring into the dead screen of the T.V. when you say, “I try so hard to have faith in the good in the world. But this... how can it be good? This fucking shitty… fucking life.”

And him, blowing on your tea, holding it to your dried lips, whispering, “Careful, it’s hot.”

-

When you go home later, you drop tears into your own dinner because the stupid plate is blue and green and shines like Steve Rogers’ eyes and why the fuck have you never noticed it. The words you used to console your student are too close to the ones he had used on you, once. You throw it into sink where it splinters into a hundred pieces, and a little part of you hopes he feels it too, wherever he is.

-

On a late Thursday session, he arrives with the fallen autumn leaves as they gust in through the sliding doors. Crunching under his feet alerts you to the entrance where he steps in bashfully, as if he is a late dinner guest.

You furrow your brow because you’re not sure who he is at first, because your full session is nearly finished, and you don’t have room for another student. His once covered jaw is smooth, and the long hair you had grown used to seeing is shorter than ever, swept back, more flaxen.

He’s Captain America now, a paragon of hope in these dark times, so he’s dressing the part.

Everyone has finished cleaning their brushes and have placed their canvas to the side to dry. Your rags are slung over your arms, apron crusted with acrylic.

“Hey.” He says, like he’s been here for the past five years. “I heard about a really great art therapy group led by someone who sounded like you.” Then he smiles, like he’s your friend and not your flashback.

The smile is all it takes. You recede into a moment in the kitchen when you made dinner and the sound of tires running over glass bottles outside popped too loudly and your world suddenly caved in. By the time you returned, Steve was smothering a stovetop fire with wet hand-towels and splashing water onto the burn on your palm.

He wrapped you up afterwards with gauze and you half-heartedly made a joke. “Hey.” You called, “What did King Tut say when he had a nightmare?”

In his enormous and calloused hands was yours, half curled with the irritation of the inbound blister. “What…?” He asked, eyes narrowing because it was not the right time for a joke someone might find on a Laffy Taffy wrapper.

“I want my mummy. Fucking classic.” You replied, holding up your hand, gauze now tucked into the wrist. The fugitive Captain America had closed his eyes as the slightest half-smile lifted his face, and under the yellow glare of the restroom light, you imagined a good world protected by him.

-

He is different now. His grief is different, and his needs are different. His reality is the same as your reality, as everyone else’s reality. He no longer needs glimpses into anything.

So, you think, why is he here?

 “Hey. You okay?”

What the fuck? Your irritation pools inside you like magma, threatening to erupt at any sudden movement as you work to clean up the vacated room. Steve slowly moves forward, having been sitting down for the last fifteen minutes since you’ve ended the session early.

“Get out of my sight.”

He looks like you’ve just slapped him across the face, and a part of you wish you had because fuck him. Fuck Steve Rogers and fuck Captain America and fuck this shitty fucking world. He takes a few steps up to you, and in those familiar eyes you see how utterly worn down he looks.

Ironically, Steve Rogers clean-shaven looks older than when you knew him.

-

In the bedroom, on a particularly rainy afternoon, he had helped you put on the newly washed sheets no longer stained with the old blood from your clothes—splashes of other people as the bullets ripped through them. You’d slept in it for almost a month before he discovered it, and then, without another word he tore them off and threw them in the washer. The First Avenger, leaning over your machine, deep in thought had sent you into a fit of laughter.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes. I did.” He was firm and too serious. You told him as much. It wasn’t a big deal, you said, sometimes you don’t even notice the blood. You didn’t have to tell him why you never washed it for him to figure it out.

“You don’t have to carry this with you.” Steve stepped forward, until your back was pressed against the wall. He put both his hands on your shoulder. “You’re okay. You can let yourself move on. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself.”

He rubbed his knuckles over his beard and pulled you into a hug when you shook silently.

 As he predicted, you eventually took steps to move on. It wasn’t easy, and it had taken almost a year. You still cried a lot and had nightmares almost constantly, so you hardly slept. On one occasion you were so deprived you had come in after a day of work and left the door wide open, collapsing on the couch. When you mentioned it to Steve in passing a few weeks later, he made it his personal mission to swing by even more. It made you uneasy, because as someone in hiding, having a schedule of checking on someone would make him stupid.

He didn’t listen.

At three in the morning as you laid sideways on the floor watching the second movie of the night, Steve had knocked and demanded that you go to bed.

“Can’t.” You sighed, “It’s been too loud lately. Everything… moving. Big noises. I get--” Your eyes squeezed shut, “scared.”

He called your name, jerking you from the haze that threatened to overtake you again, and pulled you up by the hand. When you swayed, he lifted you up and took you to bed, tucking the covers under your chin. Steve had turned down the temperature, piled on a spare blanket on top, and sat by your bedside until you had fallen asleep.

The next day, he dropped off a white noise machine at the door while you were at work.

-

“Get the fuck out of here.” You hiss, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry. I j-just want--”

“You’re sorry? Holy shit, man. Five years, you asshole! It’s been five years!”

Steve takes in a deep breath and sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dress pants until the fabric is stretched tight over his thighs. “I don’t know what to say.” He murmurs. “It’s been… really difficult.”

You nearly shriek as a sob threatens to rip from your throat. “You have got to be fucking with me, Steve.”

They’re the wrong words, though, because the last time you said that to him was the last time you saw him. Hearing them out of your own mouth again opens the floodgates.

-

The white noise machine accompanied by a strict bedtime routine let your progress advance just a tiny bit more, until it crawled along at a snail’s pace, but it crawled, nonetheless. Steve walked you through it in the beginning, turning off all the electronics, setting the temperature to a chilly 67 degrees, piling heavy blankets on your bed, and making the tea.

You told him it was stupid, but he was insistent. The two of you listened to a relaxation video together, practiced deep-breathing, and then he read out loud from a book on your shelf.

Your eyes closed for a few minutes. When they opened again, you were screaming, and Steve’s arms were wrapped around your waist and back.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

It had been two hours since he closed the book. He said he didn’t mean to stay for so long, but he was worried. He was reading on the couch when he heard you crying. You sobbed into his chest until he laid you back down.

-

Eventually it became a habit for him to come over in the evenings. Then, it was making dinner together. Then, it was watching a movie sometimes, curled up on the couch. You started sleeping better, having nightmares less, laughing more than he’d ever seen before.

Eventually, all of those things came for him, too. Eventually, he found it easy to be with you. Eventually, he forgot that he was shunned from the world, because you always welcomed him into your home.

