#Falsified Biling

[bakedbakermom]

Stained

Chapter 3: Smolder // start at the beginning

tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr

Honestly I am so pleased with this chapter. The dialogue, the characterization, the Vibes. If you read only one chapter of this fic, let it be this one.

smolder verb 1. to burn with little smoke and no flame 2. to exist in a suppressed state --- Conversations with dead people.

Four hours later, the coffee was long gone, and the heavy bags of snacks were reduced to nothing but wrappers and a scattering of crumbs. Xander, predictably, was snoring in the corner, Anya's head in his lap; she kept muttering in her sleep, and each time he would soothe her with a pat on the head, without either waking up. Tara and Willow had moved to the store’s loft, reading aloud to each other in shifts to keep awake.

Buffy had left for patrol shortly after midnight—“Not every vamp is as charming as you, Mulder,” she quipped as she loaded a crossbow into her bag—and Giles had gone home to comb through his library and check in with a few contacts on the other side of the world who would just be waking up. Spike at one point simply stood up and left, his leather jacket flapping behind him like the wings of a giant bat—a move Scully was sure he had practiced—and vanished into the night.

Even Mulder was slumped in his chair, dozing. She had rummaged up a blanket from the training room at the back of the shop, hoping it wasn’t somehow cursed, and tucked it in around him. He barely managed to mumble a “Thank you,” before drifting back to sleep.

Scully had spent so long staring at a scroll in a language she couldn’t even pronounce, let alone read, that the boxy little symbols were starting to make a worrying kind of sense; like a Magic Eye painting, if she let her eyes relax and her focus drift, they almost looked like tiny monsters.

She leaned back, her head swimming with a sudden exhaustion that bordered on delirium. She hadn’t slept more than three consecutive hours since they had landed in this sun-baked hellmouth, spending her days falsifying reports and medical records for Skinner to explain her and Mulder’s continued absence—given their track record, him being grievously injured on the job was a decent cover story—and her nights up to her neck in legends she still could only half-believe. All the coffee and junk food in the world couldn’t save her from the consequences. Her eyes felt gummy in her skull, her nose was clogged with the grime of thousand year-old books, and the room itself seemed to contract and swelter around her. She lurched to her feet, fighting back nausea, and rushed toward the back door.

The night air hit her like a wave and she gulped down its soothing chill again and again until the urge to hyperventilate or vomit had passed. Slowly the darkness receded from the edges of her vision and the bile eased back down her throat. She pressed her fists into the small of her back and arched her spine, releasing several satisfying pops.

“Tasty thing like you shouldn’t be out here alone in the dark.”

Scully whirled around to face the darkness at the mouth of the alley, her gun drawn and aimed toward the source of the voice before she was even conscious of moving. A lean figure hunched against the wall.

“Might get snapped up by something dangerous.”

The figure inched forward into the light from the street lamp. Pale skin, white-blond hair, absurd leather jacket. She sagged with relief, hands shaking as she holstered her weapon. “Spike. You scared the hell out of me. Have you been lurking there all night?”

“Oh no, I’ve been lurking lots of places. A regular lurk-about, that’s me.” He swaggered down the alley and dropped dramatically onto the step in front of her. “Pull up some concrete, pet. I’ve got a few hours before I risk a serious sunburn, and I’ve got a fresh pack of coffin nails.”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his long, black coat and used an unnecessary amount of flourish to light one with a silver Zippo. When he saw her look of vague disgust, he only shrugged. “What? It’s not like they’re gonna kill me.”

She huffed out an exhausted laugh, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of her life as she sat down beside him. “Are you going to share that or what?”

“Pretty sure you’re not immortal, love.”

“There’s some debate about that, actually, but at this point I’m too exhausted to care.” She held out her hand and he passed her the cigarette, the ember of its tip glowing in the gloom.

“Possible immortality, is it? Funny, your man never mentioned that.”

“You guys talk about me a lot? In between shots of plasma, I mean.”

“Actually, Mulder talked about you pretty much all night. Scully this. Scully that. Scully, Scully, Scully. Do you even have a first name?

She took a deep drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling from her parted lips in delicate spirals. “Dana.”

“Lovely name for a lovely lady,” he said, taking it back.

“And what about you? I can’t imagine your mother looking down at her beautiful, bouncing, peroxide-blond baby boy, and proclaiming you Spike .”

He paused for a beat, considering her, then smiled a charmingly crooked smile and held out one pale hand. “William.”

They shook. The cold, dry flesh of Spike’s hand was almost beginning to feel normal.

“So, William, what exactly did Mulder say about me?”

