#soundtrack fills

[quartzitess]

They're still there. They're in there. They're in they're body but yet they're so far gone. the infections like a parasite and yet two was trying to fight it, they were scared and they wanted gaty. Not just to protect her but to feel the person that they felt close and comfortable around, and to take them both to the couch, they could've went for anyone. But they went for GATY. they could've killed her but they didn't. There's something so strangely endearing about that. Truly. Even when they're voice is being used to lure gaty in a sense I feel two geniunely wanted to help, they're so far gone, the little details, not just with how they move but with how they SPEAK. they're practically the host for a parasite and yet. They're still there.

[cartoonkati09]

—I wish I never hung up the phone like I did

[compacflt]

if you're open to angsty prompts - tgm mission goes bad and Ice gets to accept Bradley and Mav's flags at their funerals? (but only if you're feeling angsty. if not, feel free to ignore!)

San Diego, California. November 2016.

It should not be surprising that the complicated politics of a funeral like Mitchell’s supersede even the national grief of losing him, but of course it is. The Defense Department and the new administration (loudly Tweeting out of their asses because the President-Elect hasn’t yet been sworn in) want to hold it in Arlington. Do it in D.C., show American unity, show how proud we are of our fallen aviator, who sacrificed himself for America’s national interests, bury him in Virginian soil next to Kennedy’s eternal flame… It’s not a terrible idea, geopolitically speaking. But the Republican leadership of the state of Texas wants a piece of him, too. Why not bury him in the National Cemetery in Dallas? That’s where he’s from. Lay him to rest in the soil of his forefathers, as all good men should be. But the entire Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy, it is argued by people who aren’t Kazansky, also has a stake in this. Bury him at sea. He gave his life for the Navy. This is how it ought to be. Bury both Mitchell and Bradshaw at sea the way we buried other American Navy heroes like John Paul Jones. (When he hears this argument, Kazansky also remembers that we buried Osama bin Laden at sea, too.)

The whole political clusterfuck is put to rest at last in mid-November, when someone bothers to ask Kazansky what he thinks, and Kazansky says, “I’ll remind you that there’s absolutely nothing left of him to bury. But Mitchell lived in California for the last thirty years of his life. He told me he’d want to be buried in San Diego. I don’t really care where you put him. But that’s what he said he wanted.” And after Pacific Command leadership hears this and communicates it to the White House, everyone all of a sudden bends over backwards to organize a joint funeral in San Diego, where Bradshaw’s parents are buried, anyway. Maybe it really is fitting. Okay.

It’s a funny thing, ritual. The military’s full of it. A funeral: that’s a ritual. So, too, is promotion, retirement, commissioning in the first place. So, too, is the everyday ritual of getting dressed, donning battle gear, which today is dress blues, the way it was the day Mitchell died. Medals instead of ribbons. The President posthumously gave Bradshaw and Mitchell Medals of Honor. Their bodies would be wearing them, if there were bodies to bury. The President prehumously gave Kazansky and Seresin Medals of Honor as well. Kazansky’s is sitting around his throat like a noose. He feels like nothing but a body himself, no soul, already passed-on. They’ll lower Mitchell’s empty casket into the ground this afternoon and Kazansky’s already thinking about climbing inside it before they do. He’s not so un-self-aware that he can’t see the absurdity in that thought. But he’s also not so self-aware that he isn’t having that thought.

It’s the highest-profile funeral Kazansky’s attended in a few years. The Secretary of State is here. The Secretary of Defense is here. The Secretary of the Navy is here. The Vice President is here. He, too, has only recently lost a son; he, too, has already lost someone he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. They don’t talk, but when they shake hands, it feels like stronger solidarity than all the Sorry for your losses Kazansky’s received over the past couple weeks. Everyone here knows about him and Mitchell, in a way that had once been Kazansky’s worst nightmare; now, his actual worst nightmare having been realized, he can’t bring himself to care, and no one’s making a big deal out of it. When they say, Sorry for your loss, they don’t mean in the “loss of two highly strategic assets for the U.S. Pacific Fleet” sense, they mean in the “loss of the only two people you cared about more than your career” sense. Sorry for your loss. It’s not so bad. And because everyone knows, in a way that had once been Kazansky’s worst nightmare, no one bats an eye when Kazansky realizes his actual worst nightmare and accepts Mitchell’s folded flag. No, they weren’t legal family. But everyone knows they were close enough.

He tacks his own Naval aviator wings onto Mitchell’s empty casket. Twenty-one guns fire. He salutes. They lower two empty caskets into the ground and he’s still standing. It doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not really a goodbye, because neither Mitchell nor Bradshaw are actually inside. He watches Seresin struggle not to cry. He stands before a few hundred people and makes a short boring speech about service and sacrifice that he did not write. This is all political. This is all just for show. Most ritual usually is. So who gives a fuck.