-

It rained the night he kissed you. It had been raining all through the movie, and he meant to leave earlier, but you patted the place on the couch—his place, and gave him such a sweet smile he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

So, he sat once more next to you and you told him the premise of the movie you picked out tonight. You were notoriously bad about spoiling the plot, so he had laughed when the information was coming hard and fast and he clamped his hand over your mouth before something important slipped.

You bit him.

And the feeling of your teeth on his skin ignited something that hadn’t sparked in him since the war.

Before either of you knew it, Steve Rogers pulled you on top of him and kissed you so roughly you had to break away for air.

“S-Steve?”

He didn’t stop. He fisted your hair, latched onto your neck, bound your torso to his with two powerful arms and kissed you until you were dizzy. He felt so good. Warm and safe, like the world could disintegrate and you would be just fine as long as you were with him.

The days turned into months turned into almost two years and Steve Rogers was holding you in his arms like you were something to him. Like you could have been a lover.

It was too bizarre. You shook your head in the middle of him lifting up your shirt and held his face in your hands. “Steve,” He blinked the haze from his eyes, “Steve, are you fucking with me? Are you—serious about this?”

“Yeah.” He sighed into your neck, “I am. I’m tired of not feeling. And it feels good to be with you.”

-

You don’t think you can take any more of this. Seven years ago, a random act of violence tore your world apart. It took two years and the help of Steve Rogers to stitch it back together, until he took it into his hands and pulled it to pieces again. The world did disintegrate, and he wasn’t there.

The decimation poked a million holes in it, and you poured out of the spaces until you became nothing more than this. A shell. A husk. A monotonous thing, masquerading as a person.

And now he’s back, shoving his fingers in the chasms.

“I can fix this.” He says. “I think I can. I can go back to before. Before Thanos.”

Your perfectly made hair and immaculate make up aren’t enough armor to shield you from his assault. Him, standing before you now, pierces straight through your chest and your gut, and you are falling apart, all five years of nothing, sliding from your eyes.

“I’m sorry I disappeared. We—we had to go. He came and we couldn’t stop him. A-and, I think I’ve been too...ashamed to admit that. My failure changed the entire world. I couldn’t..”

You want to scream at him and say, I’m not the world. What about me? What about how you changed me?

But inside of your shitty fatalist veneer, you still believe in the good. Despite what Steve Rogers has done to you, he can still be the good you once thought of him. But the years have been unkind, and you hold too big of a wound inside to be healed by an apology. Even if he is good for the world, he isn’t good for you.

--

In the middle of you sticking a loaded paintbrush onto a canvas, the YMCA erupts into noise as bodies materialize from thin air in poofs of bursting smoke and ash. It’s like the snap in reverse order—and people are crashing into your supplies and students, and there is fumbling and screaming and so many questions.

Your therapy group is scattering like flies, grabbing their coats and rushing out the door, running back to their homes to find their loved ones. When a boy you recognize from before the decimation grabs you by the hand and asks you what’s going on, you gasp audibly because his face is still the same from the last time you saw him. Smooth, prepubescent, on the cusp of growing into a man but still baby-faced and gangly. Your eyes widen when you realize:

Steve did it.

Your feet are soaked by the dirty paint water from your bucket as you look around at young men and women chattering in confusion. Slowly, they move from the room and out the door where others are running and crying, throwing themselves into the arms of their families. Children sprint down the street, going home. Home. A word that’s hurt so many for so long.

Absently, you clench onto the boy’s hand until he taps on you to stop. Your heart might burst now, looking at him.

Steve really fucking did it.

--

Your dilapidated apartment building is exploding with life. The repairs started last week, and you wake every morning amazed at how the world can heal so quickly with a bit of human effort.

There is energy again. There is life again. Even the wind tastes sweet, even if you can’t quite remember what it was like before.

Memorials for Tony Stark pop up on every corner of the city, but even in the sorrow, the world continues to turn, and the pain is coated in gratefulness and optimism for the future. You walk there, too, under the light and against a gentle breeze, purchasing a thriving stem from a nearby shop. The florist beams at you, tells you it’s a beautiful day.

Yes, you think. It is.

It seemed so gray for so long. The sunflower in your hand is a radiant yellow bloom and you can’t help but smile at it on your way back home, a tangible reminder of the reanimated Earth.

Your steps quiet when you arrive.

He is blue and red at your door. Bruised and cut, but he stands facing the frame and knocks before he rubs his hands over his face and sighs, “Fuck.”

“Hey.” You say, quietly, holding the stem tightly in your hand as if it could give you some comfort or assurance. When Steve turns, his eyes are sunken and welling up with tears. A startling slash on his lip nearly touches his chin and over his eyebrow is an ochre patch nearly identical to your flower- dappled with green and black.

His mouth tugs at the corner, as if he could cry. Or smile. Because you are stepping forward, putting the flower in his hand as you reach for your keys to unlock the door to the apartment he knows all too well.

Down the flight of stairs, children’s’ bike bells ring and chime, cars honk noisily, voices argue and yell. The birds are back and singing. Summertime cicadas screech with the joy of being alive. You crack the door open from its frame and turn to look over your shoulder at the wet trails hanging from Steve’s cheeks.

With a small, hopeful smile at the man who has proven to be the good you need in the world, you ask,

“You okay?”

And he nods. And it’s enough.

[musubiki]

third time in ask box sorry t_t

ive been running on coffy lately.. if one of them got sick what would the other do? :O

noooo dont apologize!!!! I like getting asks cuz it gives me an excuse to ramble about my ocs and about things i dont even think about!!!!

taffy and coco and ridiculously similar when it comes to caring for the other person, true soulmates!!! coco is a bit more rough around the edges when it comes to going about showing that she cares, but its on the same level (even if she doesnt realize it for a while)

taffy would come home and mochi would be like "Oh yeah coco caught a cold so shes resting" and he goes "WHAT?!" and DASHES to her room making sure shes okay (it was just a cough). constantly like

"Do you need anything?" "Nah I'm okay"

"Are you feeling chilly? Should I close the window?" "Nah fresh air is supposed to be good, I'm just gonna chill and work on assignments."

"Do you want some water? Or fruit? Should I bring fruit? I can--" "IM OKAY!!!"

(or teases him like "Oooh im actually a bit chilly....why dont you come here and warm me up~ [winking and open arms beckoning him over]" and he just stands there paralyzed and malfunctioning)

and coco is the same way. more chill but same energy. a bit more like an asian mom in the sense that shes like "You're fine right? ok." and keeps going to his room bringing sliced fruit or little candies or soup or something (and still does the teasing like "If you're cold I can cuddle up to youuu~ [winking and grabby hands]" and hes, again, paralyzed and malfunctioning)

[dumbbitchenergy17]

I’m Sorry (Part 3)

Summary- You are Michael’s vessel as you are dean’s kid and letting him use you instead of your dad

Dean x daughter!reader

Word count-2,374

A man sits in a small motel room getting ready to pray. “Glorified be you, all praise is yours, perfect is your name, most high is your majesty and greatness. None has the right to be worshipped but you, the only one God.” he speaks in Arabic placing his knees and hands on the floor, “Glorified be my God, the highest. Glorified be my God, the highest. Glorified be my God, the highest.”