“Sorry, pet. There’s a code. Like a bro code, but for fangy folk. ‘Dead men tell no tales’ or what have you.”

The dead were walking. A thousand-year-old ex-demon was napping on her boyfriend’s lap in the next room. She had fed her partner from her own veins. And an actual vampire was sitting next to her, quoting Treasure Island . Or possibly the Disneyland ride. Scratch normal , her life was a damned B-movie. An hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat, and she covered it with a cough as she blew out another puff of smoke.

Spike either didn’t notice her small existential crisis, or else chose to politely ignore it. “I will tell you he feels bloody awful about what he did before he got all resoulified. Man’s only got a handful of bad deeds under his belt, but he’s got guilt for centuries.”

Scully’s memories of that night rattled loudly in the locked box of her mind she had crammed them into. She did not, would not, let them out. “I imagine you understand a little bit about that.”

“Not exactly. Don’t get me wrong, I was evil with a capital E, cutting a bloody swath across the continents for nearly two hundred years. And I enjoyed the hell out of it. Honestly not sure I ever would have stopped on my own, but I didn’t exactly get a choice. I don’t really spend a lot of time beating myself up about it, though.”

Scully arched a brow in curious surprise. “Your soul doesn’t torment you with grief during your every waking moment and drive you to desperate acts of penance?”

He laughed. “Been talking to Giles, have you? Sorry love, I’m not one to wax poetic about souls. Mostly because I haven’t got one.”

Mulder had told her Spike was reformed; the soul part she had just assumed. If he couldn’t feel guilt or remorse, what kept him from ripping out her throat? She froze, cigarette halfway to her lips, wondering if she should scoot away or reach for her gun again.

“Relax, Red. I’m not gonna hurt you. Actually, I can’t. See, a little while back, bunch of your government boys got the brilliant idea to do a little science project involving those of us who go bump in the night. Some got all Frankensteined up into proper bloody monsters; other lucky buggers like yours truly got our eggs cracked open and fancied up with some shiny new hardware.” Despite his clever delivery, his tone was bitter. “I can still rough up anything decently scaly or slimy, but all you soft, tasty humans are a one-way ticket to screaming bloody agony.”

She took a long moment to process that, the cigarette passing back and forth between their hands; when the filter began to burn, he lit another.

“I might know something about what it’s like to be subject to behavior modification via implanted technology at the hands of covert government agencies abducting non-consenting, vulnerable populations for the purpose of experiments involving nonhuman biological materials.”

Spike took a long moment to process that .

“All right,” he said finally, “I’ve decided I like you, so I’ll tell you the truth: souls seem like a whole lot of pain for not a whole lot of gain. I don’t even know that they do all that much; God knows there’s plenty of humans running around out there, souls intact, doing dirty deeds that make my skin crawl, and I know plenty of soulless fiends who are actually pretty decent people. All I know is I don’t need a soul to see how much Mulder is hurting, or how much he cares about you. If the Scoobies fail at this whole ‘cure the vampire’ quest—and I’m sorry if I’m the first one to tell you this, but they probably will, because it’s impossible, and personally I think he’d be an idiot to give up the night life anyway—but when they fail and he realizes he’s got a big lonely eternity without you staring him in the face, I’m a little bit worried he’s gonna go and get himself one hell of a tan.”

“I’m not giving up, and I’m not going to leave him.”

“Yeah, you will. If not on a plane in a few weeks, then in a pine box in a few decades.”

“So what am I supposed to do, just… not die?”

“Yeah! Exactly!”

“I don’t see how I can—”

“It’s easy. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

Scully paled, her throat bobbing as she fought down the revulsion suddenly brewing in her stomach. “You can’t mean—”

“Bitey bitey, sucky sucky, souly souly—though I think that last bit should be optional —and then you and our boy ride off into the sunset together. Well moonlight, I suppose, but you get my drift.”

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again, but no words came out.

“Just think it over, Dana,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes. For the first time, something like real vulnerability passed over his face. “Forever is a long time to be lonely.”

He rose, his swaggering mask sliding back into place so quickly she almost doubted it had ever slipped to begin with. He offered his hand to her with an exaggerated bow and pulled her to her feet. “Now come on; I don’t fancy going up in flames today, and I bet Spooky doesn’t either.”

—

Dawn’s rosy fingers were just brushing the horizon when Mulder and Scully arrived back at the motel. She felt the light running over her skin like a living thing, gentle as a lover; he shrank from it as if it would strike him.

“Wanna come in for a night cap?” he asked, smirking, as they reached his door. Scully’s hand flinched involuntarily toward her neck and his eyes grew wide, then sheepish. “Sorry. That’s not what I meant. Um. Good night, Scully.”

