#flashfictionfridayofficial
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Rippling Path
It's been a while (again) since I've written one of these, and it is a short one for @flashfictionfridayofficial this week.
Fandom: Thunderbirds / Thunderbirds Are Go
Warnings: None
Word Count: 212
Gordon was unsure how long he’d been there, gazing at the way the moonlight sparkled on the water, making a broken path from the shore towards the horizon. It was such a calming scene. A moment to just breathe and take in the soft glow of the moon rising towards the stars above in the midnight blue, leaving its glittering jewels reflected in the rippling surface of the deep navy below, catching the sheen on the slick surface of black rocks and the hints of white foam.
He was transfixed. Captivated by the simple beauty of it all.
So, when he felt the quiet approach of a certain flannel-clad brother sidling up beside him he knew he’d been here a little longer than might be expected.
“How do you do it, Virgil?” he asked softly, not wanting to break the spell. “How do you take something so alive with constant movement and capture it on canvas in a way that makes me feel like I could walk out into the water and dive beneath the broken moonlight?”
Virgil had no words in response. Just an arm to gently reach around and pull his little brother into a warm embrace, which Gordon leant into, resting his head on his brilliant artist brother’s shoulder.
#flashfictionfridayofficial#fff240#thunderbirds are go#thunderbirds fandom#thunderbirds fanfiction#gordon tracy#virgil tracy#broken moonlight
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‘I want it that way’
So inspired by the artwork posted by @mirrorshards that made me write this. (I hope it is all right.)
For @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF249 Open your eyes
And for @fluffbruary April 14 : coffee | florist | vision prompt
Fandom: Brave Bang Bravern
Pairing: Ao Isami x Lewis Smith
Number of words: 576
Ten minutes. Roughly. As soon as Lewis put on his Tricolour shirt, tentacle-like hands grabbed him from behind. The owner’s hands belonged to one Ao Isami, whose jet-black hair suddenly grew like daggers sprouting from his head. Lewis played with it, pulling it gently, letting his fingers savour its texture. Despite its appearance, the strands were so soft to the touch.
“Isami… I am not leaving you…” The American lieutenant assured Isami. On the surface, Lewis wanted to appear tough and cool. But deep inside, he was so grateful of Isami’s turnaround. He cherished it, preferred that Isami would stay that way. In truth, it’d break Lewis’ heart if he were forced to leave the Japanese officer again behind.
“You say that and then you go poof!” The shorter man mumbled on Lewis’ neck. Like a small affectionate dog, Isami began to lick the exposed skin of his nape and sniffed.
Lewis noticed his—Darn, Can he say it now?—lover’s eyes that remained close during the amorous proceeding.
“Isami, open your eyes! Look at me.” Lewis ordered him.
Isami shook his head. His hair tickled Lewis. The fear that the American would vanish from his vision concerned him. He then turned around and hugged the dark-haired man before him. So tight that the two of them couldn’t breathe anymore.
“Nope. No can do. What if you disappeared again?” Is this the stoic Isami that Hibiki and Miss Miyu used to tell me about?
“I am not going anywhere, Isami. Never will I do that. Besides, it wasn’t what I wanted. If I could, I would survive. But.. Isami, I came back, didn’t I?”
“You did! And I was grateful for it. Captain Satake wanted to talk to us. There might be examinations and lotsa interviews that I don’t care about. But.. but I am not in the mood for all of it.”
Just in time when the intercom at Smith’s room rang. The American dragged Isami with him still holding his waist to answer it.
“Colonel King wants to see us too. Come on, Isami, we have to see them now,” If Lewis could, he would stay with Isami in bed forever. Speaking of bed, they might ask the procurement officer to… oh well.
“Promise me, Lewis, please promise me that you won’t do a disappearing act again,” Isami held his face.
“Not going anywhere… won’t go anywhere…” Lewis kissed him full on the lips, their first time in this dimension, where Lewis as human again. The memories on the beach resurfaced. New lovers under the moon, blessed by the bonfire.
“Get this, Isami, I will stay with you. With Lulu. God knows that girl needs us. But only if you want me to.”
Isami didn’t reply instead he held him more tightly. They stayed like that for a few minutes until Lewis bit his ear gently.
“Come on, love, they are waiting for us. I guess, we have so much explanaining to do.” He stood up, arranged his shirt and his trousers too. Wouldn’t get caught with this condition, no way.
“Isami! Let’s!” He held his hand to Isami, who wasn’t convinced.
“All right, let’s get this over with. Then I want to stay in bed all day.”
Lewis laughed.
“If you want to!” The two of them walked together hand in hand knowing that it would be the beginning of a new chapter in their lives.
~ fin ~
#bang brave bang bravern#yuuki bakuhatsu bang bravern#my fan fic stuff#ao isami#lewis smith#isami x lewis#flash fiction friday#flashfictionfridayofficial#fff249#fluffbruary 2024#fluffbruary#open your eyes#vision#my fanfic stuff
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Thanks to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt!
~
Branzy worked. The scent of gunpowder, and on the other hand, sulfur. And the slightly gritty feeeling through his glove as he wrapped both, and a few copper shavings in a twist of paper. More gunpowder, laid out in a trail, then the bite of the tripwire against his fingers, arming the trap. Well, the fog everything reduced itself too more than a couple of feet away from his face, and a stiff finger or two, that wasn't such a steep price for living through three wars. And perhaps justice of a sort, he was starting at least a battle now.
Branzy looked away, or rather lifted his head a bit and smiled. He felt the round of crumbly blue cheese pressed into a hand, and into the other a warm mug, the scent said tea with milk.
"Thank you, Clownpierce."
"Just taking care of my 'great grandpa'."
"Shush, 'grandson'."
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It’s been ages since I’ve done one, but the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt today matched up with a nice chunk of what I wrote today!
So in honor of the coincidence, have the first draft of what Ash discovering she has horns now.
When I wake up, it feels like it has been less than a minute, but I find myself in a different bed than the one I’ve been sleeping on in my room, laying on my stomach with my arms folded beneath a pillow that supports my head.
That’s not how I usually sleep, which only heightens my disorientation. I push up with my arms carefully, conscious of the healing wound on my right forearm, and try to sit up. It must have been one hell of a nap; my muscles feel tight and stiff, like I was sleeping on them funny. Which I guess is what I was doing, since I woke up on my stomach.