He looks up. In front of him, Michael is sitting on a chair and staring down at him, wearing Y/n’s vessel. He falls back, scared. “Hello, Jamil.” Michael greets “Who are you?” the man quivers “Oh, we’ve never met. But you’ve read all about me. How does it go?” “Whoever is an enemy to Allah, and His angels, and His messengers, and Gabriel and Michael then indeed, Allah is an enemy to the disbelievers.” He declares resting his hands on his knees as his eyes glow blue.

“You’re… God?” Jamil wavers

“Close, but… not quite.” Michael sighs “Gabriel?” he questions “The other one. The better one.” Jamil replied“Michael.” “There we go.” Michael clasps his hands “No, no, no, no. Why are you here?” He asks Michael stands up brushing the invisible dirt off him “Well, that is the question, isn’t it? Why are we here? I know why I’m here to ask you a question.” Jamil wonders “What question? Michael leans in closer “The same question I’ve spent weeks traveling around this world asking all sorts of people. Holy men, leaders, killers. And now I come to you, Jamil Hamed...What do you want?” Jamil stutters “What? “Do you want? Exactly. If you could have anything, name it.” the archangel pressed “Peace. And love.” Jamil answers Michael hums “If you cared about peace, you never would have left Syria. You never would have ran and abandoned your friends to die – and they did die.” “No.” “And if you cared about love, you never would have gone into that broom closet with – What was her name?” Michael continues “No.” Jamil breathes shakily “Darlene? Your wife would have never left and you wouldn’t be living in this... rat hole.” Jamil tries to attack Michael, who throws him on the floor without even moving. “And that’s the problem with you. You’re lost... And not worth saving.” Michael sighs “Wha—what—what do you want?” Jamil cries

“What I always wanted... a better world.”

Survivors from the Apocolypse are preparing their weapons. Mary approaches one of them. “Hi.”

“You got silver. Devil’s trap. Holy Oil.” Russel lists pointing at various bullets as he grabs a gun “And these here, they’re dipped in Dean Man’s blood.” Mary takes the gun and loads it. he continues “Basically, you need some freak dead? I got you.” Mary checks the gun. In front of her, Maggie is helping another survivor with his wounds. “A rawhead did this?” she asks “Yeah. Outside Phoenix. They’re faster than they look,” Howard winces as Maggie extracts a fang from the wound, “Meaner, too.” he said “So, so gross.” Maggie gags

The door creaks open. Trevor walks in. “Soup’s on. Who’s eating?” “Right here.” Howard lifts his good arm up “Yeah, I’ll –” another began just as Sam enters the bunker making his way down the stairs. “Yeah, right here. How about you guys?” Trevor asks Mary looks up to her youngest “Sam.” she smiles pulling him into a hug “Hey, Mom.” “How was Atlanta?” she asks walking with him “It was, uh... It was a bust. The woman who claims she saw an “angel”... was,” he laughs, “Let’s just say I think she had one too many hits of the brown acid, you know?” Mary frowns“Sam, we’re gonna find her. Ketch is working that thing in London. Castiel is in Detroit. I know it’s been three weeks since Y/n...Something will break. It has to.” Sam nods yawning “Yeah. Yeah, you keep saying that.” Mary sighs “Have you slept? At all. Sam, you need to rest. Go and lay down.” trying to convince her son “Mom –” Sam sighs “Chief.” Someone cuts into their conversation “Hey.” Sam gives a weak smile “Good to have you back.” he says handing a bowl of soup. “Thanks.” Sam nods

“Don’t thank me yet. Word is we got some vamps heading East on I-90. Gipsy types. Pickin’ off truckers mostly. Last body got drained and dropped just outside La Crosse six hours ago.” he explains  Sam sighs before talking

“Okay. Um... All right. Get me teams of two. I want watchpoints every 50 miles. If you see something, say something. Maggie, can you hack the traffic cams on the freeway?” he questions

“Um... no,” Maggie says sheepishly

“Right. Right. Of course. Sorry. Um, I got it. Thank you,” Sam says passing the untouched food to Mary “Uh, please. Would you call in Sharon and her crew? We’re gonna need all hands on deck here.” the man nods walking out the war room Sam sits down, starts typing on his laptop. Mary approaches him again.

“Sam..” Mary starts “I’m good,” Sam replies Mary puts a hand on his. Sam looks at her. “I’m good. I am you should be asking Dean that he’s the one with the missing daughter.”Sam says giving her a sad smile  “Hey, how’s Jack?” As devotees are leaving the Church. A couple stops to talk to sister Jo. “You saved me, Sister.” The man thanks “Thank you.” Sister Jo smiles “God bless you.” the woman states “He does, every day.” Sister Jo walking down a dimly light alley, counting the money she made. Suddenly, a flutter of wings “Hey, Jo.” The feminine voice stops her in her tracks. She turns Y/n Winchester but not her. “Who are you?” Jo queried “You don't recognize me with this pretty face?” stated Michael Jo frowned “You're not -- You're not Y/n Winchester. You're,” she trailed off seeing his true form, “oh god.” she inhales sharply

“People keep calling me that.” Jo turned to walk away. “Ah, ah. We need to talk.” Michael tsked “You're the Archangel Michael, from another world, and you're possessing Y/n Winchester.” Jo confirmed

“Sounds more complicated than it is.” Michael shrugged “Why would she ever say “yes” to you?

“Love.” Michael spat walking towards Sister Jo. “Really? That's very Hallmark Channel. So, I'm just gonna go now.” Jo chuckled “No, you're not. Not until I ask you... what do you want?” He remarked

“I don't know. Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton.” Jo joked “You think this is a joke?” Jo shook her head “I don't know what this is. You asked I answered. We done?” Michael scoffed “No. I asked, and you lied.” “I didn't.” Jo crossed her arms Michael walks closer to her placing a hand on her cheek. “I know about you, Jo. Because he knew about you. You're the rebel, the angel who doesn't like playing by Heaven's rules or whatever. You pretend to care about these things -- pretty things. But that's all it is -- pretending. These trinkets, they don't make you happy. They just pass the time. They're not what you really want.”