The door was halfway closed behind him when her hand shot out to stop it. “I can come in for a minute.”

He moved to the bathroom, and she went to the kitchenette to put away the containers of cows’ and pigs’ blood they had stopped to pick up at the butcher—which, for reasons no one in town would discuss, stayed open all night. Mulder would have enough for a few days, at least, now that he was learning how to make it palatable. She left the little jar of cinnamon on top of the microwave.

Feeling oddly anxious, she began to straighten the bed just to have something to do. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay in Spike’s crypt today?” she called to him. “He has cable; you can watch ‘Passions’ together.”

He poked his head out, toothbrush wedged into the foamy corner of his mouth. “That show has gone entirely downhill since Sheridan got amnesia.”

He vanished again, and Scully heard the sounds of spitting and running water. When he emerged a minute later, bare-chested and in sweatpants, he found her standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands at her sides. He slipped past her without touching her and sat on the bed. “Besides, I’d rather sleep in a bed.”

Instead of a coffin . Scully suppressed a shudder.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile as she sat beside him and squeezed his hand. “I get the feeling his place is even less luxurious than this one. Besides: mini fridge, microwave, magic fingers. What more could a guy want?”

She tried to keep her voice light, but Spike’s words were still ringing in her head. Mulder was staring down the barrel of a miserable eternity—drinking slaughterhouse runoff, hiding his days away in the dark, watching cheesy soap operas with only the other dead for company. What if there was no cure? What if, this time, she couldn’t save him? How many times had they sacrificed everything to save each other, thrown themselves in front of bullets and monsters and the unstoppable machine of bureaucracy just to buy enough time to stagger their way to safety?

Maybe their luck had finally run out.

She stood to leave, desperate to find something else to occupy her mind, but his hand closed tenderly around her wrist, carefully avoiding the bruises he—or his monster —had made before. “Stay?”

“Mulder, I’m tired.”

“I know. Just for a little while? It’s… it’s worse when I’m alone.”

She finally looked at him, staring up at her with one of his more pathetic puppy-dog expressions, and something inside her broke. “Yeah. Okay. Just for a little while, until you fall asleep.”

He crawled beneath the covers, leaving room for her to slip in beside him. She curled up with her back facing him, hoping he would drift off quickly. That hope evaporated when she felt him shifting closer to her; his arm slipped around her waist, brushing the bare sliver of skin between the top of her pants and the hem of her shirt, and a current passed through her. She went very still, allowing him to pull her closer until they were spooned together on the little motel bed.

“You’re so warm,” he murmured close to her ear.

She tried to ignore the way her body tingled every place they touched, the way his breath skimmed over her skin, cool and wet like the promise of a storm. She hoped he couldn’t hear the way her heart began to pound beneath her ribs. “So you’ve said.”

“It’s true. I’ve always hated the cold, Scully. When I was a kid, I would turn my whole room into a blanket fort every winter. It drove my mom nuts. I’d swipe every blanket in the house and then refuse to come out for anything but pee breaks.”

Scully could just picture him, eight or ten years old, pillaging the linen closet for quilts and constructing his own personal Alamo filled with comic books and sunflower seeds. Keeping out the cold with all the power of fleece and a child’s unflagging will.

That the same cold now lived inside him, where no blanket or touch could thaw it, was another cruel twist of the knife.

“I’m not giving up, Mulder. Not when we’ve barely gotten started.”

“I won’t let you throw your life away trying to save me, Scully. How much longer are you going to stay here, up to your neck in demonology and monster manuals? How much longer can we convince Skinner I’m sick? He’s going to come looking for me eventually, even if it’s just to see if I’m fit enough for him to kick my ass back to the basement.”

She chuckled, and he smiled briefly into her hair. A moment later, his sigh sent a few red strands fluttering against her face. “I just don’t want you to follow me so far into the dark that you can’t find your way back.”

“It hasn’t even been a week yet. I’ve chased you further into the dark than this and come out just fine. And I intend to drag you out with me, into full, bright sunlight, without you crumbling to dust.”

“And if there is no cure? If I’m stuck like this forever? You still have a chance to have a life, Scully. I won’t let you waste it on me.”

She turned to face him, sadness and anger warring over her features. “Since when do you ‘let’ me do anything? It’s my life, Mulder, and I don’t consider any of this a waste.”