I was placed on some sort of a cot, which makes more sense once I sit up and swing my legs over the edge to recognize the apothecary. Nobody else is in the room with me, human or otherwise. That puzzles me, until I realize that they must have thought that I was stable enough to attend to other matters.
Still, I would have thought that Zach, at least, would have been here. We seemed to be on pretty good terms after our conversation yesterday, but maybe he is in a separate room, working off his portion of the pain price.
That must have been what happened to me. I must have taken the price in the head. That’s the only thing that makes sense. I remember it the blasting pain that happened, and it only happened after the last of the ritual’s light had faded. And I’m still dealing with it; I have the most blinding headache. It makes it hard to think straight, so I sit there, numb without thought, for a long moment before it occurs to me that head wounds can be pretty serious.
That’s another reason someone should be here attending me. But when I look down at the flat pillow in concern, there isn’t a spot of blood on it. That seems pretty unusual to my eyes. It’s not that I don’t trust in the healer’s skills, but I don’t even feel any bandages on my head.
I lift a hand to my temple to make sure, and forget about my headache for a second. There might not be any bandages on my head, but there is a hard lump an inch or two above my ear. It’s protruding out of my hair, but poking through the thick locks makes it seem flush with my skin. So it isn’t like the healer put something on my head to dull the pain.
I take my fingers away for the quickest of seconds just to check for blood. They come away clean. My tired brain catches up and I realize that, if I was actively bleeding in the area by this lump, it would have hurt when I started poking around.
Trying to give myself some grace, I shake my head. The movement feels… strange. It’s almost heavier, but in a way that feels like the way my head moves through the air is different.
More confused than when I woke up, I go back to my tactile inspection. The thing, whatever it is continues further up and backwards, away from my forehead, getting thinner as it goes. It’s subtly ridged, like if the centerpoint of a tree ring had been raised, and every subsequent ring grew out thicker below it until the whole thing appeared like a conical tower. But thinner, and subtle, and almost curved and arching, making a space between the top of my head and…
I freeze, forming a thought that might be a realization. To confirm, I raise my other hand up to the other side of my head. Sure enough, I feel another one.
Are these… horns?
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Flash Fiction Friday (2.23.24)
wc: 873
prompt: @flashfictionfridayofficial hour of denial
notes: a little dystopian action tonight. stand-alone idea, not a part of any current wips.
“I didn’t do it.”
The words don’t even feel like words anymore, just spoken air, a droning exhale of breath as that single sentence tumbles out of her mouth once again. She’s cold; the air conditioning blasts cool air into what should be a summer-warm room given the blinding sunlight streaming in through the large windows and it ruffles the stiff fabric of her shirt, making her want to itch the irritated skin beneath.
“You were the only one who had access to the holding rooms last night, Proctor,” Dr. Sims says, leaning forward to brace her elbows against the dark cherry wood of her desk. “If not you, then who?”
Something teases the edge of Proctor’s mind, a slight pressure, and she refrains from looking to the corner of the room where Sims’s Secretary sits, silent and watchful.
Procter turns her attention to the terribly gaudy office and speaks. “I don’t know, Doctor. But I did not do it.”
For a woman so small in stature, Dr. Sims rather likes surrounding herself in luxurious furniture. The large executive desk, the looming chair that goes at least six inches above the Doctor’s head, the plush Persian rug beneath their feet, even the oversized velvet armchair where the Secretary sits, all of it rich and dark. Antique, even.
Which makes it so god-awful against the sterile white walls.
Dr. Sims laughs, but it’s dry and unamused, revealing pristine teeth in a smile that felt more like a snarl.
Proctor folds her hands together and squeezes until her fingers go white.
“So are you suggesting that they, what, just got lucky and escaped?”
Pressure builds in her temple. She tries to find a pattern in the whorls of the desk.
“Of course not, Doctor. But perhaps Security is not as. . .secure, as we like to think it is.”
The Doctor cocks her head to the side, grey eyes narrowing as she stares down Proctor. “You blame Security.”
“That is not what I said,” Proctor says with a shake of her head, glasses slipping just a bit down the bridge of her nose. “Security is only human and even the best make their errors. I am simply saying that the scope of their duties may have exceeded the parameters of their ability. ”
Something shifts from the corner of her eye and Proctor can’t help the way her spine stiffens in response, nails cutting half-crescent moons into her skin.
“Perhaps you should remember your own scope, Proctor, before commenting on things above your station,” the Secretary admonishes her, his presence sharpening in her mind, making her lips twitch with a suppressed wince.
The Doctor hums, settling back into her chair. “That’s enough, Secretary. Proctor made an error. As she has so humbly reminded us that we all do.” Pale lips curl into a smile that makes Proctor’s heart drop into her stomach. “Do you believe that I have made a mistake?”
Proctor swallows, throat tight, as the sharp pains in her head turn to a heavy press, all pretenses gone. The Secretary doesn’t care if she knows.
Or maybe he wants her to.
She licks her lips. “No, Doctor,” she says, letting her head tip downwards in deference. “I would not believe you to be the kind that makes mistakes.”
"That's what I thought," Dr. Sims responds, her smile widening. The intensity of her gaze lessens slightly, but it's still enough to make Proctor feel like a specimen under a microscope.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” the Doctor asks, looking out the window. “They’ll be found and the traitor will be caught. It is simply a matter of time, isn’t that right Proctor?”
“I have no doubt in your success, Doctor.”
The Secretary leans back, relaxing in his chair. The pressure on Proctor's mind lessens, but doesn't disappear completely. He's still there, watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake.
"That will be all, Proctor," Dr. Sims says dismissively, waving a hand towards the door. Proctor takes this as her cue to leave, standing up from her chair and nodding politely towards the Doctor.
“Ma’am,” she says, eyes flicking up to meet only shiny blonde hair. Proctor turns on her heel and just as she goes to touch the handle, the Doctor speaks again.
“Proctor,” Dr. Sims says, stopping Proctor in her tracks.
She turns back around to those cold grey eyes staring at her. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Glory is only found in the known.”
She thinks about the way the light streams into the room and ignore the way her stomach revolts at vow.
“And chaos in all else,” Proctor replies, keeping her eyes on the Doctor. “If you need anything else, ma’am —”
“We know where to find you,” the Secretary says, cutting her off. “Send the next Proctor in on your way out.”