“And if you're so smart, what do I really want?” Jo sassed

“Love,” Michael stated, “To belong, to have a place -- a home, a family. It's very very human of you. And so, so disappointing,” he smirked, “I can sense how many angels are in this world. There aren't many left. I thought... maybe I could help. But if they're all these sad, lost, fallen things -- things like you -- maybe they're not worth saving, either.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam walked out of Nick’s room sighing running a hand down his forehead. his phone goes off seeing it’s Cas he picks up “Hey, Cas.” He greets “Hello, Sam.” A voice answers Sam straighten up at the unfamiliar voice “Who is this?” he demands the voice laughs “Oh. I'm the boy who's got your angel. And if you want to see him again, you know, alive, we should probably chat.”

Sam begins to pack some weapons to rescue Castiel, along with Bobby, Jack, Maggie, and Mary. “It's a trap.” Mary sighed closing up her bag “Yep.” Sam nodded continuing packing

“This guy's a-” bobby asked “Demon.”Sam cut him off as he closed up his bag “He just told you he was a demon?” Jack questioned

Sam nodded “Yeah. He seemed pretty proud of it, too.” Bobby grumbled, “Yeah, they ain't a real humble bunch.” Maggie looked at the group of people “So, what do we do?” Sam loads his gun speaking “We get Cas back. All right, grab holy water, Devil's Trap bullets, angel blades, because whatever we're walking into-”

“It's gonna suck.” Bobby groaned “Exactly. Maggie, you're with Bobby. Mom, you're with me.” Sam continued Jack stood up looking at Sam “I'm coming, too. I know I'm not as strong as I used to be, but... I can help...I have to.” bobby placed a hand on jack’s shoulder “Listen, kid..” “Okay. Grab your gear.” Sam interrupts him Jack smiles at him and hurriedly leaves to prepare. Bobby looks over at Sam shocked “Sam, I mean -- Jack's a worker, but he ain't ready for a full-on demon smackdown.” Sam sighed “So... we keep an eye on him. He needs this, Bobby.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kipling grabs a cup of coffee from the bar. Castiel is still chained to the chair, bloody from his previous fight with the demons. “And danke, sweetie.” The demon raises his glass towards the bartender as he sits next to Castiel. “Castiel, you sure I can't get you anything hot and black?” Cas replied, “Coffee has no effect on me.” Kipling shrugged “Hm. Me either.” he takes a sip “You know, not anymore, but it's like saltwater taffy or infants -- you know, I just like the taste.” “Why are you doing this?”

“I'm just trying to be a good host like Mother would have wanted,” Kipling answered

Castiel sighed “No, Why are you using me as bait?” He said shaking the chains around him Kipling looked over at him “I mean, it's kind of what you're for, isn't it? And I need something... from Sam Winchester.”Castiel laughed “You really think that he's gonna make a deal with you?”

“Oh, he's dealt with worse. You see, recently, I had a revelation. You know, somebody asked me what it was that I wanted, and I realized that after 600 years as a demon walking the planet, destroying, drinking, defiling -- you know, the Three D's -- I didn't know. So, I sat back, and I gave it a good think, and I realized exactly what I wanted.” Kipling continued now standing above Cas

“And what is it?”

“Everything.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The Impala speed down the road, followed by another car Sam focuses on the road as Mary is sitting shotgun “Sam, it's gonna be fine.” she tries to reassure him. Sam scoffs “Stop saying that, please.”

“What?”

“It's gonna be fine,” that everything's gonna be fine, we're gonna find y/n, and..” Sam started thinking about his niece out there with Michael having no clue what he could be doing to her. Mary placed a hand on his shoulder “We are.”

“You don't know that....Y/n's gone, and we have no idea where she is or-or if she's even still alive. You know, Michael could have... burned her out or... worse, and...” He sighed

Mary frowned ”I know. I know she's out there, scared and alone. I know. I know she might never come back. Never think I don't know that. But -- I can't -- I have to think about the good, Sam, because, if I don't, I will drown in the bad. For Dean's sake for his kid, I can't do that. We can't do that.” She answers for the sake of Dean Sam and the rest had left after killing Kipling and most of the demons before heading back. Sam sits at the table, pressing a cold beer to his forehead as he talks on the phone “Yeah. Yeah, yeah. I -- No, I don't care. I -- just keep looking. Yeah. Thanks.” he hangs up sighing another dead end.

“Who was that?” Cas said entering sitting next to Sam “Uh, Ketch. He's in London searching for the Newton-Dee Hyperbolic Pulse Generator.” Sam answers

“The what?” Cas tilts his head in confusion

“It's the -- It's the magic egg that kicked Lucifer out of the President. I thought we could use it on Michael, but -- Ketch can't find it. So, that's another dead end, which is just awesome.” Sam explained sighing

Cas glanced over to his friend “Sam, are you all right?

“Yeah, I've been better. I've been worse. You?” Castiel looked down ashamed “I'm-I'm just sorry. I should never have gone to those demons.” Sam placed a hand on his shoulder “Cass, I -- No, I-I-I don't blame you. I... Honestly, I-I wish I'd have thought of it first. If it meant finding Y/n, I-I'd work with -- I'd do anything. Dean hasn’t been himself since.”

After Cas left Sam headed to his room he turns the light on and leaves his phone on the table. The phone starts vibrating Sam grabs it answering “Hello?”

“Sam?” The voice of Sister Jo calls through 

“Jo?” Sam handed heard from her since Lucifer 

“Yeah. We have a problem.” Jo answered

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Now, you -- you know exactly what you want. You don't pretend to want to help people or save the world. Your want is pure and simple and clean. And that's why you are worth saving. That's why we are going to work so well together. Because you -- you just want to eat.” Michael smiles looking over at the pack of hungry werewolves and vampires.

Dean sits in his room staring at an old photo of him and Y/n it was her 17th birthday they were sitting on impala talking about life when Sam took a photo of them together so happy and pure. A tear lands on the glass as Dean realizes he’s crying, wiping the tears from his face he stares at her face in mid-laugh. The door opening tears Dean from his thoughts.

Sam looks at him with a small smile “Dean we found her.”

[hvlfwygod]

WINDPIPE | BEN

tw: sleep deprivation, hallucinations, blood, self-harm, suicidal ideation, choking, violence/murder

A week ago, he had still been sleeping. He had let himself steal a few hours at night. Frightening as the nightmares were, confusing as waking up somewhere else could be, he had been telling himself it was necessary. Just something to suffer through. A few hours of fitful, awful sleep were better than no sleep at all. He missed being able to believe that.

—

Ben wasn’t sure if he was awake.

