#and getting him to safety sometime a short while after the merge and probably a fair bit before the 'present day' of dr

[roseverdict]

im finally watching dragons rising and i can't get these thoughts out of my brain:

we should get canon merging with the lego ninjago movie. it could be fun

i'm still fairly early in dr i think, but i wanna see more mentions of chima/the wyldness beyond just the one guy's presence

i wanna see the ex-hunters from the first realm again

we could chuck movie!lloyd, somebody from the main chima cast, and show!faith together to try and find anybody that went missing in the merge. i think that would be neat

[emmerrr]

Andreil and accidental snow angels for the winter fic prompt. :)

anonymous asked: Andreil winter prompt: snowed in and no power, what better way to spend the time than truth telling and snuggling?

i merged these two i hope that’s okay and also i’m sorry they took so long ahhhh! (this is also on ao3!)

-

not looking for redemption nor some shallow kind of bliss

The snow had fallen thick and fast all through the night, and Neil opened the curtains in the morning to see a winter wonderland outside. No run today, then.

Andrew, wrapped in the duvet, stepped up beside Neil to take in the view. He made a small sound of disgust and then shuffled back to bed. Andrew and cold weather didn’t mix.

Andrew and hot weather didn’t mix, for that matter. 

Neil smiled at the lump in the middle of the bed that was Andrew, blond hair peeking out the top.

“Coffee?”

“There isn’t any,” the lump replied, muffled.

“What do you mean there isn’t any.”

Andrew sat up and pinned Neil with a glare. “I mean that we finished it last night and there’s no more, because someone didn’t pick any up when he was at the store yesterday. Not mentioning any names, but you, Neil. It was you.”

Neil rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine, my bad. I’ll just go and get some then, no big deal.”

Andrew pointed out the window. “In this?”

“A bit of snow never hurt anybody.”

“Have you ever fucking heard of an avalanche.”

Neil paused; he’d forgotten about avalanches. “…Good point. But we’re not exactly in avalanche territory.”

Andrew considered this. “Well, it’s dangerous to drive in the snow.”

Neil shrugged, deciding to ignore the hypocrisy of Andrew calling out dangerous driving. “So I’ll walk.” Even if he did drive, he’d have to dig the car out first and then clear the driveway, which would take ages. Not to mention that they didn’t have a snow shovel so it was a bit of a moot point anyway.

He started getting dressed, pulling on a long sleeved t-shirt and then the biggest hoodie he could find. Andrew let out a monumental sigh and dragged himself to his feet, following Neil’s lead and dressing warmly.

He was very clearly coming, so Neil didn’t waste time telling him he didn’t have to; Andrew already knew that but had made his mind up. Pointing out the obvious was pointless, and besides, Neil appreciated the company.

At the front door, they pulled on weather-proof boots and hats and scarves and gloves, then wrapped themselves up in big coats. Feeling somewhat top-heavy, they ventured outside.

The cold was biting, their noses and cheeks quickly turning pink as they made their way through the snow, but once they were out of their own quiet street, the short journey became a little easier, as the busier roads had obviously been visited by a snow plough.

It wasn’t far to the convenience store anyway, and while Neil was getting the coffee, Andrew headed next door to the Starbucks to get them to-go cups for the walk back.

They met back up outside, and Andrew handed Neil his cup and then pulled Neil’s hat down so that it was covering the tops of his ears.

Neil smiled.

“What,” Andrew deadpanned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to, junkie. I told you not to look at me like that.”

“Yeah, but you’re not the boss of me,” Neil said, unconcerned.

“Being the boss of you sounds exhausting,” Andrew said, then took Neil’s hand as they set off for home.

Neil swung their hands between them as they walked. “Is this for warmth?” he asked. “For safety?”

“It’s just because. You want me to let go?”

Neil squeezed Andrew’s hand. “No.”

Andrew almost looked smug. “Didn’t think so.”

Neil laughed as they turned the corner into their driveway. “Hey, you held my hand—”

The rest of his sentence evaporated as Andrew slipped on some snow and over-corrected by leaning back, resulting in him landing flat on his back. As they were still holding hands, Neil went down too in a tangle of limbs.

“Fuck,” he said, sitting up slowly and shaking snow out of his hair. He turned to Andrew. “You okay?”

Andrew still hadn’t moved, but he didn’t look hurt. “I’m fine,” he said, completely expressionless.

Neil struggled to his feet and reached a hand down to help Andrew up.

Andrew shook his head. “I live here now.”

Eyes closed, lying in the snow, Andrew started moving his arms and legs. He was making a snow angel. Neil wondered if this was a conscious decision on Andrew’s part, or if it was just ingrained in every person; if you find yourself lying in the snow, you make a snow angel.

Neil lay back down beside him, and made a snow angel of his own. When he looked over at Andrew, Andrew was already looking at him.

“What are you doing?”

Neil found Andrew’s hand in the snow. “If you live here now, I live here now.”

*

Cold, and now wet, they retreated inside to warm up. Andrew went to have the first shower while Neil put on a pot of coffee, because it was clearly going to be that sort of day. A nothing day.

Neil could live with that.

He heard Andrew step out of the shower just as the coffee pot finally filled to the top, and a moment later the overhead lights went off and that distinct quiet descended as everything electric in the house stopped running.

“Huh,” Neil said. He grabbed a flashlight out of the drawer and went to check the fuse box.

None of the trip switches looked like they needed resetting, and when he flipped the main power switch off and then on again, nothing happened.

Andrew appeared at his shoulder.

“Power cut,” Neil informed him unnecessarily.

“Is it just us?” Andrew asked.

“Good question.” They went to the window in the living room and peered out and up the street. As it was a dark, snowy day, plenty of houses had lights on when Neil and Andrew returned from the store. Now, all of them were off, and a few of their neighbours seemed to be checking out of their own windows, presumably for the same reason as they were.

“I think it’s hit the whole street, at least,” Neil said, turning to Andrew. “Oh, shit, your hair’s wet.”

“That happens sometimes when you have a shower,” Andrew said drily.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, you know.”

“I never said I was witty.”

“Okay, shut up, go and get your towel. I’ll start a fire.”

By an extreme stroke of luck, they had a wood-burner fireplace and not an electric one, which meant that they at least had a heat source. Once Neil got it started, he remembered the just brewed coffee and hurried back into the kitchen. He split it between two thermoses so at least it would keep warm, then he took them back through to the living room.

Andrew had re-emerged from their bedroom with the duvet from their bed along with any other blanket he’d managed to find. He was sitting in front of the fire, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel.

Neil handed him a thermos and sat down beside him. “That’s better. Don’t want you catching a cold.”

“You’re the one who hasn’t warmed up after coming in from the snow,” Andrew said. “Go dry off. Change.”

“But it’s so nice and warm here now,” Neil complained, reaching for a blanket.

Andrew snatched it out of the way with his lightning fast goalie reflexes.

“You’re not allowed in the blanket fort until you put on some dry clothes.”

Neil grinned. “Oh, it’s a blanket fort now, is it?”

“Yes, and I’m the king of the blanket fort, so fuck off and change.”

Neil got to his feet and bowed as sarcastically as possible. “Yes, your royal highness.”

To be fair, Andrew was right, and Neil immediately felt better after changing out of his damp clothes and into soft and warm PJs and really thick socks.

“It’s cold outside of the blanket fort,” he said when he got back to Andrew in front of the fire.

“No shit,” Andrew replied, but he caught hold of Neil’s wrist and tugged him closer, wrapping him up in the duvet. They huddled together, sharing warmth, Neil dropping his head onto Andrew’s shoulder and letting himself be held. It was comfort in the disguise of practicality, but Neil knew that neither of them were fooled.

He pressed a kiss onto Andrew’s collar-bone.

“Your face is cold,” Andrew said, and Neil looked up, smiling sheepishly.

“Sorry.”

Andrew shrugged. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Neil said, and Andrew leaned in to kiss him.

This, Neil thought, was a very good way to wait out a power cut. Cocooned in their own little world, roaring fireplace, roaming hands and lips, escaped sighs and body heat and the warmth of their shared breaths between kisses.

Neil could think of worse ways to pass the time.

They got hungry after a while, and Andrew went to the kitchen to forage for food that didn’t require cooking or heating up. He returned with Pringles, cookies, and some fruit which had clearly been brought in for Neil’s benefit.

Neil took a bite of an apple. “How long do you think it’ll take for the power to come back on?”

“Snow’s pretty bad,” Andrew said. “At least a couple of hours, probably? I think there’s a number we can call to check.”

Neil pulled his phone out of his pocket, only to discover that his battery had died.

“You’ll have to do it.”

Andrew checked his own phone, then half smiled and shook his head. “Mine’s dead, too.”

Neil laughed. “Not charging your phone seems like a very me move.”

“Well I guess you’re rubbing off on me.” Andrew put his phone on the coffee table and sighed. “Nicky always calls on Saturdays as well, he’s going to think we’ve died.”

“We can call when the power’s back on,” Neil said. He stretched out across the floor, bunching a pillow up under his head. The warmth from the fireplace was making him feel pleasantly drowsy, which in turn made him talkative in the way that the very tired often are.

“I remember when I was a kid, like, five or six, back in Baltimore, and my dad wasn’t home and there was a power outage. So all the lights and everything went out and the guys he’d left at the house went to check the circuit breakers or whatever, so they were distracted. And my mom just quickly bundled me up and grabbed the car keys and started taking me to the garage, but then one of the guys came back and asked her what she was doing, and without even skipping a beat she said I had a fever and she was taking me to the pharmacy to get something. So he came with us, and then when we got home mom tucked me up in bed, and then she just never mentioned it again. I didn’t even have a fever.”

Andrew was very quiet, listening intently, his eyes never leaving Neil’s face.

“I didn’t realise until years later when we actually ran away in the middle of my Ravens tryout, but I think that was my mom’s first attempt at getting us out.”

Neil had never told anyone that before, but he’d often thought about what would have happened if they had gotten away that night. 

Odds were they’d both be dead. It probably wasn’t worth thinking about at all. That wasn’t the road they ended up taking, and the one they had taken had eventually led Neil here, to this power cut in the little house he owned with Andrew.

This was everything that mattered.

Andrew lay down opposite Neil, facing him. He didn’t comment on what Neil had said, but he gently ran his thumb across the old burn scar on Neil’s cheek.

“Me and Cass were making cookies once when there was a power cut,” he said quietly, and Neil held his breath. A truth for a truth.

“We’d made up the mixture but then we couldn’t put them in the oven because we had no power.” Andrew shrugged. “We could have just set it aside to bake them when it came back on, but instead Cass just handed me a spoon and said she wouldn’t tell if I didn’t. And we just ate raw cookie dough.”

Neil smiled. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

“No. But we did it anyway.”

“Like…the whole bowl?”

“Of course not. Just a couple of spoonfuls. Then we lit a bunch of candles and Cass found an old jigsaw puzzle and we tried to do that just by candlelight until the power came back on.”

This was a good memory, Neil realised. Anything to do with Cass was inevitably tied up with memories of trauma, but Andrew was still going to therapy and had done a lot of introspective work to get to this point, where he could take a memory for exactly what it was; a fun power cut with cookie dough and a jigsaw puzzle. And now he’d shared it with Neil.

Neither of them could change what had happened to them, but they were here now. And wasn’t that just the most remarkable thing?

Neil yawned, and his eyes drifted closed before he jolted them open again. Andrew was staring evenly back at him.

“You can sleep, Neil.”

“I don’t want to. I want to talk to you.”

Andrew shifted closer, throwing the blanket he was covered in over Neil as well.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed Neil’s forehead. “Go to sleep.”

It was hard to argue with that, and Neil’s eyes were so heavy. He let himself drift.

Some time later, the house hummed back to life, beeps from the oven and the microwave, the TV and the fridge and the coffee machine. But it went unnoticed.

Entwined together in front of the dying embers of the fire, Neil and Andrew slept on, safe and warm.

[revaroniwrites]

Meat Toboggan, Chapter One. (DantexReader Fic)

Old, wrought iron gates scraped against gravel as Dante pushed them open, stepping into the grand courtyard of the mansion. As far as haunted housed went, he thought this one was pretty much the spitting image of what would come to mind. It was pretty similar to other big, ostentatious manor houses he’d been to before, always for work. Though the gardens were overgrown by now, vines breaking from their allocated beds to twist and twine up the building, a few having been ballsy and strong enough to shatter a window on the lower floor, creeping into the house.