She refuses to look at him. “Of course.” Proctor tips her head and leaves, his presence slipping out her mind as soon as she closes the door.
Proctor shoves her shaking hands into her pockets and sends the next fool in, a lamb to the slaughter.
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If you are a sign from god that I deserve to be loved-
If you are a sign from god that I deserve to be loved, then I'll need that divine clarity to be less like fog. I'll need it spelled out to me in wooden blocks on the floor, or scrawled on some ancient text. I want it written into the pages of holy books, so then I can't disagree.
If you are a sign, then I grip the parts of you that I can easily call a lie - a misspelling, an absence of capital letters - and change the meaning entirely with some permanent marker. Like a child crossing out the "no" before the "smoking."
Not that my lungs need to fail me any more than my mind already does. You could've been handed to me by some almighty figure, and I'd still have an argument to make. With a temper like mine, darling, who needs common sense?
If you are a sign, then I'm the fucking earth you're grounded too, forced into the cracks of me to be swallowed whole. Unmoving, unable to escape. My greedy hands pulling you further and further in. Don't you just wish relationships came with instructions?
What would it even say? Handle with care - this one will never believe you love it, and so it'll break your heart over and over again.
If you are a sign, I'm sorry I keep changing your words around, editing and crossing things out. I'm sorry that the ground has become like a swamp, drawing you further and further in. I'm sorry, I'm both the gravity and the hurricane shaking your foundations to nothing.
I'm sorry you're barely recognisable, now.
--
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial
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You May Have My Precious Bones On My Return
Finishing @flashfictionfridayofficial with literally one minute to spare. I cannot overemphasize how un-proofread this is.
The prayer is taken from the Anglican Book of Prayer
Anyways.
After having Jocelyn Knight make up his will for him, Alec Hardy makes one more stop before going home.
Prompt:
By the time he reaches the vicarage he is so short of breath that he has to lean against the doorframe while he waits for his knock to be answered. Reverend Paul Coates is still hastily tying the belt on his robe when he opens the door. His hair is a nearly-blond cloud atop his head. He’s clearly been asleep.
To be fair, it’s two in the morning.
“Alec! What are you—bloody hell, you look wrecked.”
“Language,” Alec Hardy breathes the word out, unable to keep a hint of amusement from his voice. His knees start to give way underneath him and he feels his face tighten into an involuntary grimace. He’s dizzy, astoundingly so, but he hopes he’s got enough proprioception to keep from banging his head against the floor when he goes down.
Instead of hitting the ground, he’s caught in an ungainly manner by a pair of arms around his ribcage. This doesn’t make it easier to breathe.
“I’ve got you,” says a voice that sounds far too close. He feels the arms that are keeping him upright renegotiate their grip on him. Then he doesn’t feel anything.
*
He feels something cool against his left temple. When Alec forces his eyelids open, there’s a solemn and worried face peering down at him. Paul is sponging his face down with a damp cloth. “Are you with me again?”
“How long was I out?” Alec asks. He’s lying on a sofa inside of the vicarage. He makes an attempt to sit up but is forced back down with a hand on his shoulder.
“About three minutes. I’m going to ring for an ambulance.”
“No!” This tiny outburst is enough to leave him gasping for breath. He’s not making a strong argument for himself, he knows. “No ambulances. No hospital. I’m going in soon enough either way, but not tonight.”
“I think you ought to get checked over. Has this happened before?”
‘All the time’ is not an encouraging answer, so instead Alec says, “It’s chronic, yeah. Heart’s gone bad. Got an operation scheduled, got loose ends to tie up first.”
“Loose ends?” Paul is clearly unimpressed. Then he seems to process the intent behind those words and frowns. “You mean—“
“Will’s sorted. I’ve given evidence at the trial, said my piece. Couple more things to take care of, and then it won’t matter what happens.”
Paul looks like he wants to argue, but can’t think of anything to say. So instead he asks, “Does Ellie know?”
“I can’t tell her now. Not with the trial ongoing. She’ll worry, or worse: want to be there. She’s got enough on as it is.”
The reverend heaves an enormous sigh, but seems to understand that his hands are tied: he’ll have to hold this in strict confidence, whether he likes it or not. Alec thinks maybe it’s why he’s come all this way—the walk from Jocelyn’s house had felt like a death march, even with frequent stops in order to try to fill his lungs with enough air to keep up the pace. But Paul will feel obligated not to pass the information on, and he needs someone to know.
This probably isn’t what they mean by “confession.”
“Have you—um—“ the reverend trips over an inquiry that he has no tactful way to voice, “Have you come for absolution before…?”
He considers the question, unasked though it is. “Not really. With luck I’ll have absolved myself of my only regret by the time I go in. Suppose I just needed to say it all out loud. Jocelyn Knight’s done my will. She doesn’t know why. If something—well, just thought somebody ought to know.”
“Ellie ought to know.”
“She’ll find out afterwards. If not from me, then from someone.”
“Christ, you’re stubborn.”
“Are you allowed to say that?”
“I think the Almighty will make an exception when it comes to dealing with you,” Paul says. But he says it with the barest hint of a kind smile, then adds, “Listen, can I pray for you?”
Now it’s Alec’s turn to sigh. “Not sure I believe in it.”
“You don’t have to: I’m good at believing.”
“Alright then.” He watches as Paul bows his head and closes his eyes. He does not mirror the action, just studies the reverend with curiosity as he prays out loud, a supplication he’s clearly committed to memory.
“Almighty God, our heavenly Father, graciously comfort your servant Alec in his suffering, and bless the means used for his cure. Though at times he may be afraid, fill his heart with confidence that he may yet put his trust in you; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Alec repeats without really meaning to. He bobs his head in silent gratitude as Paul looks up at him. “I should be on my way,” he says, and tries again to rise.
“Absolutely not. If you won’t let me call an ambulance, the least you can do is rest here until daylight. Then I’ll drive you back. I can’t let you wander off, it will keep me from sleeping. And as you know, I’ve already got insomnia.”
Alec agrees to these terms. Paul fetches him a blanket and a glass of water. He says to give a shout if he needs anything. Left alone in the dark and silence, the words of the reverend’s prayer ricochet in his brain and make him uneasy. When he can’t lie still any longer he gets up and paces the floor like a caged animal as minutes tick into hours.