Jacob was talking, but there was no sound. Ben wondered when he fell asleep, and immediately started to panic because he shouldn’t be asleep. He scanned the room. What could wake him up? He saw a knife on the table and reached for it. It turned into a sword once it touched his hand, the blade suddenly long and sharp and already bloody.

“Ben?” Jacob’s voice cut through the illusion. Ben was holding the remote to the TV. He put it back on its spot on the coffee table. 

A cat weaved around his leg, mewing softly. The time on his phone displayed 5:38am. Had he really be sitting here for three hours?

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Got lost.”

“Have you not gone to bed yet?”

Ben blinked. “I just woke up.”

—

Ben couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had. He also wasn’t sure why he was drinking. A memory floated to the surface— standing in the liquor store the night previous with an assortment in front of him— but he wasn’t sure if he could trust it. He fished in his pockets until he found a receipt, but the words slid off the paper before he could read them.

He was sitting on the steps outside his apartment because his bed was a trap and he was a timebomb. It was starting to matter less and less, though, where he was. Even now, when he closed his eyes he felt himself start to go under, sleep hooking itself to him and pulling.

He pressed the cool bottle to his neck and forced himself to stare, unblinking, into the early morning sky until the moment passed.

—

The last text he got from his manager: I assume we won’t be seeing you at all this week?

—

He was supposed to see Ariana today. He was supposed to see her yesterday, too, or the day before, or the day before, and before. All the times previous, he’d run off. No, no, all the time previous, she’d kissed him and then turned her back. Ben shook his head because the thought stopped making sense.

She was coming soon, he thought. He cradled a coffee, his third that day. His he-didn’t-even-know since he stopped sleeping.

He hadn’t exactly planned on stopping entirely, but the ride back from Boston convinced him. He had fallen asleep before they even pulled out of South Station. His dream had been filled with death and he’d woken up an hour later only because the person next to him shoved his head into the window. According to the rightfully spooked passenger, he’d been about to stand in his sleep, muttering for someone to come back, come back.

He just couldn’t do it, after that.

Ben yawned, rubbed his eyes, finished his coffee and ordered another. The door opened, opened, opened. He was beginning to wonder if he’d imagined this entire meeting.

The door opened. A tall thin boy walked inside. Ben jerked back and nearly fell out of his chair.

It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible.

Colin sat across from him and smiled. Blood leaked from his teeth. Ben watched his neck tear open, saw the moment the windpipe shattered. Colin was talking, but there was no sound.

Ben barely made it outside before he started retching.

—

The last text he got from Hazel: How are you doing? Are you sleeping better?

—

Skin crawling, hands numb, mouth dry, the whole world was fuzzy at the edges. A rapid heartbeat rattled his entire body. Ben kept touching his face as if that might remind him where he was and why he was crying.

—

He didn’t know what to call it besides a compulsion. A quiet urge, a small, pleading need that he could ignore, but only for so long.

Do the right thing the right thing the right thing.

He didn't know what that meant, half of the time.

Do it do it do it.

It was more than his conscience. It was like there was someone else inside his head, whispering at all times, murmuring so constantly it turned into a low hum. This is wrong, correct, do this, stop that, stop, yes, no, no, no, tell him, talk to her, answer her call, tell him tell him tell him.

He thought it might be better to bury all of this with him. But every time the thought occurred another, more urgent one took over. Do not die before you tell him don’t let him remember you fondly.

His arm was burning. He didn’t remember doing it but that didn’t make it any better.

He looked it up. After a few days awake your brain started to microsleep. You lost pockets of time, your brain shut down while you stayed up and blinking. He was sure this is what was happening to him. He was microsleeping through the day, through conversation, through a relapse.

You have to tell him tell him tell him tell him tell him.

He didn’t know what to call it besides a compulsion. Some far away desire shouted from another room. Something that made sense even when it stopped making sense. Waking dream logic, maybe, or just some ingrained comfort of seeing blood beading against his skin.

—

The last text he got from Ariana: I heard you're back from Boston, let me know when you're free.

—

"When was the last time you slept?”

Ben was in a place that looked like the infirmary and his hair was being pushed back by someone who looked like L.

I don’t know, he told her, unsure if he said it out loud. Hadn’t he just been in another city? Now every minute was an hour, a day, another week awake.

“Can you try sleeping for me, Ben? Even if it’s just for twenty minutes? If you want me to wake you up after a certain amount of time, I can.”

Ben shook his head. Little lights danced in his vision.

L offered soup, and he accepted. But when she walked away to go heat some up, he left.

—

The last text he got from L: Please come back Ben I’m worried about you.

—

Ben was upright on his bedroom floor, hands pressed to his eyes, thinking about all the people who were dead who didn’t deserve to be while he was still here, wasting away.

He could see so clearly the exact moment the life had left his eyes. They followed him, unseeing, everywhere.

It was so unfair, it was all so unfair, and everything about him wanted to make it right. 

He couldn’t fix everything but he could do this, he could put the person who should have died first, five years ago, into the ground. He could do that.

—

Are you still up?

He was 13 again and trying to remember the number for a hotline he’d never actually call.

I just checked the time and you definitely aren’t still up.

I’m really sorry.

You shouldn’t be fighting for me this hard.

—

The last text he got from Danny: The taffy is amazing love you Benny

—

He was several drinks deep and had just talked himself off a ledge. The cat woke up when he stumbled from his room and out the front door.

The time on his phone displayed 3:42am. He didn’t remember which way Danny’s house was but he walked anyway.

—

He was in the woods, somewhere, when his mother visited him.

Ben jerked back so quickly he tripped over himself and fell. He caught himself on his hand and it sent a jolt of pain up through to his shoulder. Nemesis settled in front of him. His heart nearly came out of his throat.

“Ben.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ben.”

“Fuck you!”

“Bentley.” Nemesis took her son’s face and angled it upward. His eyes couldn’t focus on her face.

“Fuck you,” Ben repeated. His words tumbled out of his mouth. “Are you that old woman? Was that you, fucking taunting me? Showing me how much I failed you?” Ben’s mind was spiraling on rage. His whole body felt alive with it. He was more awake than he’d been in days. “Fuck you. It’s always you. You’re the reason for everything.”

“Bentley, you are not asleep. I have not visited you in dreams.”

“Fuck you, fuck you.”

She let him go and towered over him. “Bentley, I am sending you away. Do you want to sleep properly again?”

“No.”

“No?”

Ben was on his feet again, somehow. He turned away from the vision of his mother. She was in front of him again in an instant.

“Fuck you!” Ben shouted. “Fuck you. I’m not doing shit for you.”