She didn’t want to bring it up, didn’t want to give credence to Spike’s insane idea by voicing it out loud to her partner, but she owed it to him to say something. Though her stomach clenched and she tasted acid in her mouth, she took a breath and said, “Spike thinks—”

His voice was bitter as he cut her off. “I know exactly what Spike thinks. And the answer is no. I wouldn’t do this to you. Not when you still have a choice. Not when you could go back to DC tomorrow, find some hot doctor who doesn’t question every little thing you say, and grow fat and old and happy on a sunny porch somewhere.”

She reached out and cupped his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes. She had to step carefully here; they had developed a delicate dance together through the years, an unspoken rule to tiptoe around their equally unspoken connection, that thing between them neither could quite acknowledge let alone act upon, but had lately found increasingly hard to ignore. Especially when his face was inches from hers, and his arm still lay heavy across her waist, on that nebulous border where it could so easily slide into risky territory. “And if I decide I don’t want that?”

“There are some… conditions on this soul of mine, Scully. It’s not a done deal. I could lose it.”

“What? How?” And why haven’t you told me before now?

“If there ever comes a moment where I am completely happy, where I don’t feel guilt and torment about who and what I am, it goes away.”

“Don’t be vague, Mulder. Not about this.”

“The last time it happened… was right after the guy slept with the woman he loved.”

A lump welled up in her throat. “Oh.”

“Yeah. We’re not idiots, Scully.” She raised her eyebrow at him and one side of his mouth tugged up in a small smile. “Okay, you’re not an idiot, and I am sometimes only idiot-adjacent. We know what we mean to each other. If you stayed with me…” He flopped onto his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling; he couldn’t get through this if he was looking into her eyes, but he did reach between them and take her hand. “If you stayed human, and we… then I lose my soul, and there’s a good chance that the last thing you’d ever see is me killing you. And then Buffy puts a stake through my heart. And not that I am in favor of this idea, but if we turned you and we… then we both lose our souls, we’d probably wind up killing a bunch of people, and then Buffy puts a stake through both our hearts.”

He paused for a long moment, breath shaking. “I don’t know if there is a way out of this together. And I want you to know, I’d rather you leave me than stay behind and pay for what I’ve become.”

She grabbed his face again, this time more forcefully, and turned him back toward her. Her voice and her eyes were filled with tears, but also a steely resolve. “There is a way, Mulder. There has to be. We’re going to find it. When have we ever given up on each other?”

His fingers twined around hers where they rested against his cheek. Slowly he pulled them to his mouth, brushing a gentle kiss across her knuckles. Neither spoke—what words could he say to the unstoppable force of her hope, or she to the immovable object of his self-sacrifice? They simply held each other, wishing they could keep out the cold.

A/N: It's incredibly rare for me that something I make turns out as well as I'd hoped, but this chapter is one of those things, and I'm rather proud of it. I so enjoyed writing it, particularly Scully and Spike's conversation. It was one of those unexpected surprises that pops up when characters grab the steering wheel, like I was just along for the ride. I hope they're BFFs now. Believe me there is absolutely a part of me that wants to see Vamp!Mulder and Vamp!Scully as some sort of undead Bonnie and Clyde, leaving a trail of bloody and beautiful devastation in their wake. But that's not this fic lol. Comments laminated etc etc

[first-born-to-his-name]

Continued from : Chapter 1 : The Chance Meeting

        It had been with desperate intrigue which bypassed all elements of caution. Evolving this plan forward that initiated his pursuits and observation on the Detective called amid his case as she had been to his father's craft. Such tantalizing acts she may never have been aware of were easily mistaken by the teen and had become the very same facade Johnny gobbled up with starvation. Silently culminating his mind into furthering intrusive thoughts the longer he stewed upon their first encounter. Their only encounter, yet it had been there that the thought for a duplicate was long overdue.

Subsequent to what the rest of her skin may have felt like during his first impression; beheld toward maternal gestures with their softly spoken address easily subduing him. This same tone which spoke to his inner child that on most days remained caged and broken, a tone switching onto a writhing tug abroad his subconscious with methods he could not yet fathom. A yearning so deep that he ached and drowned in it.

        Like his mother before her whom clouted judgement in various ways , twisted association abroad seduction he had tied her to when concerning his father. Maimed across the forever title of " those who stained the Bloody Face reign. " They were at fault without a doubt within his own ill conceived mind. Investing them as sole reasons he hadn't the father he needed most during the darkest sects of his own childhood. Keeping father and son apart over publicity stunts and manifested lies, it made rage consume him.

He showered disgust onto these praised echoes of falsified bravery from and for women and their deeds of simply deceiving any audience who listened, though differential with the ilk targeted, still their lifted name sparked hope within designated tabloids long felled for future and current survivors of domestic abuse rather than premeditated or impulsive murder. Empowering their survival inwardly on femininity. It was enough to make bile congregate in his mouth.