*
When Reverend Paul Coates awakens several hours later, he finds that Alec Hardy has already slipped out of the vicarage and towards whatever awaits him in the coming days. He sighs, lifts another prayer up to Heaven, and prepares to begin his day.
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Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt number 235
Length: 600 words
Audience: General
Themes: Grief, loss, lonliness
A sanctuary can become a cage in time. A plethora of binding memories and belongings that tether to now meaningless brick and mortar. The amalgamation of our empire, a little pink house, nestled in a row of perfectly paired pastel structures of its likeness. It was never I who belonged. It was we. A symbiotic entity whose existence was acknowledged in unison. Now, there is no we, despite everywhere in my vision demanding it is so. It pains me to leave this place. To look upon all that is and be plagued with what once was. The vibrancy of life around me is now astonishing and nauseating, though my sensibilities tell me this is comfort. Was comfort.
Standing on the threshold of the familiar abode causes me to double over, to be ill. Because it was once we and it is now I. Pink doesn't suit me, it suited us. And now I am left draped in a hue that contorts my reality and contradicts my truth. My home is not bright and gentle like a sky alight with the first rays of the rising sun. The world around me isn't the powder blue of a clear sky nor welcoming like springtime's first sprigs of grass. It was never me who hoped for the future and rejected the past. It was you. Now that I am a solitary entity, lacking my comforting parasite who swallowed my grief and shielded those around me from my inner truth. I lack color. I lack the desire to produce and create things in vibrant hues, and living in a picturesque rainbow reality only reminds me that I never truly belonged. This existence is much too beautiful for me without you. Sunken to my knees, gripping my curse of a midsection, I make the decision to paint my world in my likeness. I stumble, clumsily placing one determined barefoot in front of the other. Gripping a metal handle hot from the day's blaring and painful bright sun, I thrust open the metal hanger, which was an obstacle to the object of my hungry desire. Hunched over, stumbling, still clutching the ever-throbbing emptiness just below my ribcage, I blunder my way to the large handled metal can. A grey liquid oozed from the single ridge that lined its lid.
You had said it's much too drab for the new room. That something to house youth was meant to ring with the colors of potential, colors that excite and entice. There was no room for apathy in your vision of the future. Only excitement and endless possibilities. But you aren't here, and there is no we, only I, and I think it's perfect. I lug the oozing can from its forgotten place behind the now needlessly large car on a shelf in the darkened garage. I breathe a small breath of relief in the reprieve from the endless brightness of the midday, then continue my trek. It's heavy and slaps unforgivingly at my thigh as I attempt to carry the heavy can of forgotten gray paint to the front of our little pink house. I can't take it anymore. The fruits of our labor have become the receipt of my suffering. I know what will happen if I do the task before me, but I can't bear the thought of not. With a belabored sigh, or maybe a shriek, I heaved the can, lid open, and watched in relief as a brilliant ark of grey splattered across the face of my nostalgic prison. I don't care what they say. I'll paint the whole damn thing grey.
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One Step Forward
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 200: How far we’ve come. 1000 words.
“I can’t do it.”
Read the situation. Analyse the data. React accordingly.
“Okay.” John turned back to the data-pad in his hands.
“Ok-ay?” Gordon’s defeatism was tinged with a hint of disbelief.
John shrugged. “Okay.”
He stared at the numbers in front of him, not taking any of it in. He was waiting. Just a few seconds longer…
“What’d you mean, okay?”
He kept his head bowed to hide his smirk.
“You said you can’t do it. Fine. I’m not going to make you.”
“You’re not?”
“Why should I? You know your limits. I don’t.” That was a lie. “Not my job to make you do something you don’t want to do.”
“That’s… that’s not how I thought you’d react.” Gordon now sounded confused. John kept his expression neutral as he looked up.
“What? I’m supposed to give you the pep talk, the ‘you can do this’, the ‘don’t give up’ speech every time you stop? Better things to do: I’ll leave that to Scott.”
He looked down again. If he held Gordon’s gaze, he’d never keep up the pretence.
Of course he cared. There was no way he was letting Gordon quit. Not now. But Gordon had already had every inspirational speech there was. He’d only dig his heels in if John tried another. John got it: heck, he’d never have stayed as optimistic as Gordon. The kid was an inspiration, and not just to his family.
But he didn’t want his brother putting a mask on and pretending while John was here, then sinking further once he’d left. If Gordon said he couldn’t, then John’s job right now was to agree with him and not make a fuss. Gordon’s own stubborn nature and determination to prove everyone – especially himself – wrong would mean he’d pull himself out of his funk.
It was hard though. Hard to sit here, seeing Gordon staring at the floor out of the corner of his eye, hearing his brother breathe hard. He wanted to soothe him the way he always had, but Gordon didn’t need that.
“I-,”
“Gordon. One of us thinks you can. One of us thinks you can’t. I’m not going to sit here arguing about it with you. Doesn’t matter what I think. If you say you can’t, then you won’t, meaning it’s not an argument I can win. I don’t enter battles I can’t win.”
“Neither do I.”
There it was. The defiance, the hint of pride under Gordon’s uncertainty. No matter what he’d been through, he was a Tracy. None of them quit. Not even when the element they’d spent their life worshipping had betrayed them in the worst possible way.
Then John heard it. The slightest whisper as a slippered foot shuffled a few millimetres across the floor. There came another. Then the creak of the bed as Gordon shifted his weight.
Very slowly, making sure he didn’t draw attention, John placed his data-pad to the side. He did know Gordon’s limits: this would be pushing them and he was ready to react. But he kept his movements carefully controlled, not breaking Gordon’s concentration.
His brother was moving almost as slowly as he was. He edged forward, teeth gritted, as he eased himself into an upright position.
It was painfully slow. And judging by what John could hear of Gordon’s sharp intake of breath, just painful, period.
But his brother stood. Inch by agonising inch, he walked across the room until he reached the dresser where the jug of water waited that had caused this whole debate. His hand was shaking as he poured, his grip wavered-,
John was there. His hand curled around Gordon’s, holding the glass. His other arm slipped around his brother’s back, supporting him as he helped Gordon drink. Once they’d put the glass down, he smiled.
“You did it.”
Gordon stared at him. He looked exhausted. Not relinquishing his hold on his little brother, John snagged a chair with his foot, spun it towards them and lowered Gordon into it.