He disappears before anyone can pin him down to apologize again and again, but finds that his intended hideout location has already been claimed: by the time he makes it to Goose’s grave, Seresin’s already standing there alone, his hands in his blues pockets, his cap tucked under his arm.

“I just,” says Seresin stupidly. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is sallow. They’ve never really spoken, the two of them, but Kazansky’s heard the rumors about him and Bradshaw. And he’s sure Seresin’s heard the rumors about him and Mitchell. They’re in the same leaking boat, here. “Bradley talked about him all the time.” Gestures down to the grave. “And about you. And about Maverick.”

Kazansky says, “Would you want to have lunch with me? I’m not very hungry. But maybe we can talk.” He’s trying. Too little too late, but he’s trying.

He exchanges his jingling blues coat for a regular suit jacket in the armored Suburban. Takes the Medal of Honor off as he does. Seresin, still only a lieutenant, doesn’t have the luxury of a general staff who will carry around a wardrobe change on his behalf. He’s gonna have to make do with his dress blues. He’s nervously fingering the Medal of Honor around his neck, and will continue to do so long after they’ve taken their seats in a restaurant downtown where Kazansky used to take Mitchell out for dinner, not so long ago. He can hear his chief flag aide kindly whispering to their waiter: Somewhere in the back. Where they won’t be bothered. Everyone’s being so kind.

“I could kill him,” Seresin says after a few minutes.

“Who?” says Kazansky incuriously. He’s been running his fingers over the condensation on his water glass. Now his fingertips are wet. Actions and consequences.

“Cyclone. He’s the one who refused to send me. And he didn’t launch search-and-rescue, either.”

Kazansky blinks, then looks down at his menu. “No, son, that was me.”

Seresin’s Then I could kill you goes unsaid. It’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Kazansky’s read through the menu—every word—twice. Then Seresin says, “Why?”

“You would’ve searched for the rest of your life and rescued nothing, and blamed yourself.”

“I blame myself for not going anyway. For not disobeying orders. —Maverick would’ve gone.”

Yeah, he probably would have. Kazansky remembers, in a split second, a story Mitchell had only told him a few years ago, lying next to him in the dark, a little tipsy after dinner and touchy-feely as he always was lying next to Kazansky in the dark: I don’t think I ever told you the story of how I saved Cougar’s life. His warm hands, gentle and unhurried, sliding up and down Kazansky’s abdomen: it’s so funny the details you choose to overlook at the time, and only remember when you lose them. / Well, I never wanted to ask. You hate telling those stories, I thought, Kazansky had said. Because it was true. At any party, Mitchell could tell the stories of how he saved Cougar’s life and how he ejected out of a flat spin at TOPGUN and how he shot down three MiGs not two weeks later—but he’d always have nightmares about all of it the night after. He hated telling those stories. He’d only do it if people asked, so Kazansky never asked. / You’re here in bed next to me, Mitchell said, so I’ll sleep just fine. Let me be a hero for you for once. —It was the day I saw that first Soviet MiG up close. Remember that? Negative four-G inverted dive? That was real, baby. Scared the shit outta Cougar. Messed him up bad. I mean, he thought we were all cooked. He wasn’t gonna land, I mean. Or if he tried, he was gonna plow right into the side of the boat. Couldn’t see straight. You ever been so scared you couldn’t see straight? He was dipping his wings, power too low, basically drunk-driving his Tomcat, I mean, it was freaky. So I touch-and-goed my F-14. / Against orders, surely, Kazansky’d said. / Oh, of course. You’ve met me, haven’t you? Of course, against orders. We were both outta gas. But I took off again and circled around to find him, and guided him in, you know, level off, call the ball, there you go, Coug, you got it, you got it. Don’t know if he ever told you this—he probably did ten million dollars of damage to that plane. Fucked up the landing gear and snapped off his tailhook and ground up into the fuselage. / But he lived. / But he lived, Mitchell said, and that’s how I got sent to TOPGUN. And that’s—with a soft sweet kiss—how I met you. / My hero, Kazansky’d said.

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally. “Maverick would’ve gone. —But he’d have searched for the rest of his life and rescued nothing, and blamed himself.”

Seresin says, “Is that what happened with him and Bradley’s dad? Is that what happened with Goose?”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for another while. The waiter comes by to take their orders. Kazansky’s not hungry and orders a beer. Seresin’s starving and orders a burger and a side of onion rings and a glass of wine.

“Can I ask you a question?” Seresin says after another few minutes. “Are you, like, a coward, or something? —That speech you gave was pretty neutered, sir. You loved him and you can’t even say it at his funeral?”

It’s a stupid, immature question. The Navy doesn’t deserve to hear that out loud. Nor does Mitchell’s empty casket. Only Mitchell did, and too late now. Kazansky shrugs. “If I were a brave man,” he says, “do you think I would have let him go?”