She would have her day finally handed to her, as would his own mother in due time. One that would gather onto a silver platter for the father who suffered from their importunate hands, isolating him from his son. With plundered audacity over them snuffing him with this acquired luck - cause that was all it had been to Johnny. Luck. Lucky to still breathe.

        Whilst his thoughts wandered , as they were often periodized to do. Palliated on the probable acts he could enforce to get this prize back to a father whom he had idolized since he caught wind of his name. A father who up until recently Johnny had thought to be dead or hadn't a care for the child he had aided bringing into this world. In the boy's indefinite heartache he had succumbed among the thoughts that he too abandoned him as his mother had. This same father who came home to him. Sparking hope whilst he spoke of promise which made the boy's heart cry and sing simultaneously. He wanted nothing more in this world than to make that man proud.

This drive that has since embedded itself , leading Johnny just outside the Detective's abode where he immediately made a dart for her outside breaker connection, slitting assembled wires with a serrated knife tailored in curvature along it's mid spine. With it came this crackling whine of electricity as it starved for deadening currents. Submerging in unison the entirety of her home to pitch abruptly into a blanket of darkness. An eerie resonance coped aloft stillness. It was on this cue that the recently established mask, identical to his father's , slid into place for the performance he had marinated for.

@vyrulent

[expanding-infinity]

What was wrong with her?

Was it the Matriarch?

Was it the mirror?

Immeasurable pain replaced with equally unbearable grief, with crimson tears painting her pale cheeks and staining her clothing like a horrid, bloody display. Her screaming voices were silenced, her agony all but gone. And for once...she could hear herself think.

This...burst of inspiration. Of awareness granted to her, and yet none of her counterparts shared such bliss. Such a beautiful epiphany tied to her next piece. Mind, body, and soul tied to a singular idea, and it was an experience she has had only once before, with the meeting of her lovely moondust. Excitement was the first feeling. A spark within her numbed haze of liquor and static. Oh how rare was it when she had such feelings! The dullness of her existence wore on her like water on stone. Such a reprieve in the golden sun of euphoria warmed her unstable soul to no end, but without determination, she would have no satisfaction. She must work. She must put this to a canvas before this light was lost by more clouds of smoke. Her infinite will, depthless ambition, and her strength to isolate herself from her counterparts lead her to this.

Brush strokes coming to her as easily as breathing, she had no need to make preparations. It was a maddening frenzy of motion, finding her tools, her paints, body moving mindlessly, only driven by her need to create what seemed to only just be forming in her mind. And yet the deeper she went, the heavier the brush became, her want to finish began to diminish. Bile rose to the back of her throat, with the first appearance of shapes, fatigue set in with the first colors, and the only thing she was left with at the final brush stroke, was mourning.

A masterpiece. An experience on a canvas. Like a window into a fractured abyss, shattered into an asymmetrical kaleidoscope. Breathtakingly still, and yet it seemed to beat like a broken heart, shimmering its pearlescence among the spider webbing cracks as if light was bleeding from them like blood. No single fragment was the same, with edges so sharp you could likely cut yourself just touching the canvas. In the center, the only object of solidity. A sphere, caressed with white, silken gloved hands that were so easily swallowed by the infinite black. So simple, and yet peering into it was like a window to a soul. Her madness bleeding off the canvas, eons of untapped grief that was never faced.

She could only cover it. Looking at it made her sick, and she could only see how vile it was. There was no beauty; no majesty. To her it was disgusting tragedy. Abomination. Even seeing herself, she could only focus on her false, festering flesh. Impermanent and shifting to suit her façades and lies. Her falsified realities. Not even sleep gave her true solace.

She could see him. Feel him. His honey coated words, his forgiveness and irritation at her perpetual playfulness. Apologies and affections so familiar in spite of the immeasurable time that had passed her. Oh her better half, her mirror.

Dreams are only that.

Awakening only brought her woe.

There was silence.

There was grief.

For the first time since her bondage, there was only sobriety.

[erratiomerula]

@renran​ said; “  you’re safe with me. you can let go. breathe. ” // get your personal emotional support demon today ( may cause disaster at your own risk ) ✨

memes for that specific brand of ships || accepting

             Cold sweat clung to his skin like a parasitic reminder that he still felt fear for memories he’d long claimed forgotten and moved on from. From the moment he’d started awake, there was a boiling pit in the center of his stomach— bile a nigh forgotten taste to rise up and threaten to coat his tongue until he realizes the reason he can’t escape his bed isn’t because of the monsters lingering in his dreams.