“Look how far you’ve come,” he said, crouching in front of him, hands resting on Gordon’s knees. While he wasn’t one to initiate physical contact, he knew what it meant to Gordon, and how much his brother needed that right now.
“Four steps.” There was frustration, pride, bitterness and accomplishment all mingled in Gordon’s tone.
“I don’t mean physically,” John said with a laugh. “Well, I sorta do. Three weeks ago, you couldn’t walk unaided. Two months ago, you couldn’t stand up. You just crossed the room by yourself.”
“Now I can’t get back.”
“Since when have you used the word ‘can’t’. I’m the one with the extended vocabulary, not you. You never used that word before; don’t start now.”
Gordon dropped his gaze, suddenly looking ashamed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just don’t forget the difference between can’t and won’t. You did six steps two days ago: this was never a case of can’t.”
Gordon nodded. He blushed. And when he looked back up, pride and defiance had taken dominance in his expression and the look in his eyes…
John smiled. It was pure Gordon Tracy looking back at him. A man who’d never understood the word can’t.
“I guess I have come pretty far,” he muttered.
“Don’t forget it,” John said, straightening up. “’Cos we’re not going to let you.”
Gordon finally smiled at him. Then glanced at the bed. Back to his brother.
“What you just said about can’t…” He trailed off, sheepishly.
“I lied, before,” John said, “I do know your limits. This time, I believe you. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Gordon gave him a grateful nod. But he sank back in his seat. “I think here’s good for now.”
That didn’t surprise John. His brother hated being in that bed. But it also came as no surprise when Gordon fell asleep five minutes later.
Four steps, six… the number didn’t matter. Gordon had come a long way in the last two months. No wonder the kid was exhausted.
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The Copper Crown
FOR @flashfictionfridayofficial
Word count: 974
Male x Male
[Henry needs a distraction from his looming wedding. He meets a wandering Knight.]
When his mother was angry, she’d fume in her study. She'd pen her displeasure on scraps of paper, never read by any other eyes but her own. When his father was angry, he’d storm out of the estate and partook to the warmth of liquor that muddled his mind. He'd return home the next morning smelling like the stables.
Henry had tried his mother’s form of distraction. Locking himself in his study, so when Elizabeth yelled, the wooden door would muffle it and hid the sight of her angry tears. He’d try to write down his frustrations like his mother. But the admissions in his own words; of his true character, one he could never utter into existence without repercussions to his name had been too much to bear. Even the act of writing it down made his hand quiver as he held the quill tight. A penned remorse for turning his childhood friend into an antagonist to his life because he could not love her the way she did. As she had done for some time.
And so, he followed in his father’s footsteps. He walked out the doors of his estate at the eve of his wedding and into a carriage, instructing the coachman to take him to the farthest alehouse. There, the name Briarwood would be nothing but an itch to the mind rather than an open revelation of his certain prestige.
He found refuge in a tavern with an intimate charm. The Copper Crown, with its flickering lanterns on the low-beamed ceilings, they casted an amber glow on tapestried walls and worn wooden tables stained with the heavy scent of ale. The patrons huddled in their respective tables, some conversations lively and merry, others echoed in gentle somberness.
The nobleman had found a corner to himself, immersed in the shadows of his thoughts. He drank the brewed ale hoping to drown the weight of his impending union with its heady warmth and ease the burden on his heart. But it seemed that he was rather inept in hiding his afflictions, as a man stopped by his table. And Henry’s ears alone became privy to the rich velvet tone of the stranger’s voice. His chaotic thoughts silenced by just a few words.
“Evening, care for some company?”
Henry looked at the man. Dark, tousled hair that danced a tint of red in the lantern light framed his striking face, sculpted well by time and hinted at years of daring adventures. His eyes, the colour of midnight, intense yet inviting, especially at how they wandered to study Henry in the same way his own eyes studied him. Manners told the nobleman to nod and offer a hand,
“H-Henry.” He mentally cursed at the stutter of his own name.
The man’s hand was large and rough. He shook Henry’s hand with the firm grip of a swordsman and sat at the empty chair,
“Callum.”
Their conversation flowed like a dance, a delicate interplay of words and silence that blossomed with intrigue. Henry blamed the ale for his sudden openness to this stranger, as court life taught him to be tight-lipped with information of his life. Though he does not downplay Callum’s adept way of unraveling his guarded heart, with a well-timed smirk, a dulcet chuckle, or a playful tease that bordered the temptations of intimacy.
“This place,” Callum gestured to the Copper Crown, “is where people go to find reprieval from their lives. What brings you here? Aside from the obvious desire for a drink?”
Henry hesitated; his gaze momentarily lost in the depths of his ale. "A wedding." he finally admitted, the word heavy with both duty and reluctance.
Callum's eyes glinted with curiosity. "Ah, weddings. Joyous occasions,” he stopped to study the defeated look on Henry’s face, “or so I am told. Are you... the blushing groom-to-be, then?"
A bitter chuckle escaped Henry's lips. "Yes. Though not willingly... it is a union born out of duty, not love."
Callum leaned back into his chair, his strong arms held across his broad chest as his eyes held a mischievous glint, “Well, that does explains a lot then.”
When Henry looked at him confused, Callum continued with his observation, his words laced with a teasing charm, “You look as if you're about to face a monster, my dear Henry."
Again, Callum had a way to weaken his defense as he laughed ruefully at the accurate analogy. His marriage did seem like a dreadful looming creature ready to pounce and devour him. As he did, Callum leaned forward and his legs briefly brushed against Henry’s. An accident, Henry told himself as his laughter slowly faded.
“Need of a rescue? Shall I be your knight in shining armour, and whisk you away from the jaws of matrimony?” He asked with a sly tilt of his – to Henry’s observation – very kissable lips.
Henry tore his eyes away from Callum as his neck felt like it was searing in heat, “I'm afraid, that I'm past the point of rescue.”
Undeterred, Callum leaned even closer, his voice a velvet whisper that held allure and a promised liberation, "What about a distraction, then? Something to divert your thoughts from your impending doom?"
He reached across to graze Henry’s hand with his own. The touch sent a subtle thrill through Henry, of a sensation he had long suppressed. He looked up to see Callum’s suggestive smile, the offer one he’d dreamt of for years yet never enacted on. Tonight is his last night as a bachelor and though Henry contemplated, his heart had already been set the moment Callum offered his company.