Stone shifted beneath his booted feet as he ambled up to the large double doors, pillars standing sentry either side of the rotting wood and the comforting weight of Rebellion sitting heavily at his back. His heart gave a little tug at seeing what’s become of this old home. He’d visited a couple times before, five years ago, when his skills were requested by the man of the house. A middle aged man with greying, salt and pepper hair, a chip on his shoulder and eyes glinting with what Dante recognised as the beginning stages of madness.

He needed someone to act as a bodyguard while he summoned demons.

A dangerous request, to be sure. One Dante wasn’t exactly comfortable with and, honestly, he likely would have put the old man down had it not been for her. A young woman, only eighteen years old with bright eyes and a sharp wit. His daughter, the old man had claimed, though they looked nothing alike. Where his eyes were dark and sunken, sleepless nights leaving heavy bags in their wake, her eyes were bright, crystal clear though some unnamed sadness crept into her expression every time she looked to her father. There was love there, though. And that was what stayed his blade.

The old man had insisted she be present for each of the summonings, though she never did anything but watch and comment ‘no’ at each subsequent demon that was brought through. Dante and her got talking one day, and she mentioned her father feared for her safety. The demon was to be hers to summon at will and protect her, but there was an underlying fear in her eyes that hinted that she didn’t exactly believe that was to be the demons only purpose. He’d asked if she wanted help, ‘I’ve got a place you can stay if it ain’t safe for you here. If you’re scared.”

She just laughed, “my old man’s the only family I’ve got left, Dante.” She’d said. “I’m more scared for him than I am of him.”

And that was that. She’d clammed up about the subject from then on. But she’d accepted his card once the job was over and her pop sent him on his way, and agreed to call should shit hit the fan. That was five years ago now, and Dante hadn’t heard a peep from her since. He’d damn near forgotten all about it until he got a call from a new client, saying the old manor house was haunted. Anyone who went in didn’t come out and there were reports of hearing a woman singing most nights.

The information he’d got from the client was spotty at best. Apparently the father was murdered and the daughter went missing, since then anyone who wandered the property was attacked by some beast. There’d been a few ‘sightings’, but they all sounded bonkers. One claimed the beast was some sort of large, black as pitch dog with eyes the colour of rubies. Another witness said it was a woman, with a grotesque elongated limb in the shape of a greatsword, vine-like musculature wrapping around her left side and flesh that writhed in the moonlight.

Every witness seemed to have a different description and Dante was sick of it after the fourth. The only thing that seemed the same throughout all stories, was the colour scheme. Black and red. That was it. A fucking colour scheme. Dante was certain it was a demon. Probably the old man’s pet project went wrong. But he couldn’t pin down the breed with so many varying descriptions. A shape changer, maybe. Or more than one. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel worry tug at his chest at the thought of things going tits up over here. But they said the daughter dissapeared. Maybe she’d gotten out.

He hoped she did.

He shook himself from his thoughts as the doors were shouldered open, one hand reaching back to finger Rebellion’s blade. Dust kicked up under his feet, years of neglect showing through in the rotted floorboards and cracked windows. Dante sidestepped a corpse, it’s throat torn clean open and left to rot. The smell of it had him raising a hand to cover his face, heightened senses slammed with the stench of rotten meat.

“This really what you live in?” He called out, voice taunting. Silence answered him as he made his way through the house, pausing at each door with Ebony in his grip as he checked the rooms for any signs of demonic activity.

Lower floor checked, Dante made his way to the stairs, senses on high alert. He couldn’t hear a damn thing other than the sounds of his own making. Even the expected chirping of birds was creepily absent. He kept up his taunting as he moved up the stairs towards the second floor, steps creaking beneath his weight.

“Might wanna’ get a cleaner in here sometime. Smells like shit.”

Again, no reaction from the mansions demonic occupant. He felt a little uneasy in the silence of the house, so different to how it was the last time he was here. There was always music playing, always. Either of the daughters making or from the speakers hidden throughout the house. She’d loved music. Refused to leave her headphones behind even if she was just going for a short walk in the garden. He’d thought it was a little weird, but didn’t question it.

He pushed open another door, Ebony’s barrel peeking in before Dante’s mop of white hair followed shortly after. A large double bed sat in the middle of the room, a door to the side that he figured led to an en-suite. The master bedroom, he guessed. He stepped carefully around the room towards a set of draws at the side of the bed, intending to snoop a little. Maybe the old man left something that’d give Dante a hint as to what he was up to. He was pretty clammed up about the job Dante had done for him all those years ago, so he couldn’t rely on what little he remembered to figure out exactly what the fuck happened here.

His attention was sidetracked at the sight of a picture frame sitting face down on the side table. He scooped it up, thumb brushing away the layers of dust that coated the glass. The old man’s eyes peered up at him, a small smile on his face. His daughter was there, too. Looking maybe ten or so years old in a pretty little yellow sun dress with her hand in the grip of an older woman. Dante would put money on the fact that woman was the little girls mom. They looked so similar to how he remembered her teen self looking. The same bright eyes and mischievous smile, lips tugging a little higher on the left in a lopsided smirk.

He’d never heard anything about the man having a wife, she certainly wasn’t around the last time Dante visited. Though he supposed someone had to pop that little girl out. He carefully put the picture frame back where he found it and turned to dig through the draws.

Sheets and sheets of loose papers fluttered to the floor as Dante tugged everything out, giving it all a cursory look before discarding it. Bits and pieces of demonology, some photocopied pages with handwritten notes in the margins. A book on summoning that had a couple pages ripped out, and a brief scan of the index showed those torn out pages would have belonged in the sections on ‘Binding’ and ‘Possession’.

All in all, not a great sign. Dante was starting to suspect the old man intended something a little more than just getting his daughter a fancy guard dog.

Guilt crept up on him at that thought. The daughter had mentioned the demon was to protect her, but even he knew that wasn’t all there was to it. But he was too damn soft. Saw the way she looked at her father with love and care, concern, and ignored his better judgement in favor of not murdering the only family she had left. Of keeping her happy.

Fucking idiot, he was. Now where was she? Dissapeared, apparently. But he figured it was more likely she’d been possessed or killed. Body probably didn’t turn up ‘cause there was no damn body left.

If the old man wasn’t already dead, Dante would have killed him himself.

His fingers met leather during his rummaging and he pulled out what looked like a beaten up journal, the old man’s name embossed on the front.

“Thank fuck,” Dante muttered. Finally a real lead.

He flicked through the pages, headed straight for the latest entry and scanned over the hastily scrawled writing.

“My experiments were a success. The demon took to it’s host well, with nary a complaint. She is bound in the catacombs beneath the manor as I write this. My daughter put up more of a fuss than the demon, and I loathe to admit that I had a difficult time subduing her. But she is healthy and whole, better than she was. It was disappointing to see her struggle. Can’t she understand that all I have done up until this point was for her well being? Her mother perished before her time, and I am doing all I can to keep my last remaining family member alive. But she does not see this. ‘Heartless’ she called me. Can you believe it? My own flesh and blood, so disrespectful to the father that gave her everything.

Regardless, it matters little now. The procedure is complete, and once she awakens she will see I have taken the best course of action, and she will thank me.”

“Aww shit.”

Dante’s hand came to run over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. That fucker didn’t bind the demon to her as a summon. He merged them. The old man found a way to merge Demon and Human without killing the human part. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t irrevocably damaged though.

This was… this was a whole lot more fucked that Dante expected it to be. He’d thought it’d be a simple extermination, but the more he learned, the more unsettled he became. If this dude figured out how to merge human and demon in some sort of weird attempt to create an artificial hybrid, then what the fuck else could people do? And that didn’t even begin to cover what the fuck happened to his little ‘experiment’. The daughter was lost, that was a harsh reality Dante had to admit to himself. Because even if the demon that got shoved into her body didn’t completely destroy any humanity she had left, then she would still be a completely different person.

A low growl emanated from his throat as he stood and tucked the journal into his coat. It didn’t fucking matter what happened to the girl now. She was dead, and there was a demon on the loose. Or a… a half breed. Whatever. Considering the amount of carnage in the lobby, Dante doubted the creature could be subdued or reasoned with, regardless of that niggling hope that some semblance of humanity remained in you. His first course of action was to take care of the demon thing, then burn this place to the ground. ‘Cause there was no way in hell he’d let anyone find that old man’s research and try to recreate whatever sick shit went on here.

Ebony was tucked back into her holster and Rebellion unsheathed from his back. That creature hadn’t made an appearance yet, and Dante was sick of waiting. His anger and disgust bubbled to the surface as he left the main bedchamber, footsteps no longer light and voice no longer teasing.

“Come on out, ugly!” He called, the tip of Rebellions blade screeching as he ran it over the floorboards. His muscles tensed and he raised the blade to smash into what was once a lovely portrait of father and daughter, glass raining down around him. “Come out and fucking fight me!”

Movement from outside of the window caught his eye. The quick dart of a shadow outlined by moonlight. He wasted no time in smashing through the glass, boots crunching on grass and dead leaves as he vaulted over the windowsill to land in the gardens outside. Before he could scan his surroundings, a blur of black and red collided with him, sparks spitting off the blade of Rebellion as he raised it just in time to parry the hit. The force of the blow sent him skidding back though the dirt. He dived out of the way of another attack, repositioning so his back wasn’t against the wall.

The moon was shit lighting to see by, but heightened senses made it easier for him to pick out the grotesque form in front of him. Barely humanoid in shape, with branching musculature in the shape of vines curling around your left side in the shape of a gnarly looking sword, bones protruding from the edges like teeth. Your face was split horizontally in two, jaw gaping open and massive fangs breaking through the flesh of your cheeks, eyes the colour of rubies and skin blackened and warped, writhing in the moonlight as if there were thousands of worms wriggling just beneath the surface.

Quite frankly, it was a little gross.

But Dante didn’t have much time to ruminate about the finer points of your form, as one of those wiggling worms under your skin burst through, the tip morphing into a hardened edge as it came straight at him.

His blade came up, intending to slice it apart, but the vine latched onto his blade instead. More came after the first, all bursting from your blackened skin to coil around his blade and tug him closer faster than the human eye could see.

But it was a good thing Dante wasn’t human.

As your vines tugged him closer, he let go of the Rebellion, whipping out Ebony and Ivory and firing into your chest. Your vines retracted, thrashing around furiously as blood dribbled from the wound. Though it closed as quick as it was made, flesh mending back together in an instant. Rebellion clattered to the ground as you rushed him, an inhuman screech tearing itself from your throat as you raised your left arm, blade glinting in the light and swiped at him. He dodged out of the way, firing two more shots and hitting dead center.

You screamed, more anger than pain, your bottom jaw splitting in half vertically and teeth pushing their way through your gums.

Dante grinned. “Not so quiet now, huh?”

Your only reaction was to rush him again, this time though, your vines dug their way into the ground as well. They burst from beneath his feet, wrapping around his leather clad calves. Your blade came down on him again, and sparks flew as he raised ebony and ivory to block the hit, grunting at the strength of your attack. Your eyes met his as you bore down on him and Dante swore he saw recognition flash in your eyes. You hesitated for a split second, attack waning.

But a split second was all Dante needed.

He angled his guns, firing off two more shots straight into your face. A chunk of flesh tore off your jaw and you retreated, another screech tearing from your throat. Your vines retracted from around his calves and Dante jumped back, out of the way of your wild swing. He scooped up Rebellion and on the battle went. You traded blows for what felt like an hour, both of you an even match for the other. Though where Dante’s attacks were calculated and sure. Yours were wild and untamed, underlined with a hesitation that wasn’t there at the beginning. Almost as if there were a part of yourself furiously trying to hold your body back.

Dante hated himself for it, but he hoped his hunch was right. He hoped there was something human left in you, some part of that young woman he wished he could have protected.

During his badly timed rumination, Dante had neglected to notice the patch of mud beneath his booted foot. His eyes widened as you bore down on him. His foot slipped, sending him stumbling into the side of the building behind him. A cry left his lips as one of your vines pierced his shoulder pinning him to the wall. Another raised, pointed tip flashing dangerously before speeding towards his eye.

He tried to raise his arms to block, but your vines had engulfed them, pinning them to his body. So he did the only thing he could, closing his eyes and bracing himself for a world of hurt.

But the pain never came.