             There are pale arms spread over him, which would incite even further panic if not for the face and name they were attached to. It still takes his rational mind a moment longer than he’d like to admit to convince his limbs to still, his muscles reluctantly following suit as Edax’s fingers caress his cheek in a gesture he had all but learned due to his time with the prince.

            Shaky breath falls from his lips, sweat drenched form sliding back down to the mattress and into the arms most would call him mad for finding comfort in.

             “ Edax. ” He didn’t quite trust his voice with anything but the demon’s name— a falsified sense of safety enveloping him with an exhausted sigh to leave with the remainder of his tension. He doubted he would return to sleep after that remembrance, but it doesn’t stop the elf from burying his face into the others neck.

[fascination-street-writing]

Be With Me Tonight | Guido Mista x F!Reader

Regret is a sickening temptation - and you have ruined everything.

Content Warnings: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content (Oral & Implied), Implied Past Attempted Sexual Assault, Potentially Dubious Consent, & Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics (Past & Present)

You said you would do your own makeup. And yet, here you sit on a thrifted barstool – never mind the tweed upholstery that digs into the underside of your skirt-clad thighs, when you paid less for the stool than you would a loaf of bread – and flinch as your sister nearly prods your iris with the mascara wand clutched in her tremoring hand. She smells of hair spray and counterfeit perfume. You look to the mirror that hangs above the vanity.

“You really should change before we go,” she tells you while returning the wand to its tube. Fingers toil through your hair: she scrutinizes your appearance as though you are a porcelain doll and she your maker. You suppose that, in a way, she is. “You won’t catch anyone’s attention dressed like that.”

The reflection of your cherry-red lips mimics the frown upon your face. “Maybe I don’t want to ‘catch anyone’s attention,’” you retort. “I’m not even ready to start dating again.”

She groans. “You’re not still caught up on that perdente, are you?”

You do not have to bite back a quip because you do not have one. Instead, you bite your stained lips and look away. Though the relationship with your most recent ex had ended on mutual terms, the separation stings nonetheless.

“You know, you’ve always had bad taste in men,” your sister continues. Varnish to a wall, she rubs powder across your cheekbones. “First there was that pervertito when you were fifteen, and now a convicted murderer.”

“Can you stop?” you demand, clenching your fist. “He’s not a murderer. It was self-defense.”

“Regardless of what you think, he still killed three men. I can’t believe the landlord hasn’t changed our locks yet. I asked him almost a year ago now, ever since he was released from prison,” your sister insists, ignoring your plea. “You should’ve asked for his key back.”

“He has a name, you know.” Guido Mista – a name that once tasted like honey on your tongue, now bitter as cigarette smoke.

And your sister refuses to speak it, for she hates the taste of cigarettes. A hum dies on her lips. Her smirk bequeaths to you an urgency to cower in shame; however, the distressed look in her eyes tells you how much she fears for your welfare.

As if she has anything to genuinely be afraid of.

Guido Mista has, for most of your life, been something of an extended acquaintance to you. His is a recognizable presence in crowded hallways; after all, who else amongst the student body could muster the same courage to break the dress-code by donning a purple beanie cap atop their head? You will admit to him that you look forward to the days when a teacher confiscates his cap because it means that you get to admire his rich chocolate curls all day long from your seat at the back of the classroom. He will chuckle in response and press a sloppy kiss to your cheek while running his calloused fingers over the sides of your belly, drinking in the laughter that bubbles through you, as if you are the fountain of ever-lasting love itself.

But it was not always this way. Before Mista came a boy whose name you will etch from memory in time – remembered as a boyfriend, but never as a partner.

At your locker, he leans over you, waiting for you to stack your textbooks away. You are fifteen, and he asks you to join him behind the bleachers of the gymnasium. No more than a pet tethered by a chain, you follow him blindly to where his companions wait. You know their pubescent faces but you seldom speak to them. Their names do not matter anymore, either.

In a school dress, pitted against three boys who surpass you in height – you never stood a chance.

The squealing of the gymnasium doors and the slamming of the lock is not enough to stop them. It did little more than encourage your perpetrators to wedge you between their clothed bodies as they fist your hair and tug at the skirt that your father has only just purchased for you after you spilled grape juice over the previous one. You spot the purple beanie over your boyfriend’s blazer-clad shoulder and cry out to him – to Guido Mista.