“You must.” The goddess knelt in front of him. “Ben, open your eyes. You will go to Chiron tomorrow and tell him—”

“I will not do anything you ever fucking ask me! Do you get that? Smite me kill me torture me I don’t give a shit I won’t I won’t I won’t—”

“Calm down,” she said. Ben realized that he had been screaming, and stopped. “You have no choice,” she continued. Ben realized that he had no choice. The fight slid out of his muscles.

“Where am I going?”

“Newfoundland. There is something draining the life out of the earth. You are getting a glimpse of what this feels like. What is happening is causing imbalance, as I’m sure you can tell. Those responsible need to be corrected. You will go and take care of this how you see fit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Bentley.”

“How I see fit? Fuck you. Why did you make me like this? Fuck you, fuck you.”

“It is not my fault you act against your own morality.”

“Fuck you, fuck you! You let us all die. You let—”

“I am making up for that now. You are helping.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you not think you could stand to practice your execution of justice?”

“Fuck you! You let him come back here and you didn’t stop him from killing someone and you didn’t stop anyone from dying and you didn’t stop me. He wasn’t a lesson, he wasn’t a practice round he’s dead, he’s fucking dead and I did what I saw fit and because of you I will never, never never never be able to— fuck, fuck, fuck fuck f...” Ben was sobbing. He couldn’t form words anymore.

“I am not asking you to kill anyone, Bentley.”

He didn’t answer.

“You know how to ease this burden.” She watched her son cry. “Go to Chiron tomorrow.”

—

Ben was a coward.

His wrist was swelling and tender, so he fumbled one-handed in the hanging planter and somehow, found a key.

He missed the lock three times before he made it inside.

Ben was a goddamn coward. He’d come all the way here clutching his confession close and now, when it was time to speak it, he could not bear to. Danny was asleep and blissful upstairs and Ben was a nightmare come to destroy his happiness. He wanted to die all over again.

He was on a couch, staring at the ceiling, hyperventilating into a pillow so no one would hear. Had he even closed the door, or had he simply marched inside and collapsed here? Had he woken the house up? Was Danny waiting just out of sight, watching Ben and weeping, crying over someone he shouldn’t?

—

Ben would tell him, but he waited until morning.

Except when he finally moved, the day was already halfway over. The sun sagged in the sky and the couch was sinking into the floorboards. A voice was whispering into his ear over: murderer murder murderer murderer murderer. Ben felt as though he were on fire, but he struggled to his feet anyway.

He walked, and walked, and walked, and finally made it outside, into a blistering sun, where he found Danny digging a hole into the ground.

“Thank you for everything,” Ben said. “I have something I need to tell you.”

Danny kept digging.

"Can we go back inside?” Ben reached for Danny’s hands.

Danny turned to face him, and he was crying.

“You missed the funeral.”

Ben realized with horror that he was dreaming.

—

The sun sputtered out, like last time. A hand pulled him to the pavement.

“Looks like they missed one,” Colin hissed.

An old woman was laughing, cooing, choking him.

He was in the middle of Manhattan and nothing was familiar, and he was staring into the face of something between a woman and a monster. 

“You must really have a death wish,” she said because he couldn’t.

He heard a car horn blaring in the distance and a man shouting that he should have listened, he should have gotten out of here when he had the chance.

“Do you even know who you’re up against here?” Colin and the woman asked, their voices layering over one another. “I could scramble your brains and then crack your skull open like an egg.”

“Your fate is decided.” Ben forced the words out. His throat burned. “I decided it. You deserve to die, so you will. It doesn’t matter what you do.”

Danny, I should have told you this as soon as it happened.

He was in the middle of Manhattan, and everything was too familiar, and he was staring into the face of someone he knew. Chase Peterson stared back at him, looking shocked even as his fingers tightened around Ben’s throat.

I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.

He couldn’t breathe. He was dying in a dream but somehow, he knew his body was, too. He was fighting for air, thrashing on Danny’s couch as his brain started to shut down. The whole dream went spotty.

I won’t be around for your birthday.

The old woman pulled Chase off of him. He gasped as air returned to him. Ben scrambled to his feet and watched himself walk. He was lightheaded, dizzy, but moving anyway. 

He was inside and outside of himself at the same time. Corpses stared up at the sky all around him. He stalked forward, and Chase was trying not to show on his face just how scared he was, and Ben was telling himself to stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop—

“You don’t deserve such a quick end,” he rasped out, weeping as he kicked Chase and felt the crunch of a nose breaking under his boot.

I’m sorry I made you fight so hard for me.

A sword went through his throat.

Colin died, and then he smiled at Ben.

He was bleeding everywhere, over everything. The whole world went inky red, red, red. Ben was screaming, but there was no sound.

He woke up.

[sunnyfitzherbert]

This Magic Moment | Sunmack

Who: @lerouxmack & @sunnyfitzherbert

When: During the magic barrier break. 

Where: 1162 Wizard Way

What: Mack invites Sunny over to discuss business, but with the magic barrier broken and availability to her powers, she has other things on her mind. 

Mack had a great idea for the band's marketing, an idea so good that it just couldn't wait, so he texted Sunny asking her to meet at his cottage ASAP. He figured she'd respond quickly thinking it was an emergency because never before had he even implied he wanted to hang out with her alone for any reason. After their somewhat awkward movie night, Mack had actually been avoiding her as much as possible. Hard to do when she makes up 1/3 of the friend group he'd somehow gotten dragged into. That wasn't fair- he liked both Gerti and Sunny- but Sunny gave him major crazy vibes sometimes and he just didn't know how to handle it solo yet. He waited by the door, ready to answer at first knock, and he did as soon as he heard the light rapping of Sunny's fist on the door. He opened it quickly and pulled her inside, "Sun," He started. A nickname. That was new and weird, but he was on such an idea high it didn't stop him. "Imagine this, okay? All our social go dark for like a week, like we delete everything from all our personal Instagrams and the band's, okay? Then we start dropping hints about playing a secret show, but we make it like one huge scavenger hunt or something. What do you think?" He finished, taking a deep breath in to recover from the almost minute he hadn't been breathing. He wring his hands together, watching her, waiting for her response.

Sunny had been dealing with this magic barrier thing to the best of her ability. Walt had kind of always been a place where she didn’t have to worry about her powers, or even think of them, because back home she tried to use them as much as possible without getting caught. But here? With no mother in sight to stop her? It was proving as difficult as it was for her dad to stop stealing, she was certain. So when Mack invited her over, she really had to remind herself of her mother’s words — “You use your charm for good. Not anything else.” So she wouldn’t be charming Mack tonight, that would be bad and totally against her mother’s wishes. As soon as Mack opened the door, though, and called her ‘Sun’.....Well, she was being tested for sure. And even more so when he started raving about this totally brilliant social media blackout idea. “What do I think?” she began with a scoff. “I think I’m fired, take my job!” She laughed, pretending to slough all of her nonexistent work attire into him. “But really, that’s completely brilliant. Would this be before the battle or after? Or — ooh! In between weekends since there’s no way you guys are getting eliminated first?” She smirked. See? She could be charming without her powers.