He waited. Two seconds, three. Before cautiously opening his eyes. One of your vines was still buried in his shoulder, your face a mere inches from his. But that vine that was speeding towards his face had stopped, frozen mid air a hairsbreadth away from piercing his right eye and puncturing straight through his brain. His eyes flicked to your face, segmented jaw looking like it was trying its damnedest to stitch itself back together and… and tears, streaking down your face.

“Please.”

Dante blinked at the sound of your voice, warped and scratchy as it was. It sounded strained. So much pain hiding behind that one word. Practically begging him with your eyes that had softened, through signs of strain made their appearance everywhere else on your face.

“Please run.”

And just like that your vines retracted, leaving his body. He grunted at the feeling of one nicking his collar bone on the way out but before he could say a word, you’d morphed your body once again into what looked like a large breed of dog and high tailed it out of his sight, into the pitch black of the gardens.

Dante’s eyes followed you as you retreated, slumping down on the wall and clutching his shoulder. He knew it would heal in a jiffy, but that didn’t stop the pain from being nuisance now. His free hand groped around in the mud for Ivory, dropped from his hand when he slipped and he slid her back into her holster along side Ebony.

Well, he thought, that was a fucking riot.

There was some humanity left in you after all. If that flash of recognition earlier didn’t hammer it home, your hasty retreat and pleading words sure as hell did. You’d asked him to run, probably some part of you afraid to hurt or kill him. He didn’t know for certain why you didn’t leave those other poor sods in the entry way alone, but he had a hunch they weren’t anyone you knew. Maybe seeing a familiar face was what brought you out of your bloodthirsty reverie?

Regardless, there was still something in you that could be reasoned with. Dante knew it was stupid, idiotic of him to feel that small swell of relief in his chest that he might not have to kill you after all. But he’d failed to protect that young woman once, and even though you weren’t really her, but an amalgamation of her humanity and a demon, he still felt the pull to protect you. To fix his fuck up from years before.

So, he wasn’t gonna’ run. In fact, as soon as this little hole in his arm healed, he was gonna go right on out to look for you. And he’d fucking try his hardest to make you see reason. Or at least try not to get shanked again.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tear Into Your Soul - Chapter 6 (ao3 link)

For @blackberreh-art, who wanted some Madara focus and Hashirama/Madara

There comes a time in a man's life when he has to think about the choices.

About what it was that led him to where he is now.

For Madara, where he is now happens to be hiding behind a dango stall so that Izuna doesn’t find him.

So, really, what even is his life right now?

He feels like he knew, once, but then things just sort of happened.

First there was war, then there wasn’t, and then rhere was all of the negotiations to start the village and spending every minute feeling like the elders were going to stab him in the back for it, followed shortly by the even greater stresses of actually setting up a cohesive ninja village, and then all of a sudden there was Hashirama coming up behind him, darkness, confusion, kidnapping – and then Tobirama, beautiful earnest Tobirama who still didn’t know about the kidnapping portion of their first real encounter and never would as far as Madara was concerned, and, fuck, he can barely even think the man’s name without a frisson running up his spine, which he supposes is what happens after several weeks of, just, constant sex.

And Hashirama –

Madara very carefully does not think about how he feels about his lifelong best friend and former enemy right now. If he does, he might think about the curl of heat in his belly and shaking cold in his fingertips; think of how terribly he loves him – has always loved him – and how he’s afraid of him, too; think how somehow in his mind all of those battles that never went anywhere meant that he categorized Hashirama as something safe and now even with proof that he’s incredibly not he still can’t quite break that habit; and think, too, of that overwhelming feeling of debt, of course, always debt and gratitude for saving Madara’s heart and mind from turning to ash and all Hashirama ever asked in return was to make all Madara’s dreams come true –

That’s why Izuna can’t find him.

There is no way Madara is explaining what’s going on between him and the Senju brothers to Izuna.

Izuna, who Tobirama so very nearly killed –

Izuna, who Hashirama saved.

The curse of the Sharingan: Madara remembers the exact moment when he heard the shout and saw Izuna fall, stricken, Tobirama finally coming out the victor of what he had always privately and irrationally thought would be an eternal stalemate.

He remembers abandoning everything – the mission, the battlefield, even whatever members of his clan that could not keep up – to get Izuna back home and into the care of the medics.

He remembers how sick he felt when the medics told him there was nothing they could do to save Izuna from Tobirama’s well-aimed strike and how Izuna’s attempt to dodge had earned him nothing more than a slower death.

He remembers the black rage that consumed him when the sentry ran in, shouting that the Senju had taken the almost unimaginable step of attacking the Uchiha compound itself.

He remembers the way that rage had turned him almost rabid, feral as a wild dog, when he’d run outside and seen Tobirama standing there – distant, cold, merciless as he always is on the battlefield – with what appeared to be a masked army at his back, saying that he’d heard that the job he’d done was incomplete and that he’d come to finish it.

A lie, of course.

A good lie, though; it’d done the job: Madara, maddened, had bellowed in his rage, ordering every able-bodied Uchiha to attack, all at once. And Tobirama was so incredibly fast that it’d taken a good ten minutes before their strikes actually started landing and they’re realized that the whole army, Tobirama and the masked men all, were nothing more than those damnable shadow clones because apparently he’d figured out a new twist to the technique that let him make incredibly large numbers of them.

They’d rushed back to the compound the second they’d realized that the ‘attack’ was a feint, but by then Hashirama and Tobirama (the real one) had infiltrated to Izuna’s sickbed, Hashirama healing him and Tobirama keeping watch, and Madara had barely burst into the room when Tobirama had used his hiraishin to spirit the two of them away to safety, leaving behind a healed Izuna and a single kunai piercing their wall, holding up a scroll reading “We trust we’ve made our point” and listing a date and time for peace talks.

Madara really should have realized that Hashirama must be insane back then.

(Before, he’d imagined that Hashirama reacted to Tobirama’s near-kill with anger and grief, shouting that Tobirama robbed him of his best hope of peace with Madara, killing once and for all that dream born by the riverbank, and demanded that Tobirama accompany him to the Uchiha compound to help fix what he had wrought. Now that he knows Hashirama a little better, he thinks it went differently: Hashirama pulling his brother into his arms, whispering praise, and saying, “I’m glad you didn’t kill him immediately. I know just how we’re going to use this.”

And if, sometimes, Madara wonders whether Tobirama’s deadly strike landed true on his brother’s orders…well, Izuna still lives, even if his lungs are a little weaker than they once were, and now they have peace, so surely the ends justify the means and it would be wrong of him to question how it was all achieved. Right?)

In short, there is no fucking way he’s telling Izuna about the exact nature of his current relationship with the Senju brothers, no matter how many times Izuna bothers him about how “altered” his behavior has been since that week he went on that so-called mission with the two of them.

Besides, multiple other people in the clan have told Madara that the entire clan finds him infinitely more tolerable now that he's happier and more relaxed, and if they'd realized that getting laid by a Senju on a regular basis was what it took they would have kidnapped one ages ago.

So Izuna can’t really be concerned. He’s probably just fishing for details to help him win that damnable betting pool regarding which Senju, exactly, Madara is banging, and in what configuration.

Not that anyone in the betting pool has actually guessed right.

Madara doesn’t blame them. He and Hashirama mutually thought of each other as best friends throughout all these long years of war, and they met on a regular basis on the battlefield – if he hadn’t been able to figure out that Hashirama, in addition to being the extremely cheerful, emotional, childish, optimistic, and endlessly hopeful man that he is, is also a sadistic psychopath with a matchless ruthless streak, well, what hope did everyone else have?

Even Izuna thinks of Hashirama as “the nice one”, and he’s in line to be named co-head of the village’s new merged T&I division alongside the head of the Yamanaka clan once the negotiations of their assimilation in to the village is complete.

(To be perfectly honest, Madara’s own greatest contribution to village unity may very well have been recommending that Hashirama take Izuna instead of Tobirama as his aide for some of the peace talks with clans they’d determined would be necessary to be part of the village. Izuna’s most staunch protests against the creation of Konoha has always concerned leaving the defense of the Uchiha clan in the hands of people he didn’t consider adequate, and while Madara’s not actually sure what happened during those peace talks, Izuna did come back with a slight green tinge to his face and significantly fewer concerns about Hashirama’s willingness to do what must be done if necessary.

And with even Izuna now firmly on the side of integration, the remaining dissenting voices were quickly silenced – thought whether Izuna's good faith in the village will survive finding out the exact details of what his beloved older brother has gotten himself into...

Well, probably best not to test it.)

On the other hand, there’s missing Hashirama’s well-hidden madness, which Madara can’t blame anyone for, and then there’s just being stupid. Madara’s heard what ridiculous rumors are going around about him and Hashirama – all gooey romance and hand-holding, childhood romance divided by family strife and reunited at last through Hashirama’s perseverance and hope – and he knows it’s not his public demeanor that invites such speculation.  How shinobi who have been on the same battlefield as the Senju, sometimes in opposition to them, forget that their precious God of Shinobi is in fact a shinobi, Madara’s not sure, but they definitely have.

Still, it's better than what they say about Tobirama.

(cold, harsh, soulless, disdainful and jealous of his brother’s affection for Madara, untrusting of the Uchiha, full of bitterness and hatred, intent on poisoning their precious peace from within)

Tobirama: beautiful, earnest, well-meaning, broken Tobirama, whose mind Hashirama has so thoroughly molded to his own purposes that Madara despairs of ever being able to explain even something so simple as how unusual (wrong) their relationship with Hashirama is.

Tobirama, who tries so hard and does so much that no one sees, who is more or less single-handly building the foundation for Madara and Hashirama's dream village, who can perfectly read a person's body for the purposes of battle but fails to even start to understand their minds for the purposes of peace. Whose inability to speak in anything but the sternest tones makes people overlook him as heartless and cruel, when in truth he is anything but.

(Tobirama loves as deeply as any Uchiha, with all the pain that comes with it, but whom everyone treats as if he is too strong to feel such things – Madara, whose clan should really know better than to misjudge him but still does it, understands being in that position better than anyone.)

Sure, Madara has only had his own eyes opened about Tobirama recently – he’d been as vile as the rest of them before, blaming Tobirama for what Hashirama did, for what he didn’t do, for everything, making him the village scapegoat just because he didn’t smile – but now that he’s aware, he's determined to put a stop to it. He never could stand people who failed to appreciate what they had by holding them to impossible standards; he’d put a stop to any comparisons between himself and Izuna at once, harshly, and to see Tobirama retreating further and further into himself, languishing in Hashirama’s shadow, causes him an almost physical pain.

Now that he sees it, and now that he does he sees it everywhere, he's decided that he will burn anyone who dares think of Tobirama as the lesser just because he's not Hashirama, even when - especially when - Tobirama would never think to question it.

...Hashirama probably factored that into his plans, too.

Damn strategists. People in the village joke about Tobirama being part Nara, all quiet reserve and brilliant mind and concern for the troublesome, but it took discovering that Hashirama also has that clan’s notorious ability to see all the steps necessary to reach their goals, as famous if not more so than their shadows, to convince Madara that there might be some truth to the rumor.

After all, look at where they are now.

Everything Hashirama wants, he has: a village of peace, a ban on military action by children, power enough to protect his last living brother –

Even Madara.

(Madara's hardly the only Uchiha to be attracted to the Senju brothers - there's been an active black market in suggestive pictures made of convincing henges more or less ever since the day they came of age - but his position as Hashirama's (former) best friend had given him particular reason to daydream. But none of his much-exercised fantasies had prepared him for the reality that Hashirama would not just want him, which he'd barely dare hope, but would want to own him, a greedy and possessive and all-encompassing love that Madara really, truly shouldn't find nearly as hot as he does.)

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, Madara feels the tightening around his throat that means that Hashirama wants him to come home.

He reaches up and tugs at his neck, scowling.

Damn collar.

Damn Hashirama, too, for using a promise made in a moment of weakness to convince Madara to put the collar on without clarifying that it then wouldn't come off.

Woven with the most precise use of the Mokuton Madara has ever seen Hashirama use, the collar is a gorgeous swirl of brown roots and branches, green vines, red and yellow leaves, so fine and delicate that it looks like embroidery.

Madara knows it does, because after two of the village's leading shinobi simultaneously began wearing them, disguised as adornment sewn into their outfits (and the fact that Tobirama was similarly collared was not as comforting as Hashirama might think, given that Madara knows perfectly well that Tobirama would do anything Hashirama wanted no matter how foolish), the whole damn village picked up the trend.