At last Henry nodded. "A distraction, yes. Even if just for the night."
They left the tavern discreetly, hand in hand and disappeared into the night. Henry returned home the next morning, smelling like the stables.
#flash fiction friday#flashfiction#a form of distraction#male x male#fiction writing#writblr#flirty#flirting#one night stand#fantasy writing#fantasy#writers on tumblr#I ran out of word count! The ending is rushed#this was a lot of fun to do#i love this#Not OCs just made for fun#flashfictionfridayofficial
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@flashfictionfridayofficial Prompt~
Under balmy, overcast skies, I cross the beach with gentle sand under my toes. The waves are kindly today, all of their past frustrations spent on the storm last night. Now, they wash upon the rocks where I am to meet with my lover.
They beckon me with a grin, and I stoop down on the crags. The water shimmers with opaline scales, their fishtail thrown back and melting into sea-foam. Once, my boat was trapped here. It would’ve been a stroke of misfortune if it had not led me to them.
“You have it, dear?” They coo.
I nod. My hand fiddles with the drawstring of my bag. It clinks with precious jewels. Of course, I have entrusted all of my riches to them. Their alluring smile and glinting eyes are all that I need in this world. I do not sleep for dreaming, haunted by their bewitching song. If only I could hear it once more.
“Can we kiss?” They ask me daintily. “Come closer into the water, darling.”
I lean forward to meet their lips, and their damp, webbed hands cup my face, tracing down my jaw and into my neck. Abruptly, my lungs constrict. I almost choke, but they drag me into the ocean, restoring me. I realise that this is always where I have belonged. Now they have me within their grasp, as much a treasure to them as diamonds or pearls.
#I intended for this to go a little differently but I guess my tendencies meant I couldn’t help but put a dark twist on things#flash fiction#flashfictionfridayofficial#mermaid#siren#my writing
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What might have been lost
Notes: Thank you once again to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt : #FFF196 Against the Flow. This will serve as the beginning chapter of a fan fiction I am thinking of writing about one of the main characters of “Buddy Daddies.” (I don’t think I have encountered a fic about K’s backstory.)
Fandom: Buddy Daddies
Rating: Mature (for good measure, hints of sexual abuse of a teenager and a bit graphic description of rotting corpses)
Pairing: Kazuki Kurusu/male OC, Kazuki Kurusu/Yuzuko Izumi (pre-Kazurei)
Words: 841
As a half-Japanese orphan, there were some things Kazuki Kurusu didn’t want to think about. Left in an orphanage when he was a toddler, he had no memory of his mother and father. No one knew where his parents came from and the reason they didn’t bother to raise him themselves, or if they were still alive or dead. In the Japanese society, bloodlines are the most important thing, therefore, his existence was unwanted, an embarrassment. Yet despite all these bad occurrences, social workers took a liking on him because of the way he made them feel special. Blonde, armed with tea brown eyes, a countenance so bright he was called their little sunshine. He was taught good manners and proper conduct. His half Western features were a blessing. He’d be a beautiful man someday, the same social worker declared as she combed his blonde hair.
“Maintain that positive attitude of yours and take care of your face, Kazu-kun, you’ll go far and wide.”
(Read more under the cut.)
He tried so hard to believe her. By the time he turned 15, he decided to attend a vocational school. Unfortunately, the school fees and supplies cost so much he was forced to work to make ends meet. Any job that could bring in easy money. Anything.
Once he helped an organization cleaning up tiny apartments whose owners were already dead for days or weeks, months, or worse, years, buried in their own belongings. Maggots and flies feasting on their cadavers their faces barely recognizable. The body fluids blending in on the surface where they were found. If their relatives turned up wondering why they were missing was the only time they were remembered. The number of people who was a shut-in increased every single day. It shattered Kazuki’s innocence and vowed he’d never let anyone he cared about the same fate like these unlucky souls.
During those days funds coming from outside sources never poured easily in an institution like the orphanage. It was not hard to fall through the cracks and be persuaded to do something stupid. Treading the path against the flow, he went off the rails so fast, his downfall was imminent. Youth gangs after youth gangs, he realised that his life was aimless. From petty thievery (stealing bikes) to repeated burglary (many apartment owners left their doors open), it was either him hiding from everyone or serving his prison time, or worse, he’d be dead by hanging already.
One day, he met one of the few people who would change his life. Amusing that there were not a lot of them, but Hideyoshi, a 30-year-old computer engineer, took him under his wing. He taught him computers and programming, and other endless ways to go around with it. Apart from having an average knowledge about firearms, proficiency in hand-to-hand combat courtesy of his time on the streets, he added the power of IT among his talents.
Hideyoshi provided him a quarter to live in too, fed him, even taught him how to dress himself up. But there was also a downside to all of it.
Kazuki was almost 18. A buildup of acne had spared him unlike some of his contemporaries during puberty. Still he reminded himself that he would always be a thug. “A pretty thug,” Hideyoshi said while he caressed his neck down his back.
When they were not busy hacking some government’s or company’s websites, Hideyoshi would show him his antique collections of wood prints of noblemen and their male slaves engaged in sexual trysts in nanshoku teahouses.
Hideyoshi loved to rub his rough hands on Kazuki’s smooth cheeks. It didn’t matter if it was day or night, he touched him in places he couldn’t imagine that the only thing Kazuki could do was cry in his sleep.
For the second time he summoned his courage to run away. Once Hideyoshi found out that he was gone, he would be kilometers away from him. But like a moth to a flame he couldn’t resist the lure of the underworld for easy money with the click of a gun or a punch on the face.
One day—bloodied, weary, and lost—the voice of a woman asking how he was felt comic and magical at the same time. Kazuki thought he was dying from a bleeding arm and the woman surrounded in blue, violet and pink hydrangeas was an angel. Her name was Yuzuko Izumi he found out later. Like him, she was an orphan too, who lived with her 17-year-old sister. The courtship was short. He was so elated when she agreed to marry him. But one tragic day, a mission gone awry, the fates intervened taking Yuzu away from him. With his wife and their unborn child gone, his downward spiral was secure.
Still Kazuki decided that he wanted to live so he tried hard to forget all of it. That’s what he learned after years and years of bad luck. He buried them. These secrets should lie deep in the ocean forever that no one should know at all.