Mack could feel Sunny’s excitement over his idea, and it made him feel super smart. He normally didn’t show this much emotion for anything, let alone a marketing idea for their band, but he was definitely riding a sugar high right now as evidenced by the wrappers that didn’t quite make it in laying next to the kitchen trash can. “In between weekends is perfect,” He confirmed, starting to pace back and forth as his mind raced. “We just need a venue, and I guess we can use whatever merch we don’t sell the first weekend of Battle of the Bands. I have to get with Gerti for a set list...maybe some unreleased songs we aren’t doing at either weekend? Shit, I guess I have to text her.” He started to feel around in his pockets for his phone, coming up empty handed. “I guess I left it somewhere,” He mumbled, looking around the foyer, not seeing it. “Let me check my room. Make yourself at home.” He held up a finger signaling Sunny to give him a minute before turning to go search for his phone in his room.

Sunny could feel the vibes going on between them. Maybe she was wrong and he had just eaten too many candy bars or whatever, but her fingertips tingled and her cheeks were flushed and he seemed happier in her presence now than he ever had before...That had to have been a sign. But then he mentioned Gerti and she wished that just once her friend wouldn’t come up. Sunny rolled her eyes subtly, and started discreetly humming her incantation. “You don’t need to get your phone,” she said nonchalantly. “Stay here, we can work through a set list.” She sat on the couch and patted the seat next to her. “So obviously, Rocket Launcher. It’s a crowd favorite. Which ones aren’t you guys doing for either weekend?” Okay, so maybe she wasn’t using her powers for active ‘good’ right now, but it also wasn’t actively bad. Right?

Mack: Mack was just about to reach his bedroom door when he stopped, feeling almost like he’d forgotten what he was about to do. He stared into his doorway for a moment, confused, before turning around and joining Sunny on the couch. “I guess I’ll just tell her later,” He mumbled, shaking his head to try and clear whatever fog he was experiencing. Crash from the sugar high maybe? He sat next to Sunny, leaning back and draping an arm across the back of the couch. He nodded, “Yeah, totally. We can probably close with that one.” He thought through all the songs he and Gerti had written, trying to come up with some more obscure ones. “We’ve never played TV Lights anywhere, or Pea Soup. I don’t think we’re playing them at the competition either. Oh, there’s also...” He trailed off, instantly regretting bringing up the song he was currently in the middle of writing. “Never mind, it’s still a work in progress. I haven’t actually played it for anyone yet so I don’t think we could do it for either thing.” He brushed it off, turning away from Sunny to reach for a hidden Laffy Taffy in his book bag sitting on the floor. “Can you think of anything else?” He asked, popping it in his mouth.

Sunny tried to seem as normal as possible as Mack bent to her will. She had to admit that, while it was super shady of her to be purposefully excluding her BFF from this, she’d missed getting to charm people like this. And this was harmless! Just making sure that she and Mack got some alone time, was all. “Yeah, Pea Soup isn’t really competition material but super fun for a secret venue,” she agreed as she noticed Mack start to mention a song and then brush it off. “Wait, there’s something I haven’t heard?” She grinned widely and placed a throw pillow in her lap, getting as cozy as possible. “Play it for me! I can judge. Besides, Gerti’s a super fast learner.” She tugged at her earlobe and hummed, hoping he didn’t notice the faint glow in her hair as her powers came into effect.

Mack instantly regretted bringing the new song he was working on up. It was nowhere near ready, and honestly, he was probably going to just embarrass himself by playing it but he’d thrown it out there and now he felt compelled to play it for her. He looked like he was debating for a moment, then finally got up to grab his guitar. He threw the strap over his shoulder and took one last look at Sunny as if to apologize in advance to her then started playing. It was a simple melody, nothing fancy, just melodic enough to be pleasing to the ear with a few flats and sharps thrown in for fun. He started singing as softly as he could, fully aware of the intimacy performing for one person brought. The lyrics, half finished at some points, were about an idyllic relationship Mack didn’t have but figured he might one day so it was fine to write about it prematurely. As he came to a close, he played one last chord then stopped the strings with his hand quickly. He avoided eye contact with Sunny as he removed his guitar from his body and set it down. “Like I said it’s not done, but there it is,” He said, dancing around the question of what she thought of it.

Sunny watched him get into the groove of his song, and watching Mack be so cute and nervous combined with the sweetness of the lyrics...well, if she hadn’t been 100% sure about her crush already, that would’ve solidified it. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth until he finished, and when he finally put the guitar away, she couldn’t help but give a small round of applause. “Wow,” Sunny breathed, “Whoever that is about is such a lucky girl.” She shrugged, not necessarily wanting to charm him into telling her lies or anything. That was kind of where she drew the line. Though, there were some lines in that song that made her wonder. “Was it about anyone...or anything in particular?” she asked genuinely.

Mack reached for another hidden candy and chewed on it nervously. What was he supposed to tell Sunny? He just made up lyrics about something, or someone, that didn't exist? That would be the lamest shit ever, so he thought of a way to evade the truth without telling an outright lie, "It's just some girl. We're not super close or anything, but that's how I imagine it would be if we were. She doesn't know, though and I'm not planning on it getting out anytime soon, but she's cool. Cooler than previously thought." Okay - Mack thought - this was spiraling. Thinking it better to quit while he was ahead, he shut up. Peeking one last look at Sunny to see if she bought it before picking up his notebook to jot down some notes for the secret event planning.

Sunny cocked a brow. Not to claim that the guy she liked was a total loser or anything, but he did only know two girls that weren’t his sister or her friends. So unless Mack was secretly coveting a Fierce Five girl, the only two options were herself and Gerti. But he was being so vague that it almost sounded like a lie. Sunny felt her heartbeat quicken. He was totally talking about her. “Well, she’d be pretty dumb to not fall completely head over heels for you,” Sunny shrugged, trying not to come on too strong before she made her move. “What if she felt the same way? What would you do?” She hummed her incantation under her breath, just to take the tension out of the air so he wouldn’t let his nerves get in the way. Nothing major or anything, just a little something to keep everyone in the room...honest.