The Konoha collar, they're calling it. Ridiculous.

Hashirama probably planned that, too, or maybe it’s just the universe loving him so much that it gives him unlooked-for gifts in the form of good luck. Now his entire village has unknowingly adopted the symbol of Hashirama's dominion, and all because they think it’s fashionable. 

As Madara said: ridiculous.

And given how ridiculous it is, Madara really shouldn’t find the memory of Hashirama, eyes dark with lust and possessiveness and no small amount of madness, murmuring as he fixed the collar into place that it would help him make sure that nothing would ever part them again as damnably hot as he does. It’s a wound that’s lingered in Madara’s heart, too, ever since that day by the river, and knowing that Hashirama feels as strongly as he does, however he expresses it, soothes something in him that he didn’t even know needed soothing.

(He’s still not sure about how he feels about the idea of being owned, though somehow it’s only taken Hashirama a month of repeated positive reinforcement to convince Madara’s cock that the idea’s not half bad and definitely not worth objecting to. Not that Madara would let himself be ruled by his sexual desires, of course, but given the near-celibate state that his high rank and the respect of his clan has boxed him into for years on end, they are rather persuasive…)

Maybe he would object more if Tobirama hadn’t been collared at the same time – collared like an animal by his own damn brother, on his knees with the ecstasy of the converted in his eyes like a painting that Madara has seared forever into his brain with his Sharingan, and no matter how much he knows better, Madara still somehow expects every time he sees Tobirama wearing the collar that Tobirama will suddenly realize that this is all twisted and wrong, that no matter how beautiful the two Senju look together there is a power imbalance between them that will never be fixed. But that will never happen: the depth of the brainwashing involved here will take years to fix, if fixing it is even possible.

(If Madara could only think about the collaring logically, he might be able to convince himself that it’s unacceptable, but thinking about the collar makes him think of Hashirama and Tobirama and things that mean that he’s basically ended up jerking off at least once a day to those thoughts for the last month and clearly thinking logically just isn’t going to happen until he gets this whole thing out of his system and his libido under control again. He’s sure that’ll happen. At some point. Surely…)

The only good thing that had come out of the stupid collars, in Madara’s opinion, was how the fashionable popularity of the collars in Konoha ended up sparking the idea for one of Tobirama’s most brilliant ideas to date, and given that Tobirama and brilliance are practically synonymous, that was really saying something.

Using Hashirama’s usual inattention to detail as cover, Tobirama snuck through a law allowing certain Hokage-approved products to be sold without any tax burden on either seller or buyer, thus significantly reducing the price and increasing the profit, and worked with the village merchants to encourage the sale of Konoha ‘souvenirs’ to civilians from across the land. Once the Council – Tobirama had insisted on their having one, represented by elders from each clan that joined, and while Madara had originally doubted that democracy was really applicable to shinobi, the existence of the Council had turned out to be a major selling point in convincing more clans to join the village now that they knew their opinions would be heard – found out about it, mostly when their budget for new works had decreased due to receiving less tax, they protested it as foolish and self-indulgent waste.

Well, they’d protested right up until Tobirama explained that each necklace or keychain or pacifier or whatever had been stamped, among other decorative features, with one of his Hiraishin marks, thereby giving him - and whatever listening devices or bombs he carried with him – immediate access to villages and clan compounds across the land that he would never have been able to access otherwise.

(Madara is so very, very glad that they’re no longer at war with the Senju, especially since by the time Tobirama got around to explaining his plan several dozen of the stupid things had already gotten lost somewhere inside the new Uchiha compound. Izuna had been incredibly pissed off at the unfathomable breach in security.)

The collar gives another squeeze, harder this time, and that cuts off Madara’s daydreaming.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Madara grumbles – and given what a summons by collar like this usually means, he has reason to expect that he will very soon be coming in a different sort of way – and peeks around the side of the stall to confirm that he’s lost Izuna.

With that confirmed, he nods at the highly amused stall owner – a civilian, though one who managed to keep such a straight face that Madara thinks he might be a spy – and dashes up the side of the nearest building to make a beeline towards Hashirama's house.

Their house, he supposes, given that he shares it with the two Senju brothers with the official reason being that it’s more convenient for them to be near the village’s administrative center, but really, it’s Hashirama’s house.

Everything in that house belongs to Hashirama, but most especially its other two residents.

(Madara wishes he wasn’t the sort of person who was turned on by the methods Hashirama considered appropriate in disciplining his younger brother, particularly after that research spree of his, but, unfortunately, he really, really is. If only Tobirama wasn't so beautiful and so broken, so lovely in his obedience, in his need, in his pleas for mercy, then maybe Madara wouldn't want him so badly that he'd agree to anything if only to get more of him –)

The second Madara passes the threshold, his collar tightens pointedly in a way that he’s learned means that no one else is home that Hashirama's got something planned.

Which means wearing clothing is not allowed.

Madara licks his suddenly dry lips - why does he like this? - and gets himself undressed, leaving only the collar in place.

He heads first to the bedroom, his cock already hard in anticipation, but oddly enough, Hashirama’s not there.

He’s in the office. Actually working, no less.

“Tobirama, there’s no need to wear a henge when we’re at home,” Madara drawls, even those his sensor abilities make it clear that it is, in fact, Hashirama sitting there – even if the fact that he’s sitting at the ridiculous ‘walking’ desk no one else can use wasn’t enough to give him away.

Hashirama looks up at him with a blinding smile, waving the desk away so he can rise to his feet.

“Good, you’re here,” he says, coming over. “I got you a present.”

Madara has exactly one second to feel a distinct sense of foreboding – even without the Sharingan, one learns to get a feel for these sorts of things – and then Hashirama plops something on top of his head.

“…are those cat ears?!”

“They are! I saw them in the marketplace today and thought of you,” Hashirama says, apparently oblivious to Madara’s growing incredulousness. “Just like that prickly stray that hangs around the fish shop –”

“Hashirama. I am not a cat.”

“Of course you are,” Hashirama says, settling his hands on Madara’s shoulders. He’s still smiling. “You’re anything I say you are.”

And then something burns on the back of Madara’s neck, snapping his chakra shut so quickly that he can’t breathe for a moment and the pressure of Hashirama’s hands grows and he falls to his knees –

Right onto a pillow.

“See?” Hashirama says, sounding smug. “My good little kitty.”

“Since when,” Madara wheezes, ignoring how nice it feels when Hashirama’s fingers gently knead his shoulders and ignoring even harder how hard his cock still is, “can you attach chakra suppression seals to the Mokuton?”

“Tobirama –”

“Say no more.” Madara’s not even surprised. Hashirama probably hadn’t even needed to ask, he could have just smiled faintly at the thought of surprising Madara like this and Tobirama would have set to work immediately. Hashirama has Tobirama remarkably well –

Madara swallows.

Trained.

That's different, though, he argues to himself. Tobirama doesn’t know what freedom is, while Madara has not only been free but clan head, commander of dozens of soldiers, for years; he’s agreeing to Hashirama’s nonsense because it apparently appeals to some sort of bizarre sexual urges that he was previously unaware of. He might be submitting, but he’s still in control.

He can walk away any time.

“Oh, Madara, look! I also found this.”

Madara stares.

Right before his eyes, Hashirama is dangling what appears to be a small plush mouse.

“No,” Madara says flatly.

“You should play with it. It’s a present.”

Madara sees red. What the hell is Hashirama up to? Humiliation games are what he plays with Tobirama, not with Madara; those games have certainly been enjoyable to watch (and experience) but Madara definitely isn’t into that sort of thing –

Hashirama’s hand moves to his hair and pulls, yanking Madara’s head backwards to look up at him.

Madara’s cock gives a traitorous twitch. None of his other lovers have ever been brave enough to play with his hair, even though it’s right there and somewhat unavoidable; thus far all of his exploration in that direction has happened, by necessity, on his own.

This is different from those little games he designed for himself: more unpredictable, more dangerous. Hashirama’s strong, physically as well as in terms of pure power, and there’s a certain thrill in knowing that the fingers tangled through his hair could probably pick him up and throw him if they so wished. A thrill in being helpless, on his knees, and yet knowing that his life is in no real danger – Hashirama loves him, madly and desperately, and he’s not going to kill him, though he might be willing to hurt him, as evidenced by the further little tug on Madara’s hair.

…it's much better than doing it to himself.

“You’re being ungrateful, kitty,” Hashirama murmurs. “And here I go to all this trouble to get you a nice present, and you won’t even try it out? That’s not very nice.”

Madara shouldn’t find this hot. He’s not a child, he’s not Tobirama; he’s never enjoyed being disciplined. If anything, it always drove him mad when his father or the elders meted it out; he hated it with an unruly passion that he never failed to express. He should jump to his feet right now and storm out of the room in an angry huff, that’s what he should do.

And then –

And then Hashirama might never do this again.

Might never look at him with those eyes gone dark, that little hint of a smile hiding behind his best attempt at a stern expression (it’s not very convincing); might never put his hands in Madara’s hair and pull just the way Madara’s always secretly hoped that someone would –

…Madara maintains that this is a very stupid game that Hashirama’s playing, but maybe it’s worth giving it a shot.

But on his own terms, to remind Hashirama that Madara’s here of his own free will and not by coercion, that no matter what they play at when it comes to games of ownership, at the end of the day they’re still best friends and equals.

Madara looks up at Hashirama from his position on his knees and smirks, ignoring how dry his lips are. “And what’re you going to do about that?”

Hashirama’s face breaks out in a giant grins in response.

Next thing Madara knows – what is with these Senju, do they ever stop training their speed? – Hashirama’s sitting on the floor and Madara’s lying over his lap.

Madara has that second of foreboding again, except this time he knows exactly what’s going to happen and he’s not okay with it. Hashirama couldn’t seriously expect him to agree to be –

Hashirama’s hand comes down right on Madara’s ass.

“What the fuck, Hashirama –”

Hashirama hits him again, and Madara yelps in surprise. This isn’t the piddling little impact play he’s managed to talk at least one particularly brave lover into, where every strike is half-hearted at best – Hashirama’s really putting his back into it. And given that Hashirama is built like the trees he can summon with a thought, with thighs and arms as massive as oaks, with all the power that suggests behind his blows even before he adds chakra, that’s really saying something.

It makes Madara think of the battlefield: the way his blood is on fire, adrenaline pumping through his heart when he sees Hashirama across a field, knowing that in only a moment they would clash with an impact so powerful it would rattle his teeth, matching that terrible strength with his own. The way they would be abandoned by their clans, all wise enough to know to get out of the way when titans walked the earth and gods met in the fury of war; the way it sometimes felt, through the fog of smoke and fog, as if they were alone together, caught in an endless battle that went on forever.

Makes him think, guiltily, of those secret dreams he sometimes had that twisted the Sharingan-clear memories of those battles into something else, something darker. Some where he finally took advantage of Hashirama’s hesitancy to gain the upper hand, forcing his friend to his knees – and of other dreams, even more secret, where it was Hashirama who won, unleashed at last, and forced him down in turn, right there in the battlefield with all of his clan around, their Sharingan-red eyes glowing through the fog, watching, searing the sight of their defeated leader into their memories forever –

Madara whimpers and thrashes without actually trying to escape, his cock rutting against Hashirama’s thick thigh as the other man strikes again, setting up an unpredictable rhythm that is occasionally broken up by reaching out to give Madara’s hair another purposeful tug.

It’s so good.

No one else would ever dare do anything like this. No one would even dare think of it – to put the fearsome leader of the Uchiha over their knee and spank him like he’s a disobedient child? It’s unthinkable.

“You really should be more open-minded,” Hashirama says. His tone is as mild and unaffected as if he were remarking on a new restaurant opening in the village, albeit one that he’s looking forward to trying out, like Madara isn’t rutting against his lap and can’t feel how hard Hashirama is. “I’m your Hokage, now. You should trust me to make good decisions for you.”

“Hashirama –”

“Shh. Good kitties don’t talk, not if they’re going to say mean things. They’re only allowed to say good things. You can be a good kitty for me, right?”

Hashirama’s free hand settles in Madara’s hair, right next to those ridiculous ears, and starts very purposefully stroking, sometimes with a fierce tug interspersed.