#buddy daddies#buddy daddies fan fic#flash fiction friday#fff196#flashfictionfridayofficial#kazuki kurusu#yuzuko kurusu#original character#buddy daddies head canon#my fan fic stuff#my fic stuff#buddy daddies fan fiction#my fanfic stuff
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Thanks to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt!
~
Ashe sighed and set down his quill again. His Honor, the right proper Justice Parrot (god what a last name he got stuck with), rapped on the wood of the open door softly to focus attention, and his messenger entered the room. He read out "Mister Ashe, we have heard your case, and though we have observed good, proper behavior from your worthy self, for political reasons we must deny this, you will be placed under under house arrest with the honorable Jaron again." Ashe growled and flexed his hand in front of them, still scarred from the work in the galleys of Toulon.
The door closed.
Ashe stretched, ground his hand against the wall until he felt the sting of the rough parts in the plaster. He felt the crack in the world, not that he had anything better to do now.
His friend V. got up from his hiding spot outside and pressed his hand up against the barred air vent.
"Shh, shhh," V whispered in the morning air, "We all know what's coming."
O, V. was so sharp, he pressed another book full of math and calculations through the bars.
Through the crack in the world, he felt the fire, the water of the world, the air. And so, so many dead spirits. Waiting to come through, for them to get the timing right.
.
The wheel of justice were made of cold denial and steel, but his feet floated a centimeter off the ground already and he felt so excited and hot.
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Like Your Father
For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #176
With a prompt like this, how can it be anyone but Scott Tracy?
Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go
Word Count: approx 886
He’d been hearing those words practically all his life. Almost always in a positive light. When he was little it was invariably a reference to his smile or his eyes – or Grandma commenting on his tendency to want to get everywhere fast, or his infatuation with all things flight related.
As he grew he found himself wanting to emulate his father in so many ways. So, by the time circumstances unexpectedly thrust him into Dad’s shoes as a young man the comparisons were practically inevitable.
In Scott’s role as CEO of Tracy Industries it was so common for people to comment on the likeness that with every face-to-face meeting it was now expected. Well, at least from board members, executives, competitors, clients and prospective collaborators who were old enough to have met the great Jeff Tracy in person.
Sometimes the words went unspoken, but the way a person’s eyes would linger on Scott a moment longer than strictly comfortable while shaking hands said it anyway.
“You’re so much like your father.”
Most of the time it made Scott proud. After all, it’s what he strived for – the result of the inner mantra that kept him asking himself “What would Dad do?” in any situation. He wanted to be like Dad, to make him proud, to live up to the legacy. And there was an undercurrent of fear there at times that he would never be able to live up to that. So, hearing people remind him that yes, he was indeed a lot like his father was a reassuring comfort.
Usually.
Today’s meeting had started out ordinarily enough. He and Virgil were in New York to meet with Nathan Twiner in order to discuss his proposal for a project he thought Tracy Industries should support. The eager and over-confident inventor had given Scott that look as introductions were made.
“I had the pleasure of meeting your father once,” the greasy-haired, middle-aged man commented with a toothy smile and a firm handshake. “He was a great man. Such an inspiration.”
“Yes, he was.” Scott returned the smile and deftly resisted the twist the older man tried to enact to literally get the upper hand grip in the shake.
From there it had all gone downhill. Twiner’s idea was all hype and very little substance. Virgil had politely pointed out a number of the many flaws he’d spotted in the designs and blueprints. Scott himself could see some of them, and both Tracys had expressed their safety concerns when Twiner had tried to suggest the ways in which experimentation would find the solutions for any shortcomings in the design.
But the main issue Scott had with Twiner’s idea was the fact that the end product would have no real benefit to society at large. It was a grand idea which would need a great deal of time and money poured into it just to make it viable. Scott agreed with Twiner that the finished product would likely sell, but Tracy Industries were not in the business of making things that amounted to little more than big toys for rich grown-ups to waste their wealth on.
Finally getting the message that Scott and Virgil were showing him and his idea the door, Twiner’s thin veil of friendly familiarity was abandoned. He stood, he scowled down on Scott who remained seated across the table.
“This place has obviously gone to the dogs since the demise of the Great Jeff Tracy. He was a man who knew a profitable idea when he saw one. An adventurous man who wasn’t afraid to take risks.”
Virgil may have sensed what was coming. A subtle shift in his position beside Scott brought his knee to rest against his big brother’s thigh beneath the table. A small, simple gesture that served as a reminder that Scott was not alone here, and to keep calm. Although Scott was managing okay without the gesture, he was very glad of it when Twiner delivered his parting shot.
“You are nothing like your father, and he’d be greatly disappointed in you.”
Scott rose slowly to his feet, keeping his voice steady and his fingertips lightly on the table.
“My father, in life and in business dealings, knew how to weigh up the risks and benefits of any situation he was faced with. He took calculated risks, but his goal was always to help people, and to improve the world we live in. Everything I know about running this business I learned from him, and thus far it has served me and Tracy Industries very well.”
Scott’s glare was deployed with the desired effect, as Twiner’s self-assuredness seemed to melt away and he took an involuntary step back.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Twiner,” Virgil said pointedly as he rose from the table and strode over to open the door.
“You’ll regret this,” Twiner mumbled as he left.
Virgil closed the door again and turned back to his big brother in time to see him sag back into his seat.
“Scott?”
“I’m okay, Virgil. I know what you’re going to say, and you don’t need to say it.”
Virgil waited a moment, knowing that while Twiner’s words had hurt, his big brother would be able to shake this off. “So, you don’t think he’ll take his idea to Fischler?”
#flashfictionfridayofficial#fff176#thunderbirds fanfiction#thunderbirds are go#scott tracy#virgil tracy#tracy industries#thunderbirds fandom
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The Wind Never Whispers Back
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt #225: I Can't Tell. Unofficially set in the same universe as How Far We've Come (originally written for prompt #200: How Far We've Come but exceeded the word limit.) You can also read this on AO3.
The words on his tongue always burn brightest in the dying light of setting suns. Solitude has never been a stranger, but in the newfound absence of footprints unerringly meandering alongside his own, he feels its gravity keener than ever, pushing and pulling at his every thought and weighing him down as regrets slowly trickle into the gaping cracks where purpose once held him together.
His purpose lies shattered now.