His cap has fallen from his head, and they beat him until he gasps for air and spews bile from his throat. But he never begs them to stop because it keeps them from attacking you again. He can hardly put up a fight when every attempt to stand is quelled by the diving of a loafer-clad foot into the pit of his stomach Your boyfriend grabs him by those beautiful curls and ushers his face against the waxed floors. The glint of a pocketknife catches your eye.

The school-bell blares. The boy who had held you back throws you to the ground. The pocketknife clamors with you, just beyond the grasp of the tips of your fingers. Your ex-boyfriend (for you no longer consider him as anything more) and his boyish companions dust off their blazers, straighten their ties, and hurry off for their next round of classes. They leave you with your unsettled clothes and a boy with a broken nose.

Clutching the rungs of the bleachers, Mista pulls his body upwards:  a buoy in the sea, and you the only vessel on the horizon. You press his discarded beanie – which you cannot help but to notice smells comfortingly so of cedarwood – to his nose. Red blossoms seep into the delicate threads.  “Are you okay?” he asks you with a cough and a grimace for, as you will come to discover, he has cracked a rib.

“Yes.” Compared to his injuries, you cleared the scuffle relatively unscathed. Mista had stepped in before anything beyond the tearing of your uniform could happen. And yet, his concern is of you and not for his own well-being. “Thank you.”

He flashes you a lopsided grin. You are glad to see that, though laced with the blood that seeps into his mouth, he has not lost any teeth. His repose is infectious, and his ease illuminates your own composure. You help him to stand and together you walk to the nurse’s office, his arm slung over your shoulders and yours around his waist. Your attackers are expelled; their testimony of falsified innocence could not hold a candle to security footage, or a pocketknife engraved with damning initials. Despite everything, you make a new friend. The two of you will become lovers at sixteen – utterly inseparable.

Until the very end.

You prefer sweeter cocktails, but you accept the gin and tonic from your sister and lift it to your lips anyways. The relief of the ice pooling in the cavities of your mouth is a reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the nightclub. Too many bodies, too much sweat – too many different smells, and suddenly your mind whirls. You place the emptied glass atop a table and only then do you realize that you never juiced the translucent lime wedge curled around the rim.

The circle of women whom you find yourself dancing with are strangers; you sway as though you have all known each other for a lifetime. You do not understand the words of the American pop song that resonates from the wall speakers, but it does not matter; after all, even an illiterate man can read rhythm. Across the dancefloor, your sister drags two men with her towards the restroom.

A pelvis presses against your backend – or perhaps, it is your backend that leans into the nook of the clubber swaying behind you. A pair of hands falls to your hips, though you take the lead in rocking side-to-side to Laura Branigan’s cadence. Over the sound of music, the woman to your left suggests that you all swap cellphone numbers. The woman to your right agrees with a drunken nod of her head and, giddy with excitement, clasps your hand. The woman directly across from you offers to order a round of shots to commemorate this newfound comradery. Instead of a tray filled with cinnamon whiskey, she returns with an olive-toned man clad in orange leopard print pants and a blue cross-patterned sweater that exposes his midriff.

“Hey, ladies,” the woman calls out to your circle. The lights ripple across her flushed skin like water. “This is Mista.”

You freeze, your hips suspended mid-beat. Your dance partner pouts and pulls away. Mista does not look to you, and you are grateful . . . Until his coffee-colored eyes do fall to your face after a hiccup jostles your chest. His brows furrow, gaze darting between you and the man behind you. Before his steadily parting lips can utter your name against the clapping of the bass, you are gone because you are not ready.

The winter breeze makes you shiver. The nightly chill is preferable to the sweltering sanctuary behind you, where only moments ago you bobbed along to pop songs and impulsively contemplated friendship with intoxicated patrons who will not remember you in the morning.

The green dial of your cellphone flashes and reflects upon scattered puddles.  You text your sister and tell her that you are going home – don’t wait up. Your affinity for clubbing has gone sour.

“I thought that was you.”

Your heart races quickly, so much that it might burst from the nook between your breasts and land on the ground before his white boots. “Yeah, it’s me,” you say. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too. So, what’ve you been up to?”

“Just stuff. And things.”

Mista laughs. “Stuff and things?”

“Y’know, work,” you tell him with a nod. “More work.”

“Me too.” You fidget with your purse. “I saw your sister – or, the back of her head, actually. How’s she doin’?”

“She’s good.”

“Good.”

A man stumbles through the door. He reeks of cheap bourbon and rye. You and Mista step aside and watch the man as he struggles to walk away from the club. The scene has created a lull to your painfully cumbrous conversation; you reap the opportunity, for it becomes your self-proclaimed cue to leave. You open your mouth to bid Mista adieu. The taste of your own lipstick leaves you sputtering.