At no point does his other hand stop coming down, even though Madara’s ass has got to be bright red by now.

Madara groans and grinds down, seeking more pressure. This position isn’t good enough.

“Well? Are you?”

Madara grinds down some more.

Hashirama stops moving.

Someone makes an absolutely pathetic, wretched whining sound, full of denied need.

Madara has the sinking feeling that it was him.

“Well, Madara? Tell me you’re a good little kitty for me and I’ll give you a reward.”

No way. Absolutely no way. Hashirama might be very good at figuring out Madara’s most secret desires, but there is absolutely no way that Madara would ever –

Hashirama’s fingers trace, very lightly, over Madara’s ass.

Madara shivers.

The fingers dip lower, still gentle, still delicate, not enough pressure to actually do anything other than tease, and there’s the slightest little pressure against Madara’s hole, but then they’re pulling away and Hashirama is sighing and unfolding his legs like he’s actually thinking of getting up and going back to work and –

“I can be a good kitty,” Madara blurts out, and he feels his face go scarlet. He didn’t actually just say that. He didn’t. It’s some sort of genjutsu, clearly, to make him think he’s said that, meant to torture him.

“What’s that?” Hashirama says, the kindness in his voice only a mask for his cruelty. “A good little kitty, you say? For who?”

“For – for you,” Madara manages to spit out, twisting to hide his face in Hashirama’s belly because he can’t bear himself right now, horribly shamed but perversely grateful that Hashirama isn’t making him say that again. “Hashirama, please –”

Hashirama’s fingers come back, this time pressing in confidently, slicked up and stretching him and Madara starts wiggling again, hoping that this time he’ll get enough stimulation to actually come –

Something presses into him, and it’s not fingers.

Hashirama laughs, a little chuckle that Madara only ever hears from him in the bedroom – satisfied and pleased and more than a little turned on.

Madara twists to look and then he can feel his face go red again.

It’s a tail.

Well, on the outside, anyway; the inside is wood carved into a familiar shape (very familiar, actually – Tobirama? Seriously? If Hashirama wasn’t able to create his own sex toys by waving his hands, Madara wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near the woodcarvers ever again lest he die of embarrassment), pressing into him in all the best ways, but the outside is long and soft, silk threads meant to mimic fur wrapped around a thin wooden core so that Hashirama can make the tail move through the air before wrapping around Madara’s thigh and giving a little squeeze.

“What a good kitty I have,” Hashirama coos. “What a sight you make. Look at yourself, Madara.”

He pulls Madara’s hair again, purposefully this time, dragging Madara out of his lap and back to a kneeling position on that cushion from earlier and crap, there’s a mirror there, since when is there a mirror there?

A mirror showing Madara in all his shame, no less: naked but for the cat ears and matching tail, the collar around his neck, and the hard cock that shows anyone looking how much he’s enjoying his own degradation.

“If only the rest of your clan could see you now,” Hashirama says, and Madara shudders, shutting his eyes but unable to blot out the sight of himself. “Their Madara-sama, fearsome and mighty, able to match anyone in the battlefield – what would they think of you now, on your knees for me? A good little kitty for me?”

Madara would like to say he recoils from the thought, humiliating to the extreme, but he doesn’t; he just wants to come. He could, too: Hashirama hasn’t bound his cock in any way, for once, and that means he could just reach over and –

Hashirama catches his hands and wraps something around them, winding it around his fingers and up to his forearms. Something thin and weak, nothing that would actually keep Madara back if he wasn’t willing – another way to show him that this is happening with his compliance, no matter how much he wishes he could blame coercion for his participation in this – and Madara doesn’t look but he has the distinct suspicion that it’s yarn.

“Now, kitty, you’re going to be good for me,” Hashirama says, and he really does stand up, pulling Madara’s head in until his face is pressed up against Hashirama’s still-clothed cock, rubbing against it like he really is some sort of obscene parody of a cat. “You’re going to be very good.”

Madara hates how much he likes it when Hashirama compliments him. No one ever did, not like this; he had to fight and sweat and bleed for any praise he ever managed to get from his clan elders or, worse, his father, and Hashirama hands it out like it’s nothing, sweet loving words falling from his lips at the slightest sign of obedience.

(Sometimes Madara thinks he can see why Tobirama bends so quickly to Hashirama’s will. It’s terribly seductive, that praise, the warmth of approval in Hashirama’s eyes.)

That’s probably what makes him agree without words, letting Hashirama settle in one of those stupid chairs he’s always making (the one he was using when Madara first came in is right there) and opening his mouth to take Hashirama’s cock, letting it sit heavy on his tongue, a now-familiar taste of heat and flesh.

He thinks he knows what Hashirama wants – imagines himself licking at Hashirama’s cock and mewling like a kitten, and feels the flush rise in his cheeks – but when he starts to suck Hashirama weaves a hand into his hair and gives him a little tug, making him stop.

“That’s very nice of you to offer, Madara,” Hashirama says. “But I really need to get some work done, or Tobirama will kill me. Just hold on a little and I’ll get right back to you.”

And somehow that’s even more humiliating: he’s just sitting there, kneeling on a cushion with his still-stinging ass on his ankles, tail curled up around him and pressing inside of him, with his mouth around Hashirama’s cock and not even doing anything.

Hashirama’s stupid walking desk comes over and stops right over his head, like Hashirama really is planning on doing paperwork while using Madara as – as some sort of cock warmer, a toy for his pleasure, and the very thought makes Madara burn.

Not, as much as he would like, in a bad way.

“Shh,” Hashirama says, and the hand in Madara’s hair starts carding through it. “I’ll be right with you. Just a little patience. You can be patient, can’t you?”

That hits right in an old, sore spot: Madara’s never been patient, never, and the elders of his clan are always lecturing him about it. Too brash, too impulsive, not thoughtful enough – they don’t believe him when he tells them that he knows how to lie in wait, how to hold his strike until the right moment, and no matter how many infiltration or assassination missions he takes, they never change in that belief.

He knows he’s playing right into Hashirama’s hands by not fighting him, not demanding that they do more right now, but this position feels strangely good – hand in his hair, cock warm in mouth and cool in his ass, the comedown from the adrenaline of a strike – and anyway, there’s no way Hashirama can possibly make him wait that long.

So he sits there, waiting, and things start to – drift, almost.

His mind goes quiet, almost peaceful, and it’s almost like the feeling of waiting for an assassination target to get into place, anticipation but somehow muted. There’s nothing for him to think about right now: no clan business to attend to, no irritating questions about his stability from the Council, no missions to plan or shinobi to worry about, no politics…nothing.

Nothing but the warmth between his lips and the hand in his hair.

“I knew you’d make a good kitty, Madara,” Hashirama is saying somewhere very far away. “Isn’t it nice? Cats don’t worry about anything. You don’t need to worry about anything. It’s all being taken care of. Everything’s in good hands: your village, your clan, your family. Everything’s fine. Everything’s good. You don’t need to think about it. You can just be. Just lie in the sun, warm and happy and mine. Isn’t that good?”

Madara lazily hums in agreement, barely aware that he’s doing it.

He’s not sure how much time passes and he finds he doesn’t really care. He’s always thought he wasn’t made for peace, no matter how much he longed for it; always suspected, in the dark hours of the night before the dawn, that even if he one day built the village of his dreams that it would never be enough for him. That he’d always be restless, unsatisfied; that a man built to the specifications of endless war would never be able to learn what it means to be at peace, not really, not in his heart – that he’d end up a relic, a warmonger among those too tired for war, paranoid and alone and watching everyone around him settle into peace in a way he could never hope to match.

But those fears are gone, now: he’s as peaceful as the heart of a banked fire, his overactive mind finally at ease. No worries, no fears, nothing to do but be – knowing in his heart that everything is fine, that even if anything happens Hashirama will deal with it, and able to just rest. At last.

He can finally release the burdens that have rested on his shoulders since that terrible day by the riverside when the weight of his duty crashed down upon him, since even before then, since the day he first understood what it meant that he was the heir. To be an older brother, in a clan at war.

(He wonders for a moment if Hashirama has trapped him in some sort of genjutsu, since he can’t use his chakra right now to dispel or even check, but surely no one would use one for such a pointless little game as this.)

“You’re doing so well,” Hashirama tells him, even as he keeps working, the soft sound of brush on paper on the table above Madara’s head just barely audible, lulling Madara further into the hazy doze he’s in. “So good. I knew you’d be good, but you’re doing even better than I dreamed you would. Such a good kitty. Good little kitty –”

He says more in that vein, lots more, and Madara just lets it drift over him, the words soothing and his mind blank, ignoring the minor physical discomforts of the position – his ass still sore, the collar pressing around his throat, his jaw going stiff even as he drools all over Hashirama’s cock, unable to wipe it away, his own cock heavy and hard between his legs – in favor of that wonderful feeling of floating.

It’s so very hard to disagree with Hashirama when he feels this good. Feels this free.

It’s really not that bad, being a cat.

Being Hashirama’s cat.

Not if that means he can let go of all his troubles and sit here, listening to whispers of praise, and know that for once in his life he’s fulfilling and even exceeding every expectation of him.

“Very good,” Hashirama says. “You did such a good job, Madara; I’m all done with the paperwork now. You can have your reward now.”

When Madara doesn’t respond, still distant as though everything is happening through a pane of glass, Hashirama puts his hands in Madara’s hair and starts to move his head for him, fucking his mouth in little gentle gestures that slowly, ever so slowly, bring Madara back down to earth.

He comes, eventually, and Madara swallows it all down, obediently using his tongue to clean Hashirama’s cock after, licking him up just like a good kitty should. When Hashirama gives him his foot and leg to use to get off, not even bothering to use his hands or his mouth or even his Mokuton to get Madara off but just leaving Madara to rut against him like an animal, Madara is appropriately grateful.

“You’re so good,” Hashirama tells him, again and again, his fingers still warm in Madara’s hair. “Being so good, all for me. This is what you get when you let me take care of you. Isn’t it better like this? Such a good kitty.”

Madara comes, awash in sensation and pleasure, and doesn’t even think to complain when Hashirama’s next orders are for him to take a nap in the bed in the corner, the one that’s right under the high window that’s only small enough to let in light and not visitors, that lets him soak up the warm afternoon light as Hashirama takes care of all the necessary business, cleaning him up with a nice warm cloth before settling back in at the desk to continue the important work of caring for the village they’ve made together.

It doesn’t even occur to Madara to remove the ears or the tail.

He’s a good kitty.

(He wakes up four hours later, realizes he’s late for dinner with Izuna and the Uchiha elders and trips over himself three times while getting ready even as Hashirama laughs at him, but something of that peace remains with him even later that night, lets him smile at Izuna and laugh at his leading questions and tell him without explaining anything that everything is just fine, Izuna, don’t worry so much, nothing has changed.

Everything is just fine.)

[itsclydebitches]

For the Ozqrow prompts can them hugging be a thing? After this episode I feel like those boys need a damn hug. Or maybe couples therapy and communication...

I’m so not equipped to be the one dishing out therapy for these two lol. But behold! The Argus trip that absolutely, totally happened! (Also less “Ozqrow” and more “Wholesome family feels” since Oscar ended up getting involved - sorry if that’s not what you were looking for! :o) 

You did well out there.

Oscar shut his eyes, taking a moment to just let the words wash over him. With the grimm dead and behind them he could now feel a fierce ache settling into his limbs; the pounding of a bruise where his aura had broken while trying to scramble to safety. He was so thirsty he could barely swallow and his hands were numb with cold—except they blossomed with pain as soon as he packed the cane back up and slipped it onto his belt. Oscar had a headache. He had adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He had the vague sense that he knew all these feelings intimately, even though they were rather strange to a former farmhand.

He had pride that he’d done that.

As you should. Ozpin’s voice floated easily on the top of his mind today, crisp and clear. Your speed has increased immensely. As has the control over your aura.

“And I’m not attacking dust-infused murderers head on…”

The hum Oscar felt was simultaneously supportive and vaguely amused. Getting your ass kicked so hard that all you could do was lie in bed for three days gave a guy plenty of time to chat with the voice in his head, and those chats had revolved primarily around the topic of How to Judge When a Fight Will Get You Killed. It had taken Oscar about 48 hours and plenty of sniping… but he could admit now that he’d been a little hasty in trying to take on Hazel by himself.

Everything was just so complicated.  

On that, at least, we can agree. But take heart, Oscar. You stood your ground today and you won.