Bleached bones are buried in desert sands and goodbyes are left unuttered, silenced by the recollection of warm hands and soft smiles and mistakes so grave they will forever remain unforgivable; for the dead can’t speak and the dead can’t hear, and so the words remain on his lips, blood red and burning bright as twin suns fade and night chases away the lingering heat of blue summer’s skies.
The desert stretches out before him, vast and brimming with tomorrows.
His gaze is turned back, pale eyes searching for fleeting memories of a nameless boy laid to rest in a nameless tomb, for in all the yesterdays they shared, Millions Knives and Legato Bluesummers have not once strayed from the path to salvation paved in Knives’ flaws and Legato’s unwavering faith.
When the wind picks up and catches in strands as dark as decay, it is a harsh truth to swallow: that no matter where his steps will carry him next, when he turns around his own footprints will be the only thing left to follow him.
His eyes are not kind enough anymore to mistake distant shadows for familiar silhouettes.
As night falls, it becomes increasingly hard to tell apart the serrated edges of what was and what could have been, and all he is left with is the bitter knowledge of what will never be again.
The words on the tip of his tongue shift and struggle to be told, to be whispered to the wind and carried away to a place they cannot reach anymore.
Thank you.
I’m sorry.
Goodbye.
…
I miss you.
The wind never whispers back.
#millionsummers#trigun fanfiction#knives x legato#flashfictionfridayofficial#fff225#i can't tell#flash fiction
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Rotten Work
For @flashfictionfridayofficial using a character from @medusainthemarble.
“Y’need what?”
The younger man stared at the pale stomach rising and falling on the metal table in front of them. The wall behind it was a brighter green in the daytime. On it, a painted cartoon sow portrayed a mural of a mother suckling babies with a simple black line smile. They didn’t look like pigs. The middle aged gambler spread like Jesus on the table didn’t really look like a body that someone inhabited anymore. Just the swell of some guy with an unpaid tab and a beer belly moving to the draw of his breath. And the hunger that squirmed to the bottomlessness inside his own.
Franklin answered by pressing the thick block of a butcher’s blade into the crook of his nephew’s palm.
“I need you to do what you do with the hogs, Elly,” Frank answered in his rasp of a voice.
Elly could feel the lusterless eyes watching him from off to the side. People who stood to the side had always judged. Teachers, mothers, God. Just this one time, though, he couldn’t lift his head to face the bench.
“That’s pigs, Frankie. I’ve only ever divined shit offa pig guts. Maybe like a squirrel or a raccoon or two.”
“Look at me, Kid.”
Elly’s head didn’t move.
“You look at me now or this will get a lot worse for you.”
Elly’s chin raised.
Frank looked about a disheveled forty. He dressed well, but his face was as weathered as a cliff's and about as smooth under his ginger stubble, which spoke to a working man’s disposition belying the compulsion of appearances. Young blond Elly had been something of a pretty boy until he’d taken that crowbar to the face and woken up with his bones rearranged, but what spoke to their shared blood were the same washed out blues fixed on one another. One set wide. The other empty.
“One of these days I will do something horrible - no question - for you. Today, I expect you to tell me this future by whatever horrible means you need to. No question. That’s what it is to be Family.” Franklin wet the rough of his lips with a tongue that had been dry since ‘26. “You understand?”
Elly nodded with the mute submissiveness of a little brother. (Perhaps the way Abel had once to Cain. He wouldn’t know; the Bible wasn’t very elaborative.)
“Good. Good,” Frank mumbled as he glanced down at the man on the table in front of the mural. “You’ll want to cut deep enough to sever an artery or something when you start opening him up.”
He scratched at his stubble consideringly. Frank knew how to make a body hurt, but there were intricacies deeper than skin and the submersion of bone that he couldn’t precise. Elly could.
“Pain’ll almost certainly rouse him from what he’s on, and there’s no use in dragging this out more than it needs.”
“The guts gotta be warm for it to work. If there’s no blood flowin’ it goes bunk.” The connection of large animal entrails to the touch of the universe was something like dial-up. Easily interrupted when death and, oddly, phone calls gummed up the lines. Elly had never cared to know much for Necromancy until he’d shown an unusual knack for it, but he was willing to bet that the ancient art of picking through intestines to try and read bloodsoaked truths had not been properly attuned for the advent of radio waves.
“Then work quick, Elly.”
The flicker of praise licking his name sent a lick of warmth down Elly’s spine.
“Turn off your phone? And uh- I need a bucket.”
Frank grunted, but he turned to scour around for the requested items with the enthusiasm of a rock. But. He did nonetheless.
“Gloves?”
Elly pushed up the sleeve of his jacket.
“Nawh.”
It was traditional to start at the ass to split the guts stem to stern, but Elly granted the guy the courtesy of a vivisection. Listening to the slowing gush of liquid hitting metal, he parted the musculature of the chest the way he had more comfortably touched other men before. Even the blood-tainted hunger hollowed into deeper recesses of Elly’s body in a way he could pretend was base and mundane.
Lean in.
Split the rib cage.
Grit your jaw when it cracks into splitters and jagged shards under your bare hands.
Elly grunted in surprise as his fingers pushed through fragile connective tissue under the heart.
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just–” he paused as palpated, forcing stilled blood back through collapsing veins, “--It’s heavier than I expected. Not physical like...” Elly’s other hand moved down into the slithering warmth of guts. Perks of ambidexterity. “...Just that–” how did he explain the intrinsic numerical value of individual sins any more than he could the name of dread?
“A lot of these guys are worth their weight in vice,” Frank said as he tussled Elly’s hair, thus absolving him of having to stumble into an answer on esoterica.
Elly disassembles around the rare comfort of approval from a discomforting man’s paternal touch. He acutely feels the growth of lack, of never again, of simple need turning savage in his stomach. Running his fingers through gore, he can channel that revelation through the voice of the gambler’s organs. His tongue is talkative, but it’s somehow the cirrhosed liver that’s the most concerned with fact.
He prised the organ from its alcove with trembling palms, then with surer hands he tilted his head back, lifted the bounty to his lips, and let the meat slide down.
#FFF220 Blood Is Thicker Than Water#flashfictionfridayofficial#Flash Fiction Friday#writeblr community#Writeblr#creative writing#short story#fiction#horror#cw body horror#cw written (mild) gore#a lot of my writing surrounding Fryer (Elly) is expeirmental#so i'm a bit 50/50 on this one#either way#i sleep now#my works#cookie to anyone who finds the Sopranos reference btw
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