“I’d like to think I’m a brave man,” says Seresin. “I let Bradley go because I trusted him to come back. —Honestly, I’m kind of fucking pissed about it, to be honest. Sorry for the language. But it’s the truth. The night after he died, I mean, I went apeshit. Tore up our photos, punched the wall, cried myself fucking dry, that kind of stupid shit. I was so mad. I trusted him to come back, and he didn’t. Thought he was a good pilot. —Sorry. Is that sacrilegious to say? We aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, are we? I don’t care. I’m still mad about it. I know I shouldn’t be. But it’s the only thing I know how to be, is angry. Does that make sense?”

“It makes sense.”

“Are you angry?”

“Yes, but not at Mitchell. You know that saying, we have old pilots and bold pilots, but never old, bold pilots? Maverick was an old, bold pilot. We both knew he was living on borrowed time. That’s how he lived.”

“Pretty fucking defeatist.”

Kazansky shrugs again. He is a man defeated.

Seresin says, “Are you gonna be okay?” Then, in the resulting silence, he says, “Sorry, stupid question. Sorry. It’s just—“ He hesitates. It’s only now that Kazansky sees the dark circles under his eyes, the tremor in his hands, the desperation in the stiffness of his shoulders. “Look, it’s just that I don’t think I’m going to be okay, and you’re a lot older than me, and I keep thinking you have, like, the answer. Some wisdom, you know what I mean? How am I gonna be okay? You’re the Commander of the Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy. Aren’t you supposed to know what to do? Aren’t you supposed to give me orders? What do I do?”

“If I were a wise man,” Kazansky says, “do you think I would have let him go?”

Seresin is quiet. His food comes. He immediately launches into it, eats ravenously and silently for a few minutes.

Then he says, around a bite of his burger, “You know, I was gonna ask him to marry me.”

“Bradshaw?”

“Who else?”

Kazansky blinks. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah,” says Seresin. “You know, fucking everyone is.”

“Lunch is on me,” Kazansky says.

Home, afterwards, is silent and lonely. Of course it is: Mitchell’s not here. Of course. Kazansky’s settling into it. Life so rarely gives you a choice, when assigning you ritual, routine. There’s still legal paperwork to fill out. That he can do. And there are still letters of condolences to respond to: Thank you for your kind words. Maverick was… figuring out how to end that sentence will give Kazansky a way to occupy his time for a while. And there are flowers to throw out—no one wants flowers after someone they care about has died. They stink up the house and permeate everything with their reminder of grief and mourning, and you’ll find the dried petals even months later and grieve and mourn all over again. Kazansky throws them all out before they can start shedding. There are friends to call and thank for coming. “I don’t know what to say,” Slider says over the phone. / “Yeah, neither do I,” says Kazansky, so they sit in silence on the line together for a while, and that’s pretty nice. / “He was the best of us,” says Sundown, and Kazansky thinks about what Seresin had said a few hours ago: Thought he was a good pilot. It’s a cruel thought, but sometimes the only thing you can be is angry: if Maverick really was the best of us, he should’ve come home. / “You know, I’m still in his debt,” says Cougar. “He saved my life thirty years ago. It’s so fucking stupid, you know what I mean, this idea that I should’ve saved his in return? Feels like it’s my fault that he died. Maybe I’m too superstitious. I’m indebted to a fucking dead man. I’ll never be able to pay him back. —Sorry, Ice. Sorry. I don’t mean to make it all about me. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” says Kazansky. “Don’t, um—look, I’m just curious. How did he save your life? Would you mind telling me?”

“I don’t remember too much of it, to be honest,” says Cougar. “That’s why I quit, isn’t it? Something wrong with me. I was so scared I couldn’t see straight. You ever been so scared you couldn’t see straight? I wouldn’t have landed if it weren’t for Maverick. Or, if I had tried, I think I would’ve plowed into the side of the boat. Dipping my wings, power too low, basically drunk-driving my Tomcat. There was something wrong with me. You know, they could’ve kicked him out for that stunt, touch-and-going his F-14 like that. We were both outta gas. It could’ve killed him, too. But he guided me in. Saved my life. —I don’t think I ever told you this. I probably did about ten million dollars of damage to that plane. Fucked up my landing gear, snapped off my tailhook, ground up into the fuselage.”

“But you lived.”

“But I lived,” says Cougar. “And I came home to my family. Only ‘cause of him.”

“He was a hero.”

“He was a fucking hero,” says Cougar. “To the very fucking last. Sorry you had to go and fall in love with him. They advise against that, don’t they?”

“What, falling in love with heroes?”

“Yeah. —Sorry. Not funny.”

“A little funny. In a cosmic sense. Means it’s my own fault.”

Cougar pauses. “It wasn’t your fault, Ice.”