“We won.”

And yes, a vague impression of Ozpin was included in the group that Oscar instinctually thought of. Having Jaune boost Ren’s aura had been a fantastic idea, allowing the grimm farther back to drop off completely, no longer drawn by the relic and a mass of terrified people. Relying on Weiss’ ice was another—they didn’t need to kill these grimm, just keep them from catching up. She’d captured wings and tails against the mountainside, Ruby shouting something about good times as she cut through the rest. Oscar hadn’t really followed it.

Ms. Schnee kept a Nevermore contained during initiation, giving the rest of her future team time to dispatch it. Ozpin’s voice reverberated with pride. A remarkable feat for an incoming student, considering the timing that move required. Ms. Schnne has always had a particular talent for precision.

“Weiss.”

…I’m sorry?

“You’re living in my head and I’m living with them. You should probably drop the formalities. I mean,” Oscar shrugged. “It’s not like you’re their headmaster anymore.”

Oh. He hadn’t meant that to sound so mean. He felt the brief flash of pain and regret and want that flowed through them… and then Ozpin reigned it all back in. Oscar was left with a hand pressing against his head and a voice trying desperately to sound chipper.

Perhaps you’re right.

“Hey, kid! Don’t go fainting on me.”

Qrow wound his way through the train’s passengers, many of them blocking the flow as they stopped to stare at Oscar. They’d all felt the first hit from the grimm of course, heard the defense mechanisms winding up, but they probably hadn’t expected one of their saviors to be a short-statured boy still dressed for the farm. Oscar sheepishly kicked the rest of the snow off his boots as Qrow finally made it to his side.

He had a martini in hand. With an orange slice.

We just got in, Oscar thought, barely managing to keep from saying it aloud. In the back of his mind a familiar warning built and Oscar pinched their shared arm because yeah, yeah, they’d been over this. He’d grown up in a family where everyone worked dawn to dusk and where potential mishap—a flooded field, a cattle’s breach birth, even a grimm attack—meant that everyone had to be clearheaded. Always. His aunt had never approved of drinking and frankly neither did Oscar… no matter how much Ozpin was willing to give Qrow a free pass.  

We retain our separate opinions on the matter. Ozpin’s voice was once more tinged with a thread of amusement and…okay. Yeah. That was oddly reassuring.

Oscar’s shoulders slumped. “I’m just tired,” he said.

“You and me both. Like this month needed to get any crazier, huh?” Qrow took a long sip of his drink, but his eyes never left Oscar. They traveled from his soaked pants up into windblown hair. Then they narrowed. “You’re gonna freeze to death like that long before we hit Atlas. Go change. Then the squirts are all gathering in Ruby’s room to play video games. Wanna help me kick their ass?”

It sounded fun… though only in a theoretical way. Play video games with a bunch of kids his own age? Yeah. That’d be great. Oscar had often thought about that on the farm, what it would be like to go to school and make friends and just have someone other than his aunt around—

(I’m here.) 

—but Oscar also knew that they’d already tried this. Everyone was nice while training, but then they’d all go off in their own groups when it was time to relax. They weren’t ignoring him exactly. They just didn’t seem to think he fit. And Oscar got it. He hadn’t gone to Beacon, or experienced the things that bound them all together. He wasn’t a member of a team. And it probably didn’t help that every time he walked into a room people got awkward with the automatic adult who joined them.

…I’m sorry.  

“Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me.”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“No, don’t worry, this dusty old crow doesn’t need to hear anymore. C’mon then.”

Qrow had set his drink on the small window-ledge. He was blocking the hallway now, standing with his feet planted and his arms slightly raised at his sides. The pose seemed at once exaggerated and familiar to him—though this time Oscar couldn’t tell if that was a familiarity on his end or Ozpin’s. A vague, embarrassed, grumbling sort of feeling suggested the latter.

“Jeez you’re bad at this,” Qrow said when he’d apparently stood still a moment too long. The next thing Oscar knew he was being pulled roughly against Qrow’s chest, the smell of alcohol and sweat overwhelming. He instinctually pushed back and Qrow’s arms tightened a fraction. Oscar paused.

He did smell like alcohol… but smoke too. Not cigarette smoke, but something woodsier; like Qrow had recently sat near a fire. With the initial shock gone Oscar could admit that Qrow’s shirt was a whole lot softer than it looked and his arms were a rather comforting weight around his back and shoulders. His aunt never hugged like this. She was light and quick, pulling Oscar quickly to her side before pushing him back out again. Qrow was solid—he was warm—and Oscar found himself instinctually relaxing against what felt like an immovable pillar; the one sturdy object amongst all this craziness. His hands inched up around Qrow’s waist and buried in the fabric he found there.

“There you go,” Qrow chuckled, moving one arm up to ruffle Oscar’s hair. Qrow felt him tense and immediately returned the limb to its former position, a clear statement of: I’m not pulling away. “I’ve got two nieces, kid. I know when a squirt needs a hug. Granted, Ruby usually just hangs off my arm and Yang prefers piggybacks. But it all amounts to the same. Besides, I used to do this for—”

Qrow paused, sighing.

Me.

The merge was a slow and arduous process, the kind of thing you only realized was happening when you looked back and bothered to compare where you were with where you’d been. Lately Oscar had found himself mimicking the way Ozpin sat with their cane and Ozpin sometimes spoke about the farm like he’d been the one to grow up there. Things were messy now, unclear boundaries with equally unclear origins. Were they really becoming one, or were they just so used to one another that they’d picked up on certain habits?

Oscar wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

But the merge was granting them new abilities as well, things beyond just access to Ozpin’s muscle memory. They’d found now that they could control their shared body without a full, formal switch—which was what happened now, Oscar’s fingers uncurling to instead press flat palms against Qrow’s back. The pressure had the same desperate tinge to it though.

Oscar was the one who buried their face in Qrow’s shirt. Ozpin was the one who held on.

“That’s not me,” Oscar whispered, wanting him to understand, not entirely sure he did either. Qrow just gathered him up further.

“I know, kid. I know.”

[bloodybells1]

Leeches, Part 1

“Just the other day, I sat at a bus stop, over on, I don’t know, somewhere in the eighties on the east side. I sat back and the sun shined on my face, and I think I just sat there for going on half an hour. I let about five buses pass me by, I reckon. The drivers kept asking through the doors, but I just shook my head and waved them on.”

Joe laughed at himself, very much the wizened old timer, laughing at his time-honored follies, a cough feigning to latch on to the tail end of one of his chuckles. He sat on a folding chair and never crossed his legs during his speech. He looked back at us once in a while, a wide grin framing the face of a man who’d found God in his dotage.

Behind him stood three sturdy chairs on a low, small landing, the middle one much larger, obviously for a deacon, or some other minister. To his left was a banner affixed to the chapel’s wall, to his right the darkened interior of Rutgers Presbyterian Church’s main hall, only the closest pew mingling with our reflections on the glass, while the rest of the chamber disappeared into the unlit black, pews, apse, arches, all fading away like undulating cephalopods motioning into the bottomless expanse of the deep ocean.

We were thirty men of various ages and, in various angles, situated on recently unfolded chairs, our ears plastered to Joe’s syllables. A semicircle of a row flanked Joe on each side, while rows of five staggered farther away in front of him. We waited for him to finish his speech.

My friend Kenyon, a man given to reflexive smiles, body art and jangling silver jewelry, raised his hand on the tail end of the applause. Kenyon was, like myself but in a completely different way, the aesthetic anomaly in this male lineup of denim, half-zip fleece pullovers, and unbuttoned checks. As for me, I was undergoing an awkward transition from the bespoke slim-fitting hipster fare of my East Village salad days to the generic knits I ended up cottoning to, staid, American gear with a fashion forward edge, the kind of corporate mimicry of downtown New York style evident in late aughts Express storefronts, the cheap grey cardigan with thin, plastic buttons and a gaudy, shiny placket to name one example, the sort of trickled-down haute couture which American Apparel had turned into a belated, and thankfully short-lived, empire of disposable cotton.

Kenyon, on the other hand, was a world onto himself. He was irreducible, and managed to turn all of that corporatizing on its head. Steeped in glam rock, a downtown tradition dating back to Max’s Kansas City, he merged the ripped tank tops and the second skin of leather trousers with punk, post-90s hip hop, and even industrial. By the time Kenyon was done, he was fully dressed, even though he’d barely put anything on: five necklaces formed an extra shirt over that tank top, while seven sterling-coated rings formed makeshift cuffs past the “sleeves” of tattoos on his arms. Sometimes he wore a black grosgrain cap with a chrome plate sewed onto the front that read “BITCH”. No one dressed like Kenyon, and if the reader regards my valuation as improbable, I can but insist that no one pulled off his sartorial derring-do with even half of his aplomb.

In all honesty, I didn’t want to like Kenyon, and I chalk that up to sibling rivalry. Though he did pull it off, his style was nonetheless loud. At the time, I needed quiet. That’s why I was there listening to Joe with my conveyer belt cardigan. Of course I had no idea I was dragging my old style like a cadaver in search of some missing morgue. But I was trying to fit in, trying to make a break with the past. I needed those dudes with their conservative shtick, sitting cross-legged checking blackberries once in a while, probably texting loved ones about soccer practice and babysitter hours. Joe was the granddaddy and these guys were my dads.

Once Joe was done everybody else started chiming in. People talked one at a time, and each person picked the next person to talk. Kenyon’s arm was erect, and he was picked early. Joe was sheepish about feedback, more out of feeling gratified to have shared his story with us than with insecurity about revealing himself, so he darted his eyes from the floor to anyone who wasn’t talking. Kenyon, like all who were picked, was speaking to the room, even though he directly addressed Joe, who indulged the time it took to place a couple bucks into the donation hat making the rounds. Silver tinkled on silver as Kenyon lowered his arm.

He did his best: “Joe, that story about the bus stop, man, wow, that’s amazing. I wish that was me. I’m just not there yet. I’m always busy, running around chasing my fantasies, maybe a woman, projects, getting angry about my job. It’s like I’m addicted and I can’t find peace. So I envy you, and all that serenity you shared with us. Thank you.”

Unlike their hardier, more “masculine” AA counterparts, Al-Anon meetings have no liquidation agenda. They’re not out to eradicate your issue. Nobody will say, as they do in AA, “Hey buddy, you’ve been fucking up, so it’s time to get your ass in gear and do some service for a change”. It’s more like “Sit back and relax, you’ve been working too hard” and “Don’t just do something, sit there.”

AA-ers criticize the warm embrace as too accommodating, but for my money’s worth, I always got more out of the Kumbaya fireside chat in Al-Anon meetings, than the fluorescently-lit, “bad cop” demeanor of your typical AA church basement. Booze was a problem, of course, but only during a relatively short span of debauching as an erstwhile rockstar. It was a symptom of “extreme lifestyling”, so, once I left the music industry and started frequenting libraries instead of dive bars, I had little difficulty moderating my intake. Thankfully, there were no winged bottles of Smirnoff in my dreams, and to this day, I say a prayer of gratitude with every crisp draught of New World red during mealtime.

What I lacked was not self-control, but self-esteem. Al-Anon, with its boundaries, its “healing centers”, its gingerbread cookies, its amateur yogis meditating, palms up, while people like Joe regaled you with yarns about how they lived “one day at a time”, boosted the lagging go-getter within and checked the autocratic superego’s overreach. Unlike our bulldog AA counterparts, choking and chafing on the leash, we were more like tiny, caged Papillons needing assertiveness training. Al-Anon’s ethos of boundary-setting was the gamechanger for the steamrolled contingent.

I needed a jolt in the arm to help me take charge of the new me. Once the keg dried on my club kid/rocker past, so did all of its faulty affirmations – “I’m a killer” – “I’m the man” – “I’m the life of the party”. What had seemed like incontrovertible evidence of greatness and longevity soured into empty pomp and arrogance, showing its age faster than a fine Brie sitting out too long. If you cut the tap, you see things for what they are, hollow, teenage rhetoric, a lacquered gloss of puerile angst disguising the real pain within, the miserable cartography drawn in Crayola. I had a hard time transitioning to “adulting”.