Mack swallowed his candy a little too early, halfway choking on it as it went down his throat. This conversation was getting a little too friendly for him, to say the least. He was about to tell Sunny to just drop it when his nervousness suddenly faded. Why had he been so scared before? He felt like he could tell Sunny anything, maybe even more so than he did with Gerti or his own sister. “I don’t know,” He answered honestly, “I’ve never really been in that position. Before this band I don’t think anyone really considered me to be the ‘Hot Boy’,” He laughed, “I know one thing for sure, though. I would not take her home to meet my mother. We all saw how that went for Molly and Ned.” He ran a hand through his hair, thinking some more. “Other than that? I guess write more songs about her.”

Sunny cocked a brow as Mack rambled on. Weird to compare her to Ned since she was royal, but she shrugged it off. She’d ask questions later. “Before this band, I definitely considered you the ‘Hot Boy’,” she admitted with a shrug as she moved in closer to him. “But hey — “ Sunny clutched Mack by the collar and pulled him in for the most long-anticipated kiss of her life. Wow, this was really happening! She did it. She got the guy — and this is why she should have always been able to use these powers, Mom. She pulled away and ran her tongue over her lips. “There’s something you can write a song about. You’re welcome.”

Mack was shocked when Sunny admitted she'd found him hot. He didn't think they were at THAT level of friendship yet. He could've said it back, it wasn't like Sunny was ugly or anything, but before he even had the chance to accept the compliment Sunny's lips were on his. He didn'y even fully register what was happening until she pulled away, presuming that he should be thanking her. He stared at her for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. "Um, what?" He asked incredulously. "What?" He repeated, standing up and running a hand through his hair. "What?!" He repeated once more for emphasis, turning to face her. "What just happened?" He was trying to wrap his head around the fact that Sunny had just kissed him, but it wasn't working. "Why did you just do that?"

Sunny had expected some level of shock from Mack. After all, she had just taken initiative and made both of their dreams come true. That had to be surprising. But what she didn't expect was the amount of terror in his expression. Oh no. Rather than talk this through or answer any of his questions or even face the possibility that she'd read his signs wrong, she hummed -- hurriedly, maybe the fastest she'd ever hummed before. Her tresses glowed, and she looked Mack in the eyes. "You're okay. It's alright, we can talk about this some other time," she nodded to him, praying that he nodded back. Sometimes when she was nervous, her persuasion faltered a bit, but she needed it to work right this second. It would've been so easy to make him believe he'd enjoyed the kiss, but that was just so slimy. She couldn't bring herself to do it. She just needed to go. "I'll go now, and we can talk about this later." She gulped, clutching her coat to her chest. "I had a really nice time though." Sunny plastered on a grin, and very selfishly, she clutched Mack's shoulder and placed one last, chaste kiss on his cheek. She had to savor this while she could, before the consequences of her actions caught up to her. "I'll see you at the competition -- if it happens," she shrugged as she ducked out of the cottage to catch her breath. Shit. If she hadn't been the girl he was talking about, then who was it? No time to think about that. She had to start brainstorming damage control.

[dmukcs]

미신 - Superstition

Korea as a lot of unique superstitions, but here are some of the more well-known ones that some people still believe in today.

Sleeping with a fan on

The most popular Korean superstition is the fan death (선풍기사망설 - seonpunggisamangseol). The superstitions may be started in 1927 in a newspaper article that claimed electric fans can cause nausea, facial paralysis, and asphyxiation. This is because they believe the fan will circulate the stale air causing sleepers to choke on the carbon dioxide they breathe out. However, if you leave the windows and door open to create airflow, you’re safe.

Trimming fingernails at night 

The belief is that if you trim your nails at night, mice will come and eat the clippings and transform into your form and steal your soul. The truth behind the superstition is that back when there was no electricity and light, there was a high risk of hurting your fingers so clipping your nails at night was discouraged. 

Chopstick 

The way you hold your chopsticks can indicate the time taken to get married. The closer it is to the tip, the longer you have to wait to get married. 

It is also bad luck in many Asian countries to have your chopsticks sticking upright in the bowl because they look like incense. Incense is used to honour and mourn deceased family members so placing your chopsticks upright will bring you misfortune.

Whistling at night 

Koreans believe that whistling at night invites snakes and ghost. This is actually a popular superstition in Asia and in Aboriginal culture.

Washing your hair

Washing your hair on the first day of the year (New Years) will wash your good luck away. You also shouldn’t wash your hair before an exam as it washes away the knowledge.

4 

In a lot of Asian cultures, the word for four (사 - sa) sounds like the word for death and is extremely unlucky so a lot of buildings skip the 4th floor or is labelled “F” instead. 

Dream pigs 

In many Asian cultures, pigs are considered a symbol of wealth so dreaming of them will mean fortune will soon come to you. 

Writing names in red 

Writing a name in red will cause that person to die as dead family member’s names are usually written in red on records. This is a popular superstition across much of Asia. 

Shoe gifts

DO NOT BUY SHOES AS A GIFT. Unless you want them to leave you. It is believed that it causes the person to run away from you forever.

Feeding wings to someone

A girl should avoid feeding wings to their boyfriend wings from any bird because it will make the husband fly away/have an affair.

Food knowledge 

Before going to exams, students will eat taffy (엿 - yeot), or any sticky food because it makes the knowledge stick in the student’s mind. On the other hand, they will avoid eating slippery foods like noodles and seaweed soup because it causes the knowledge to slip out your brain. 

Jumping over babies 

Jumping over babies will prevent the growth of the baby meaning they’ll be short instead of tall. 

Also, unless you’re taking part in El Colacho in Spain, maybe don’t jump over babies in general. It’s not safe. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/article/el-colacho-baby-jumping-festival-murcia-spain 

Butterfly blindness

Koreans believed that touching butterflies and then touching your eyes will cause you to go blind so make sure to wash your hands after touching a butterfly.

Moving day

If you’re moving house, pick a fortuitous date otherwise evil spirits will follow you to your new house. This is because you will block the spirits from going to heaven if you move on certain days. To find the right days, they use the evil spirit-free day calendar (손없는날 달력 - soneomneunnal dallyeok - here’s a link: http://www.bojagicard.com/bojagicard/doc/menu/wedcard/calendar.html). 

Another superstition is to not clean your house before moving because the spirits will see you’re moving and follow you. 

Bibliography:

http://www.banana-mag.com/all-things-azn/2020/4/22/asian-superstitions-issue005 https://theculturetrip.com/asia/south-korea/articles/10-superstitions-that-koreans-still-believe-today/  https://www.90daykorean.com/korean-superstitions-that-just-may-save-your-life/  https://www.soompi.com/article/1222973wpp/13-unique-korean-superstitions-may-not-known  https://www.koreatravelpost.com/korean-superstitions/