There’s still a Fleet to be run. Still work to be done. Kazansky can do that. People will laud him for the rest of his life for his professionalism under duress. He works when he should be grieving. Work is a ritual, too. Take some time off, sir, one of the Chief of Naval Operations’ aides had begged him. You need time. But he can’t. Only thing to do is keep working until all the work is done. The geopolitical situation after the mission, which was still classified as a success, is quite bad. They knew it would be. A bombing mission on Russian territory right near the American general election? Yeah, that’s bad. Russia’s Foreign Ministry has openly stated that if they find any remains of Mitchell and Bradshaw’s bodies, they will not extradite them home to the United States. I’m sorry you had to hear that, the President e-mailed him personally. But it’s fine. Kazansky likes the chaos. Means there’s work to do. He works.

When he can’t work anymore, because he’s done all the work that needs to be done, he takes care of another ritual. Life assigned him this one without giving him a choice, too. It’s past 2200. He turns no light on. He’s not sleeping in their bed, which is pretty cliché, and maybe he should be stronger than that, but you do have to make some concessions to your own grief when something like this happens. But he’s strong enough to sit on the side of it that had been his and open his phone and dial the number of his only favorited contact and hold the phone to his ear. It gives the dial tone five times, as is routine, and then Mitchell picks up the phone, as is routine. Hi! Captain Pete Mitchell here! Unfortunately I’m not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message, or if it’s Navy business, you can shoot me an e-mail at C. A. P. T. dot P. dot Mitchell at navy dot mil. Thanks! Bye. Maybe Mitchell’s just busy. Maybe Mitchell’s somewhere without cell service. Maybe Mitchell’s just out flying.

Kazansky considers leaving a message, as is routine; realizes he doesn’t know what to say, as is routine; and hangs up, as is routine.

He takes all his medals off the rack of his double-breasted blues coat, packs them back into their clear-plastic-velvet boxes. He considers, momentarily, throwing out the Medal of Honor with the flowers. But he’s too self-aware to do that. He hangs up his coat on its felt-lined hanger, steams it straight, does the same to his slacks, slips the ensemble back into its garment bag, hangs it up next to Mitchell’s in their closet. This is a ritual, too. He takes a shower. He eats something. He answers a couple e-mails. He climbs into a bed that is not his own. He holds one of Mitchell’s college sweatshirts over his face and breathes in. He takes stock. His fuel gauge is reading pretty low. He knows his wings are dipping. If he really thought about it, he’d say he’s so scared he can’t see straight. And the truth is—he’s not so un-self-aware that he can’t recognize this, however numbly—Maverick’s not coming home to guide him in to land. Maverick’s never coming home again. Thought you were a good pilot. He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep.

[cha-lii]

Ah for the Bad Things happen bingo apologies as I am always in a Sanji mood, but to maybe request Leave me Alone and/or Traumatic Touch Aversion for Sanji. Something that always gets me is when he needs comfort but pushes people who want to comfort him away and I would love to see your take. Or tortured for information? Sanji not selling out the Straw Hats or even Germa. If any of those tickle your fancy

And if you're not feeling those, perhpss Sanji cauterizing a wound on Zoro? Some good trusting nakama after bad stuff.

Thank you if you do and no worries if not!

(blue prompts are taken, yellow completed – the rest are free)

Hellooo @finalgale, my love I did not ignore you, I am just a Tragically Slow Writer – please enjoy this angsty word vomit that I mostly wrote tonight in a frenzy of inspiration that will likely not strike again for many moons!

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52234756/chapters/148709830#workskin

and over i go

Chapter 2

Dinner that night was tense. Sanji could tell that everyone wanted to talk about what had happened, but no one seemed to know what to say. Instead they sat in near silence at the galley table, watching Sanji bustle around the kitchen as he hastened to add the finishing touches to the myriad dishes he had prepared for them in the short time since they’d left that place behind them. The food he’d prepared for them was just as extravagant as always, and as he laid the dishes out on the table he made sure to present them with the same flourishes and smiles that he normally would, but any attempt at taking a conversation with him further than polite chatter was swiftly and smoothly shut down.

He doubted he would be able to carry a normal conversation anyway. Not with how his mind was still buzzing from his earlier meltdown. He kept getting flashes of hostile faces and scared shouts; spittle on his face and a hand on his arm, pulling him – and then, not far behind, chasing his every thought like a pack of hungry dogs, his brothers’ faces would come to mind. Twisted, mocking, cruel – Sanji shook his head sharply, and served his nakama dinner.

Most of them seemed willing to let the matter drop in favour of digging into the feast in front of them, but Sanji quickly noticed Luffy watching him closely in between bites. He knew that his captain didn’t believe any of his nonchalance for even a second; knew he could see the lingering redness around his eyes, and the tousled hair he’d forgotten to flatten after he’d pulled at it, and the way he just couldn’t seem to get his hands to stop shaking. When he caught glimpses of the others’ faces, he could tell that they weren’t buying into it either.