Al-Anon was the perfect solution for a spiritual drifter like myself, someone who’d managed to duck the hypnotic allure of substance, but was tethered to the overhead luggage of an overwrought past, a hypertrophied lore inflated by the helium-empty of media success and unrestrained carousing. The skill of setting boundaries, the primary focus of the work in that fellowship, was my first time making a conscious, adult demarcation of self. It was a kind of handwritten accounting, using a brand-spanking new calligraphy pen when in the past I only had a crayon.

Not only had I been bluffing my way through every opportunity and relationship all my life, but I’d shirked male bonding as well. The old man had left enough scar tissue to lead me to believe, wrongly, that nothing presented a greater threat to my safety than another swinging dick in the room. Al-Anon, being majority female in its constituency, attracted me for this very reason. But this uptown meeting offered me a new twist: the gentle lilt of Al-Anon sloganeering with the familiar heft of masculine energy. When I found that meeting, I discovered the verdant hidden pastures of otherwise craggy masculine caverns, undergoing the Robert Bly encounter with male, yet enlightened, initiation.

“I get so much wisdom from those guys,” I told Kenyon on the downtown 1, our trip back to the Village from the Upper West Side enlivened by the meeting. Post-meeting positive spin comes like hand delivered mail, the delay forgiven and forgotten at the instant the hand touches the parcel, a sudden flash of serum in the bloodstream, a mild chemo.

“They’re like old New York,” Kenyon replied. A silver bracelet ticked on one of his eight rings as he switched arms straphanging. He rearranged his fedora and there was a moment when, with the sterling on his fingers blinking in the light as it contrasted with the soft crushed velvet of the brim, he looked like Jared Leto (Twenty Seconds to Mars Leto, not the actor). Kenyon was impossibly handsome and, after two decades of casual sex in New York, had to have known it. On top of that, his mind was so sharp, dropping an op-ed’s worth of observation in a single response, you always forgot how attractive he was. I didn’t want to like him, for survival reasons, but I couldn’t help myself.

We both got off at Sheridan Square and parted at the newsstand on Christopher and Varick. The hugs were the best part of the night, warm, not bro-y. Cool jocks first clasp hands and keep them in between, the embrace more of a back pat, with the forearms warding off fears of errant torsos touching. Not so with Kenyon. It was a full upper body affair.

He went East and I West, to a dinner date with someone I met at school. But I couldn’t get his wall-to-wall smile out of my head.

All throughout the evening, through the dinner and the subway ride back to my Upper East Side apartment, even as my head hit the pillow and I let the day’s events drift through my head like a shuffling deck, I thought of Joe’s bus stop and wondered if it was one of the ones I used, any of the M79 ones, running from where I lived on East End Avenue to Lexington where the 6 train offers the nearest underground service. That crosstown corridor gives access to one of the most pacific locations in the city. The highlight was coming out of Agata & Valentina, hauling four thick polypropylene shopping bags spilling over with istara cheese, seasonal fruits, swordfish, prime cuts, homemade pasta, and imported Brazilian nuts, and, braving the murder on my delts, walking across the street to the east bound stop on 1st and 79th,hauling two leaden weights like overfull scales pressing down on a balance. Joe probably had his atman moment directly across the street, at the westbound stop, where the sun hits more directly for longer in the day.

As I turned my head on the pillow, I thought of tomorrow, Wednesday, of waking up, walking the dog, hitting the computer to play around with electronic music, and stretching the limbs. At acting school they were really emphasizing the importance of movement (“If I see one more stiff actor in my scene study class, I’m going to be angry” was one teacher’s version).

I was reminded how, in my early twenties, I was terrified of anyone looking at my body. I didn’t know anything about anatomy, but I could feel how broad and lanky were my shoulders. I was like a wide clothes hanger. Playing the bass guitar, though I hadn’t gone out of my way to pick it up, made perfect sense, the heaviest rock instrument to offer ballast against flaying limbs. Night after night the strap creased my left shoulder, pulling me closer to the floor, the weight pressing my boots on the ground, plantar ligaments stretching out the arches. Once it was removed, I was like a hot air balloon.

So was my acting, hence the need for movement exercises, which made interesting cases concerning anatomy. At Stella Adler, I had the good fortune of having Joanne Edelmann, an experienced dancer from the Alvin Ailey school, impress upon me the importance of the pelvis. Everything was about the pelvis, acting, moving, blocking, memorizing lines, it all had to come from the pelvis, apparently. We’d lay down supine, after one of us had swiffed the last class’s sweat, grime and dead skin cells off the creaky, wooden floor, and start gyrating our pelvises, all twenty-five of us. Having suspended my pause at the bursar’s office (at some point the acting conservatory, like therapy and Al-Anon, acquired healing potential in my mind), I jumped into all this with gusto. These movement exercises, so I thought, were my ticket to getting my feet on the ground, literally. So I worked them every day for an hour.

It was early spring in 2009 and I’d been living in the Upper East Side for close to a year, moving here to escape the East Village’s countercultural orthodoxy.

The East Village is great when you’re an upstart, when your friend owns a vintage boutique and sitting there for hours talking about nothing could feel like a quiet revolution. There was something conspiratorial about scrounging for change, wearing the same pair of trousers, and bumping into the same vagrant hipsters every night. Bar hopping became a kind of Where’s Waldo stretched over the span of a week, like each party was a pop-up shop taking over that bar or club. It would have been unthinkable to go on another night, after the pop-up shop had moved. Each one of us could feel like an unshowered Che looking at Fidel clipping a Cohiba across the fold-out table, an overhanging burning bulb backlighting the floating dust and cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke.

But by this time, I’d already “made it”. My cover was blown. Interpol’s success had fattened my wallet even as it’d thwarted my agitprop designs. Trips to the grocer could involve catcalls and held stares. Benjamin’s wisdom seemed apt: “Behind every fascist regime, lies a failed revolution”. In my case, the project of seeing how far flipping the bird could get me (very far, apparently) had yielded such pithy spiritual results it was time to call it a day and find a place to do my laundry where I wouldn’t have to sign autographs.

Growing up in Queens, I had no idea what the hell was the East Village. But I knew the Upper East Side, mostly through The Jeffersons (my mother did have a wealthy friend and, once, while we visited when I was eleven, I feigned adult sass by declaiming “This place is rich!” during the elevator trip up the Central Park adjoining high rise). The sight of rows of stacked iron-grated balconies on grey-brick facades, all set to each other like a long ship container yard disappearing into the horizon of 2nd Avenue, where every taxi cab, street light and butcher shop becomes a tiny dot twenty blocks north of 79th Street, was always set to a soulful “We finally have a piece of the pie”.

Later, after initiation with the caramelized crust of 80s pop-culture, the Upper East Side came to mean Woody Allen and Andy Warhol. The high rises, in my estimation, offered sanctuary to the city’s cultural superintendents, a haven in which to pen or paint their New York City-centric odes in peace and quiet. I thought of Leonard Bernstein laboring over scores, the doorman interrupting with a call about a dry cleaning delivery.

Here, as well, were stock brokers, attorneys, traders, and other sundry bourgeois interests, the better to authenticate the wealthy artist’s pains with commerce’s badge of (dis)honor. (“There. You are one of us. Now, to quote a 90s prophet, entertain us.”) Eyes Wide Shut, with its luxury apartments and endless chambers, its New York Jewish-y professional class embodied in Sydney Pollack’s Rolex, its de riguer charcoal Brooks Brothers three quarter overcoat worn by Tom Cruise in almost every frame, laid out the terms of this fantasy of old school New York wealth for me, if also tickling my artistry with a Kafka-esque slant. Perhaps, I could revivify the failed revolution, I thought, not against the fascist regime, but from within.

It was a straight shot up 1st Avenue from Houston Street to 79th and on a random late morning Tuesday you could drive through light after light in less than fifteen minutes. I’d always hated the West Village’s European style of urban planning, the streets and lanes that curve and follow every slope of the ground, (pre-Google Maps, this meant that sometimes you ended up, Blair Witch Project-style, back to where you started). I loved the East Village’s Soviet, numerical grid, so artificial you could easily imagine the planners taking their time to map everything out. What this did was help me focus on the shops, ateliers, and salons within the fifteen block radius, without the distraction of curves and cobblestone. And the Upper East Side, at least from an urban planning perspective, was the East Village without the personality, simply adding a z axis of verticality to the latter’s x and y. With three dimensions now at my disposal, I felt I could take my Bernstein myth into Olympus itself, away from the caustic rabble of DIY punk down below.

I made enough money to afford a $4000 rent in what is called a “splinter building”; apparently only three in the city exist, a building slim enough it can only have two apartments per floor, but giving each one a three sided-view of all Manhattan, in my case, from the 23rd floor. When I first walked into it the sun was setting, casting an amber glow onto the East River. Wall to wall windows proffered a vision of Manhattan only the wealthy know – “This is Your City” (daily exposure did end up diminishing the returns of the view).

For some reason, taxis were out of the question (never mind I was splurging on rent, dinners, tuition, and music equipment expenses). After five dizzy years of flights and car services, I was only too happy to take to the MTA, the buses still lacquered in the future-glossy palette of navy and white, which I recognized from my morning commutes to St. Francis Prep High in Floral Park from my Elmhurst home. Getting on the M79 right by the river, I basically had the bus to myself, my own crosstown Lear jet, a meager, yet delightful, taste of the jet-setting I’d left behind.

[thejokersenigma]

Joker x Reader Deadly Voice Part 38

Here’s the next part! I’ve messed around with and have changed it around quite a bit so if any bits don’t really make sense it’s because of that and my poor editing!

Hope you enjoy anyway!

Masterlist

I hid in my office for most of the night – the club didn’t really need me during opening hours, it practically ran itself, everyone else knew what they should be doing. I only left the safety of my room when the club had closed in the early hours and I knew I had a rehearsal to go through before we could all call it a night.

I moved silently around the back of house, grateful when I found all the corridors empty - the staff kept out of my way and I wasn’t in the mood to appear happy and approachable right now.

I was glad I didn’t have to dress up for rehearsals - the last thing I wanted to do was force myself into one of the snug cocktail dress and fiddle for hours on my hair. Instead I stayed in my soft cotton black trousers – professional, but not uncomfortable – and my loose pale green blouse, the top two button undone. As I headed backstage I tied my hair up into a scruffy bun, not bothering to catch all the loose strands I missed, allowing them to hang lazily around my face. I frowned when I realised that the wings of the stage were also empty. Where were the technical team? Maybe they were on the other side of the stage, or maybe they’d gone to help with the lights again.

However, I couldn’t help but notice that - although most had promised to stay behind - the club felt particularly empty of staff at the moment. I didn’t linger on the thought too much; I’m sure they all had their reasons to leave early – probably just excuses to escape my presence.

The band that had been rehearsing slipped off the stage as I moved to the steps. When they caught sight of me they dropped their eyes hurrying past me, sweat beading at their foreheads. They might not be too comfortable around me, but they weren’t usually that anxious to get away. I watched their departing backs in confusion before pushing it aside as I walked up the steps. As I crossed to centre stage my supporting band came on from the other side, none of them meeting my eyes, all looking very nervous – worse than when we performed live. I frowned at them, but none of them glanced up to me to see my questioning look.

I decided I’d ask them later.

I faced out to the ‘crowd’ – not that I could see anything though thanks to the bright lights aimed at me from the rafters. I tried to keep my eyes relatively low to stop being blinded, but a movement caught my eye and I looked up, shielding my eyes against the glare from the spotlight above me. Bobby was frantically jumping up and down behind the bar waving like someone signalling a SOS. Once she realised my eyes were on her she stopped prancing around so much and flung her arms up, frantically pointing to my right at the few tables that lined the wall.

I squinted in the general direction she indicated but struggled to see anything beyond the wall of light shining on my face. I frowned back at her in puzzlement and she continued her little charade, jabbing wildly, but the lighting on me was too intense and all the darkness beyond the stage merged into one so I couldn’t make anything out clearly. Was it someone left behind that was refusing to leave? A drunk maybe? Surely the bouncer could sort that out? Or had he already left? Wasn’t it his job to check the place over first? Was it a staff member doing something they shouldn’t? Did anyone really have the guts to do that in this place? Or was Bobby just having a laugh with me?

Whatever it was, I’d sort it later. I didn’t need to worry about it right now, besides my rehearsal would be short, I’m sure it could wait.

So I moved my gaze off Bobby stepping up to the microphone stand, adjusting it back to my slightly shorter stature than the guy previously. I glanced behind me at the band, now set up and ready. I gave a nod to a few that were looking at me. The drum beat started up behind me.