He kept trying anyway.

Bringing out the last dish, Sanji realised he now had no other option but to join the rest of the crew at the table. Idiot. He swallowed back a sigh, and sat in his chair with tired resignation. Luffy was following his movements, watching and waiting for any sign of upset, and Sanji had no choice but to fill his plate and eat the food, even though it was tasteless in his mouth and swallowing each bite took a ridiculous amount of effort.

Even though he could hear Yonji’s voice in his head telling him it was shit, he was shit, and everyone could tell, that’s why they were all staring at him and whispering about him and hating him–

Sanji ate, and hoped it would be enough to ward off his captain’s concern. But when all the food was eaten, one look at Luffy’s face told Sanji there was no avoiding the elephant in the room. Sure enough, the moment Luffy clocked that there was nothing left for him to gorge himself on, he sat back and fixed his gaze solidly on Sanji’s across the table.

“Sanji,” his voice wasn’t loud, not really, but it cut through the small conversations that had managed to find their footing around the table like a hot knife through butter. Sanji swallowed down the anxiety bubbling at the back of his throat, and tried to silence the voices in his head, and wished he could bring himself to look away from those warm, steely eyes. “I’m sorry.” He blinked.

“You’re – what?”

“I’m sorry,” his captain repeated, and Sanji began to understand that the hardness in Luffy’s gaze had nothing to do with rage or resentment or disappointment, but rather regret. He shook his head, but Luffy continued on, “I didn’t listen to you when you said you wanted to leave. And now you’re hurt. I’m sorry.”

“Luffy, no,” Sanji’s words were strained, and he could feel his panic rising again. See? It whispered to him in his brother’s voice, see what you do? “It wasn’t your fault – you know that. I told you that.”

“It wasn’t yours either,” Robin said, watching Sanji closely with a horrible sort of empathy in her deep eyes. “You understand that, don’t you, Sanji?” He tried to nod, wanted to nod, but he couldn’t. It felt like too much of a lie.

“It was just–” he tried, struggling through the tumult in his brain to find the words needed to end this conversation as quickly as possible. “It was just – unfortunate.” He cringed at the words even as he said them, and cringed again at the answering scoffs from Nami and Zoro. “I mean – it was just shitty timing, that’s all. Maybe if we’d gotten there a few weeks from now, or even months… maybe then it would have been easier for me to – to avoid it. For those people to… tolerate me.” Several of his friends bristled at his choice of words, and he quickly continued before any of them could voice their protestations. “But – I don’t know. It’s fine, though. I’m fine.” Nami scoffed again, her concern a thing with sharp edges.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, and from the way her voice seemed tight and just a little bit higher than was normal, he could tell she was barely holding back tears. “You’re ‘fine’. You spent, like, an hour having a panic attack before making us dinner, because a bunch of strangers took one look at you and wanted you dead. And you can barely even look any of us in the eyes – but yeah – ‘fine’.”

A few of the others shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, and none of them seemed quite so willing anymore to try staring him down. Sanji was aware of Luffy saying Nami’s name in that same quiet voice, but he couldn’t quite hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Weakling. He clenched his hands under the table, wishing that he could steady them enough to start clearing away dishes, just to give himself something to do. Anything to get away from that table, and those eyes. Anything to distract himself from those voices whispering away in his head.

“I’m fine,” he said again, when he was sure his voice wasn’t going to betray him. “Maybe I was a bit upset before, but I’m fine now. You think what happened back there is enough to rattle me, Nami-san? I’ve heard far worse. So, yes. I am fine.” His voice was harder than he’d intended, and he’d perhaps said more than he’d meant to, but Nami didn’t say anything else, and he could only feel disgustingly relieved at her silence. Sanji cut a quick glance around the table, found everyone’s expressions suddenly unbearable, and stood to begin clearing away the dishes regardless of the fact he was still shaking.

He carried the tall stack of plates to the sink, and was glad when the rush of the tap drowned out the whispers behind him. He sighed, and ignored the familiar feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, and tried to breathe around the weight on his chest.

They regret saving you, Ichiji was telling him. They’re realising what a stain you are on their reputations, and they regret even meeting you in the first place.

“Sanji,” Luffy said, suddenly standing right behind him. He was still so quiet, like he was trying to soothe a cornered animal. “Talk to us.” He wants rid of you, idiot.

“I’ve already said my piece, Luffy.”

“You lied, though,” Sanji couldn’t help but flinch at the accusation, opening his mouth instinctively to argue back, but his captain wasn’t finished. “I know when you’re lying, Sanji. I could tell then, and I can tell now. Stop being stupid, you know better by now.” He’s wrong, it was Niji now, his voice carrying that same humiliating laughter that haunted Sanji’s entire childhood. You’re too stupid to know better – too much of a failure to learn from your mistakes. Same as ever– Sanji snorted, the anxiety inside him bubbling over.

“You are the absolute last person who has any right to call me ‘stupid’, Luffy,” he said tightly, hating himself more and more even as the words came tumbling out. He was suddenly desperate for a cigarette, but realised with a pang that his pack was in the pocket of his jacket, currently slung over his chair at the table. The table where everyone was still sitting, watching their interaction attentively. Listening to Sanji venting his frustrations on their captain.

Cigarettes weren’t an option, then. He settled for biting his lip, swallowing down any more biting remarks before he said something else he regretted.

“Stop deflecting, cook,” As though sensing his tenuous hold on his temper and wanting nothing more than to break it, Zoro spoke up. “We can all tell you’re not fine, you’re wound up even tighter than usual.”

“Fuck off, marimo,” Sanji bit out around his lip. He remembered the swordsman’s hand on his shoulder, his worried eyes, and the feeling of cloth against his face as Nami used his bandana to clean away the spit on his cheek. Even the mosshead pities you, Niji whispered gleefully. Even he can see it.

Sanji couldn’t catch his breath anymore, and he was shaking so much that the plate in his hand rattled as he put it in the drying rack. He was biting down so hard on his bottom lip he could taste blood, only that was all in his head because his skin was too hard for him to even bite through anymore, because he was a monster now  –  he was falling apart. He knew he was falling apart, and he knew that the others could see it clear as day, which only made him feel even more vulnerable and exposed.

He also knew that they were just trying to help. They always were. But they didn’t seem to understand – he just needed some room to fucking breathe.

“Sanji-kun,” and now Nami was starting again, her voice softer than before. Now she sounded cautious, like if she said the wrong thing he was going to lash out at her. Just like I did, right? Niji hissed at him. She’s scared that you’re going to hurt her, just like I hurt your little chef. Sanji bit down harder on his lip, and grabbed another plate from the stack. Nami didn’t even know about what happened to poor Cosette, he reminded himself. Nami was just concerned about him – she would never be scared of him – her face flashed before his eyes: tearful, screaming – terrified. Begging him to stopstopSTOP hitting their captain–

The water was too hot – he could tell because there was steam billowing into his face, and his skin was red – but he could barely even feel it. He tried to pretend it was because his anxiety was making the very tips of his fingers numb, and not because he was becoming so fucking inhuman that he couldn’t even feel pain anymore. Nami was still talking behind him, “– and you know we only want to help. We care about you – we love you. Just talk to us, please–”

“Sanji?” Sanji’s shoulders were heaving with every difficult breath he managed to take, and he had such a tight grip on the plate he was holding he was scared it might shatter, and Luffy’s voice behind him sounded confused now, even more worried than before–

Careful, Sanji, Ichiji whispered to him, you’re being pathetic again, they’ll see–

Ha, Sanji’s crying again, look at him–

Stupid, worthless–

There was a hand on the small of his back, and another on his shoulder, and something – something landed on his head, falling low, covering his eyes – and there was absolutely nothing that Sanji could do to stop himself from crying out, or to brace himself when he flinched so hard that the plate he still held went crashing to the floor.

Some vague part of his mind was aware of the sudden commotion behind him, and of the shell shocked look on his captain’s face – but the other part of his mind, the part that had been spewing poison all evening, that part was screaming at him to get it off. He tore at whatever had been secured around his head, but only managed to yank it forward a few scant inches before he met resistance at the back of his neck – it was stuck – and he could barely breathe already but now he really couldn’t breathe–

Another pair of hands – warm, calloused but soft, firm but gentle, and nothing at all like what his brain wanted him to expect – took hold of his and guided him until he managed to free himself from whatever the fuck was–

“Your hat,” he whispered hoarsely, blinking at Luffy. His captain, his friend, his saviour. Standing before him looking scared. “It’s – your hat.” Luffy searched his face, still holding Sanji’s shaking hands securely between his own. He nodded.

“Yeah, Sanji,” he said, his voice still carrying that faint tone of confusion, now undercut with something deeper, intenser. Something that Sanji has seen him topple governments over. “It’s just – it was just my hat. What else would it have been?” Sanji shook his head.

“S-Sanji,” and that was Chopper’s voice, timid and frightened and tearful. Sanji’s head jerked toward the sound, and he saw them all where they’d leapt up from their seats, confused and alarmed but ready for action, ready to fight whatever they needed to fight to stop their cook from looking like that.

Or maybe they wanted a better look at the crybaby, huh? Sanji flinched, and Luffy’s grip on his hands tightened in response.

“Sanji,” he said again, “what else would it have been?”