I sang a couple of songs, every now and then looking at Bobby at the back of room opposite me. Whenever she caught my eye in return she would try the same signing but still to no luck, the visibility of the rest of the club still hadn’t improved. Eventually she gave up and focused on cleaning up the remnants of the night. At least she was still managing to focus on her job – that was most important thing right now.

I turned to my band before my last song. “Guy’s I’m changing it up a bit tonight. Can we do this one for the last song?” I asked politely handing them a sheet of songs and pointing at the one I wanted. I didn’t really need to rehearse it, and I didn’t really plan to use it in many of my acts, but I could still feel the tension of my talk with the Penguin in my body and sometimes I just needed the right song to release those emotions. I felt this suited the occasion and maybe, just maybe, it might make me feel better.

The glanced at each other nervously, not happy about the last minute change, but I could see they also didn’t want to fight me about this. Eventually they reluctantly nodded and I tried to give them a grateful smile in thanks but they had already turned away from me, dismissing me back to my place.

Whatever. I wasn’t in the mood for their attitude.

I took a deep breathe.

“It’s like you’re a drug…” I began gently, the piano joining in softly after my first line.

It’s like you’re a demon I can’t face down,

It’s like I’m stuck…

It’s like I’m running from you all the time,

And I know I let you have all the power,

It’s like the only company I seek is misery all around…”

I sang gently, not looking out, my eyes closed.

“…And I realize I’m never gonna quit you over time!” The drums kicked in behind me, and I felt adrenaline rush through me, the music taking over.

“It’s like I can’t breathe!

It’s like I can’t see anything,

Nothing but you,

I’m addicted to you!

It’s like I can’t think!

Without you interrupting me,

In my thoughts, in my dreams,

You’ve taken over me!

It’s like I’m not me…

It’s like I’m not me…”

I poured my soul into that performance, the lyrics just holding too much truth for me at the moment. I could feel the crashing drums running through me, pushing me further as I sang till I was nearly shouting.

“It’s like I’m not me…” I finished off quietly, head down, facing the floor as the last note from the guitar hovered in the air. I didn’t move from my finished position immediately, as I could feel my emotions crashing around me and I didn’t feel fully in control.

Eventually I felt collected enough to straighten up and I glanced behind me, about to compliment my band, only to find the stage empty. Why was everyone in such as rush today? I scowled at how unprofessional they were being – was all of this just because they had to work for me? Maybe I ought to hire in some people with more guts.

Suddenly a slow exaggerated clapping came from directly in front of me. I span around, my immediate thought was Bobby messing around and I shielding my eyes with my hand to see her, only to have my heart drop through my stomach.

The Joker was walking slowly toward me, clapping. He was dressed in a black shirt and black trousers so he almost blended with the darkness around him. It contrasted with his alabaster skin which was illuminated in the harsh artificial light above us. His usual devilish smile stretched across his face and I scowled at him as he approached, at least now I knew why everyone had done a runner, and what Bobby had been waving about.

“Bravo, Doll!” He applauded stopping a few foot away from the stage, his eyes on me. “And might I add you look particularly stunning tonight!” He grinned eyeing my unimpressive outfit up and down with a gleam in his eye.

I stayed where I was, gripping the microphone stand tightly as if it was my only lifeline. “What do you want?” I snarled at him, maybe he didn’t realise how bad his timing was.

He looked dramatically offended at my tone, “Why, I’m just here to check on my club!” He said, placing a hand to his chest and pouting at me with his deep red lips. I eyed him his suspiciously, not believing for a second that was what he was truly here for, or at least not the only thing – if it was then why not send a henchman?

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too sceptical?” He jested.

“Give me a reason not to be.” I spat before turning my back to him and moving the microphone and stand to the backstage, disappearing behind the curtains. Conversation over, he can leave now. I heard a growl behind me at my insolence but that didn’t stop me striding backstage. I turned around to collect the rest of my things when I came face to face with the Joker only a couple of inches away, his hand immediately grabbing at my waist and pinning my body against his. I let out a gasp at the impact and the sudden closeness.

His snarl melted away when he looked my fearful face, leaving a scowl of annoyance, “See doll, I don’t get you.” He told me, “I give you a nice job, good money, even leave you alone for a while, yet I’ve still not seen a genuine smile grace those delicate lips of yours…” he purred, his eyes now falling hungrily to my mouth, the sudden change of attention both frightening and exciting me. I licked my lips self-consciously and he let out a low rumbling growl before he snapped his eyes back to mine. “Why can’t you smile?” He breathed, and I thought I heard vulnerability in his voice for the first time.

“Why do I have to smile?” I asked, genuinely intrigued but his reaction.

With my words however his face snapped shut again, his cold, stony expression back in place and his hand tightened once more - almost painfully - on my hips. “Because doll, I’ve seen the madness that can brighten your eyes…” His eyes lightened slightly, “...and it’s truly beautiful.” His eyes slipped from mine and roamed my face. He dropped a hand from my waist, “I can only imagine what a simple smile would look like…” he purred, drawing his finger along my lips and cheeks in an imaginary grin to match his own.

I felt myself blushing hotly under his touch and I couldn’t look at his eyes anymore, instead keeping my gaze glued to his lips as my skin tingled from his touch. He lifted his finger away from my lips           and I could feel his eyes dancing around my face, though I still refused to look up. I felt his hand moved to the side of my face, brushing some of the loose strands of hair behind my ear. I shuddered at the feeling and felt myself all relax into the moment, it felt good to be held and comforted; I almost forgot who I was with.

“But you see, doll, you’re madness doesn’t hang around.” The Joker said lowly, then he suddenly grabbed my chin, pulling my face up so my eyes had to meet his, forcing my neck into an uncomfortable angle. “It flashes through you burning and engulfing everything,” He said fiercely, clenching his teeth and tightened his grip. I flinched at the pain, scrunching my eyes closed as his fingers dug into skin. He paused, watching me struggle under his grip, his breath harsh above me.

“But then it flickers out, dies to embers.” He growled, almost annoyed, but he relaxed his grip on my chin and I allowed me to drop my head slightly, relieving my neck.

“The problem is doll,” He rumbled, “when that spark of insanity is gone, you’re empty.” He told me honestly, releasing the hand on my hip, and bringing it up next to our faces. ���It’s the look people get when they’ve lost hope.” He said gesturing with hands as he spoke, like a true performer, “When they’re just…” He trailed off waving his hand for the word, “…existing.”

“It’s my favourite look.” The Joker admitted, stroking my cheek with his thumb. “Except on you.” he purred lowly.

I blinked at few times trying to bring myself back to some form of sense. I pulled back, away from him and I was surprised when he released his grip without an argument. He kept his hand in the air, curling his fingers slowly till he formed a clench fist. I was very aware that he could easily make another sudden move and hit me.

“You thought giving me a club was going to fix everything?!” I demanded incredulously.

He dropped his hand to his side, and I relaxed slightly but he voice was full of warning, “Careful, kitten.” He told me darkly. “Someone might think you’re ungrateful.”

I didn’t know what to say to this. I just stood there opening and closing my mouth like a fish, unsure how to articulate everything I wanted to say to him.

Instead I turned around and left, not caring if he followed me.

I was surprised when I didn’t feel a hand yanking me back around or a gun pressed to my head, but I made the most of it and left immediately. I didn’t bother to collect my bag from my office – it would still be there in the morning and I didn’t want to waste time.

I cursed and muttered to myself the whole way back to my flat, not bothering to catch the bus back, relishing instead in the cold air and the muscle exertion to wear off some of my frustration at the Joker.

I hated how weak I was, that he could manipulate me so easily into things like taking that job. I blamed his eyes. I couldn’t think straight when they held my gaze – all common sense seemed to vanish from my mind.

I stormed into my flat, not bothering to try and keep it down for my neighbours below as I stomped across my floor. Upon reaching the opposite side of my flat I stopped, throwing my hands up in the air in exasperation and shouted in frustration before I spun around to face the rest of the flat.

I was slightly out of breath from my fast-walk home, my chest rising and falling heavily as I gazed around my flat, now at a loss of what to do. I wanted to attack something. A part of me wished the Joker had followed me so I could have taken a few punches out on him - however a little voice in the back of my head told me that I would have quickly regretted that decision.

I snarled at that little voice to shut up and then threw myself on my sofa, burying my face in a cushion as I screamed into the material - releasing my pent up energy. After a few minutes I sat up on the sofa, hugging the pillow to me.  I was a weird mixture of wanting a hug and wanting to punch something - so maybe the cushion was a good idea.

I buried my head back into the cushion once more, releasing another muffled cry. It felt good. I sat up and vaguely glanced around my flat, unsure what to do now.

That’s when, for some reason, my eyes fell on the small table by my front door directly in front of me. Was something different? Was something missing? No, what was that sat on the table?

I threw my cushion to the side, striding over - my curiosity briefly overcoming my anger - and noticed what looked like a piece of paper sat under the little bowl that I kept my keys and loose change in. I didn’t remember leaving anything there. Was it just an old bill or note to myself?

I slide the small piece of paper out from under the bowl and turned it over, almost dropping the paper when I recognised it.

It was a photo of my old club.

My photo.

The photo I had left at the farm house.

I didn’t know what to do. I was numb. I turned, leaning against my front door, before I crumpled to the floor so I sat crossed legged staring at my front door, the photo still in my hand.

This was what I had told Frost the other week. Had he gone and got it for me?

Why would he? He couldn’t possibly do it without the Joker knowing – and he had probably needed the Joker’s resources to get it back. Why would the Joker do this? Was it another way to get me to ‘smile’? And what was that all about? Surely he didn’t care whether I was happy or not – he was probably just sick of my frown, or was there, yet again something behind all this ‘smile’ plan. Was he just trying to cheer me up before he shot me down, was this just a sick game of his?

I gazed unseeing in front of me, my expression blank, tears running silently down my cheeks.

I sat in silence for a few moments, confused and feeling very alone as I processed everything.

I lifted the photo once more and examined it, drinking in each detail.

Time to leave the happiness in the past.

The Joker wouldn’t see me smile.

Then I tore the picture into tiny pieces.

I bowed my head, squeezing my eyes tightly closed and my jaw clenched at the pain that washed through and overwhelmed me as I sobbed at the paper that littered my lap.

 I ought to kill the girl for all the trouble she’s given me The Joker thought moodily, stuffing the photo back into his shirt pocket and draining the last of his amber liquid as music echoed throughout the darkened club. He then abruptly spun his stool, straightening up from where he had been hunched over the empty bar, and threw his glass at the wall opposite. He heard it shatter, then the rain of the fragments as they feel onto the floor.

The destruction filled him with satisfaction.

He grabbed the bottle of alcohol on the bar to his right which he had been using to refill his glass. He didn’t hesitating before he launching this too, making contact with the wall just below the previous impaction. The liquid painted the wall and slowly dripped its way down, tinted purple from the light on the paint behind it, before it pooled at the foot of the wall.

The Joker pushed himself off his seat, sauntering over to the mess he had made, admiring his handiwork. He had cleaners for a reason after all. Might as well make them work for the money he paid them.

He crouched, bending to pick up a particular shard of glass and walked to a nearby booth, all the while his eyes on the small piece of destruction in his hand as he spun it in his hand.

Without looking he stepped up onto the booth’s cushioned seat and then onto the table, before – without faltering – he folded himself gracefully into a crossed-legged seat in the centre. A new song came on as he held the shard up, staring through it as he twirled it expertly between his fingers to, the dim orange light above him catching it as it moved.

I dance around this empty house Tear us down Throw you out Screaming down the halls Spinning all around and now we fall

Pictures framing up the past Your taunting smirk behind the glass This museum full of ash Once a tickle Now a rash

This used to be a funhouse But now it's full of evil clowns It's time to start the countdown I'm gonna burn it down down down I'm gonna burn it down

Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, fun

He spun the glass through his fingers faster and faster as the song played and his mind raced of the girl, replaying her performance in his mind, her lips forming and kissing each word out of her mouth as she pulled off her little plan. Soon his movements became too exuberant and there was a red streak, bright against his pale finger.

He threw the glass fragment across the room and once again pulled the tatty photo from his shirt - creased with time but still clearly showing the old club. Humming to himself, he glanced at it and then watched the blood well in the cut before it began flowing down his hand.

Oh, what a deadly voice.

 tags: @theartistdetective @viraldragonrider