“I-I–” Sanji couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, and they were all watching him, waiting for an answer, for an explanation, for a reason, as if Sanji hadn’t been searching for that his entire fucking life–

“Sanji, breathe,” Usopp was rounding the galley island to stand by his side, hesitating only slightly before resting one hand on his shoulder and splaying the other flat on his chest. Luffy didn’t let go of his hands. “Just breathe. C’mon, we’ve – you’ve been through this with me before. Just breathe.” Sanji tried to meet Usopp’s gaze, then realised he was scared of what he’d find in it and decided to just close his eyes instead. “That’s fine – just breathe with me. It’s – you’re okay. It’s okay. It’s okay, right?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Luffy’s voice rang out, louder now than it had been. He was clearly affronted by this whole situation. “You’re with us. And you’re on Sunny – everything is okay, Sanji. Sanji!” He shook their joined hands until Sanji opened his eyes to look at him. “You’re – what else would it have been?” Usopp shushed him, but Luffy ignored it. He seemed genuinely confused. He looked guilty, and Sanji hated that he looked guilty. Hated that he’d made his captain feel guilty over something that Sanji had thought he’d gotten over, something that had nothing at all to do with his captain, with any of them–

Poor Sanji, still hung up on his helmet, Yonji was mocking him.

Poor Sanji, still nothing more than a worthless little crybaby, Niji was joining in.

Poor, useless Sanji – he’ll never really escape, Ichiji was hissing at him.

Poor, poor Sanji–

“Sanji–”

“Th-the helmet,” he gasped out, breathless and hoarse. “I th-thought it was the h-helmet.” Luffy blinked at him. He looked to Usopp, who shook his head, also at a loss. He looked to the rest of the crew, and didn’t find answers there either. Sanji closed his eyes again, trying to focus on the hands holding him together.

“What – Sanji, I don’t know what you mean,” Luffy said, and Sanji almost laughed, because of course Luffy didn’t. Even at his most exposed, Sanji had never told Luffy or Nami or any of them about the helmet. Or the cell. Or those endless, endless days when he’d been convinced that he was going to die down there, alone and unloved and unwanted. Or the endless, endless nights when he’d wanted to. He had planned on taking those secrets to the grave – but, of course, he was too weak to even manage that much. “Sanji,” Luffy shook him again, a sort of urgency bleeding into his tone, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Was it–” Nami’s voice broke, and she took a breath before trying again. “Was it – Judge. Was it the V– was it them?” She sounded close to tears. She also sounded like she already knew the answer. From the way his captain’s grip became bruising – silly Sanji, monsters like us don’t bruise – Sanji could tell Luffy had come to the same realisation as his navigator.

“I-I–”

“Was it?” Luffy sounded angry now. “Was it them? Did they do something to you?” Sanji shook his head again, and tried to breathe. He finally managed to get some air back into his lungs, and if he tried hard enough he could focus on the feeling of Luffy’s hands holding his; of Usopp’s hand still pressed securely against his heaving chest; of the rough texture of his captain’s treasure still clutched in his own trembling grip. If he tried hard enough he could focus on all of these things, and pretend that they were enough to drown out his brothers.

“It was – a long time ago,” he managed, opening his eyes.

He looked at Luffy, at the way his jaw clenched and lip curled furiously. He looked at Usopp, at the hard line of his furrowed brow as he tried to make sense of what Sanji was saying. He looked at his nakama, still standing around the table. Nami’s face was red, a mixture of sorrow and anger. And Chopper was in Brook’s arms, and he and Franky were crying. Jinbei looked angry, and Robin and Zoro looked murderous. And Sanji didn’t know what he’d done to deserve them–

Nothing.

“What was a long time ago?”

You’ve done nothing to deserve them.

“Sanji.”

You don’t deserve them.

“Sanji! What was a long time ago?” Luffy was getting louder with every word. Sanji swallowed thickly, and licked his lips, and tried for the first time in his life to find words to describe the abuse that had scarred him worse than any words or beatings or starvation ever could.

“The – the helmet. He – they made me wear a – a helmet. He did – Judge did. He made me wear it. He made me. He–”

“Why?”

“Because I was dead,” Sanji whispered, the words cutting through the heavy silence in the room with the force of a bullet. “I was dead – and he didn’t want anyone to see me. I was dead. But he couldn’t – he couldn’t actually kill me. So he – he – he made me wear the – and he locked me down there. He–”

Sanji couldn’t breathe again, and Luffy’s grip was too tight, and he could feel Usopp shaking. He heard Chopper crying, and Nami’s wounded noise. He heard Zoro’s low, “And why exactly aren’t they fucking dead right now?” and he heard Robin and Brook’s noises of assent. He wanted to turn to them, to explain to them that it was behind him, had been behind him for years – but he couldn’t fucking breathe anymore, and his vision was going black around the edges.

His hands were released, and warm arms wrapped around his shoulders. His head was pushed into the crook of Luffy’s neck, and firmly held there. Usopp’s hand was still on his chest, crushed between them, but the sharpshooter made absolutely no move to free it, instead slinging his other arm around Sanji’s shoulders. A weight settled against his legs, and Sanji almost startled before he realised it was only Chopper. The little reindeer pressed himself against Sanji’s calves, rubbing his face against his slacks.

“They were wrong,” Luffy whispered to him, and Sanji shook his head, forehead rubbing against his shoulder.

“Please don’t, Luffy. Please don’t.”

“They were so wrong,” his captain continued, ignoring his pleas and whimpers. “They were wrong about you, Sanji. You’re better than them. You’re so good, Sanji. You’re so good.” The noises coming out of Sanji’s mouth were almost foreign to him; noises he hadn’t made since he was eight years old. Noises he hadn’t thought himself capable of anymore.

They were always in there, silly little Sanji.

“You’re so kind, Sanji.”

You’ve always been a scared little boy.

“You’re so much stronger than you realise. So much stronger than them.”

You’ll never be anything more than a scared little boy.

“You’re amazing, Sanji. Sanji.”

Sanji.

Luffy squeezed the back of his head, holding onto him tightly even though Sanji was getting tears and snot all over his t-shirt. Even though the precious straw-hat was pressed tightly between them. Even though he could see him for all that he was. “Sanji, you’re my nakama. I love you, okay? I love you so much, Sanji. Okay? Okay, Sanji?”

You’re worthless.

“Okay, Luffy,” he whispered, and wished his captain would never let him go.

[descendantofthesparrow]

....why does this eat tho?

[w1tchybusiness]

i could write a 100 page essay about what a fucking masterpiece warframe is. i will write many words in the tags. please readem if you want my 'tism.

[cluedoenthusiast]

One of those cat videos

[preciousqiqi]

A quick thought on The Blood of Youth (2022) // dir. Yin Tao, Zhu Hai Jun

This is a good drama that highlights the passion and dreams of the youth, while also portraying the generational gap between the old and new generations in the martial arts world. It emphasizes how the younger generation should be allowed to make a future for themselves, not be burdened by the ambitions of the older generations, let alone carry and pay the price of the wrongdoings of the past generations. They can carve their own way, form their own allies, forge strong friendships, stand their ground for their principles, and find their own beloved where their hearts will belong. However, they also need to learn from the older generation and it is the elders' duty to pass their skills and wisdom, while also guiding and protecting the youth in doing so. They should also take a look at themselves through the younger eyes, recalling their passionate past and reminding them of their roots, their idealism. And for the younger ones, it's about understanding where they come from and where they belong.

Romance is a sweet treat in this drama; after every fierce battle and thrilling suspense. Presented in a rather tender, timid at times, but in a right amount of sweetness.

Early into the story, viewers will be presented with many names—it's advisable to look at the chart you can find online at the fandom's website, but of course, it's also good to just learn their names along the way as the story progresses.

Of course, a few lines from me alone cannot summarize nor perfectly describe every valuable lesson from this drama, you have to see and find that wisdom yourselves. I hope you can enjoy this drama as much as I enjoy it and admire their friendships and loyalty.

[the-starry-lycan]

Ninja dance!!!

In his defense, he’s been killing demons for a while now and needs a little break.

[hexgh0ul]

have you watched the trailer for the crow ?? what do you think

I’m assuming that this is about the new Bill Skarsgard abomination that’s supposed to be coming out soon and truly I’m so bothered by it. It’s disrespectful to James O’Barr and his loss and the original comic to go and blame Shelly for their deaths and it’s disrespectful to Brandon Lee’s memory and the way most of the original cast and crew didn’t want to continue without him but did after his family pressed for them to because they said it’s what he would have wanted.

And then there are still Crow comics being made currently. They have created a franchise of different stories of loss and revenge and if they had decided to call these two characters anything but Eric and Shelly I probably wouldn’t be so upset about it but respect is apparently too much to ask from Hollywood.

And that’s not even taking into consideration that the director did the racist abomination of Ghost in the Shell and has gone on to say that they took inspiration from Post Malone. An iconic goth character and their visual inspiration was Post Malone.

As far as I can see there is not a single redeeming quality about this movie which sucks so hard because I love Bill Skarsgard’s work and I want to be excited about a new movie from him and a new Crow movie but fucking hell, not like this.

[cartoonkati09]

“When you’re singing you can hear the echo of people in the audience singing every single word with you, and that was that big dream that I had for myself. It’s happening.” -Taylor Swift

[lipsticklens]

thought about him again >/////< ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹

[technicalknockout]

very random but guys. i just got reminded that WALL-E is a beautiful movie that exists. yes this is your sign to rewatch WALL-E

[hzdtrees]

Hope against hope

[microwave-core]

kinda fucked up that the only pokemon realistically stopping me from completing the blueberry dex are the violet paradox trio