“Hey, so uh, are you busy?” he suddenly asks, cutting you off. You have always believed that he could read minds. In this moment, it is as if he knows your intent – as if shuffling in your heels and tightening the grasp on your purse were not telltale signs of your discomfort.

“Not really,” you insist. “I was about to head home.”

“Cool, cool. I was just wondering because you left something behind at my apartment. I’ve been meaning to give it back, but I didn’t think it’d be right to just show up at your doorstep or something.”

“It hasn’t stopped you before,” you chide.

“I know, I know. I just figured it’d make sense to stop at my place, since it’s on the way.”

It gnaws at you – the voice in your head that tells you to leave him be, here and now. It will not do you any good, stepping back into walls once sacred to you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, and gages your reaction. Dark curls poke out from beneath the rim of his cap. You wonder if he still uses that cedarwood shampoo.

It would not do you any good to go with him. The prospect of sipping a glass of wine whilst soaking in a warm bath beckons you home. There is little trouble that you can muster with an idle night, for the night is still young and you have not given up. Though the moon has reached its peak, you cannot surrender. You have made your choice.

“Sure.”

But you never intended to make the right one.

You were sure to slip on a set of shoes before stepping outside. Through the hallway, down the elevator, across the lobby, and onto the street you wander with little more than the glow of streetlamps and passing headlights to guide your way through the dark. You find him in the alley between your apartment building and the next. The stink of a prison cell has imprinted itself onto his skin.

He slips a single nickel-plated key into your hand. “Your sister probably wouldn’t appreciate me having this,” he says.

“You can keep it. I’ll tell her you forgot it.” When he does not accept the return, you reach out and tuck the key into the pocket of his cargo pants. “Just so you have something to remember me by.”

The look in his eyes – the sheen of gloss that coats his irises – churns your stomach. In that moment, Mista reminds you of a dog scorned by his owner. In a way, that is exactly what he is. “You still have that sweater I sent you, right?”

Mustard-yellow, and one of your favorites. And one of Mista’s, too. You had sent it to him during his second week in holding. “Yeah.”

“Keep that, too.” A revolver rests in inside the waistband of his pants. It is a new addition to his appearance. It does not unsettle you, because you know that this man who killed three mobsters without hesitation would never hurt you. “Mista, I’m sorry.”

“I am too,” he sighs, kicking at a discarded soda can that had drifted from a nearby trashcan. “But it’s for the best.”

“It is.” The soda can rolls your way. You stop it with the sole of your foot; it crinkles beneath your weight. “Maybe one day, after you’re tired of working for that Bucciarati, we can pick up where we left off.”

“I’d like that.”

You smile. “Me too . . . Well, I should get going before my sister realizes I’m gone.” In your final moments together – before a pair of lovers once again becomes two separate beings – you embrace. Face buried into the crook of his neck, you speak: “You’re a good person, Mista. No matter what happened between you and those men or whatever does happen, you will always be good.”

He clutches you tighter.

“Don’t let them get to you. Don’t let this job get to you. And please, stai al sicuro, amore: stay safe.”

Back in your bedroom, you shed your clothes and don a mismatched set pajamas. Ever the optimist, you retire for the night with a heart not yet ready to be broken.

And an inescapable evocation of loneliness.

You are shocked to see the stack of hastily packed cardboard boxes. The words fragile or giunca are crudely scribbled with black marker across each one. All that remains is a worn couch with springs that poke into your skin and a square television, which sits on a box labeled libri e altra spazzatura – books and other trash.

The uniform pinholes in the barren walls are a reminder that imitators of your face, frozen in time, used to adorn the room.

“You’re moving?” you ask Mista as he tosses his hat aside and runs a hand through his hair.

He stops and looks to the boxes. “Yeah, actually,” he confirms. “The rent’s too damn high to afford on my own. I’m moving in with some coworkers.”

“You mean other gang members?” You do not miss the way he bites his lip in response. You regret your words as soon as they leave you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“N-no, it’s okay – you’re right anyways.” He trails off. “So that guy you were with. He your boyfriend or something?”

You struggle to recall your dance partner. “Oh, no,” you insist, caught between a scoff and a laugh. “I don’t even know his name.”

Something flashes behind his eyes. He hides the smile that creeps on his face behind the back of his hand, though he does not speak. Not another word is spoken.

It does not sit well with you, the silence that manifests in the still of the room. You are a trespasser – but so is he, for this realm no longer belongs to him, either. “Um, where’s this thing I left behind?” you finally ask; your voice echoes through the emptied space. It makes you shiver.

Mista disappears past the threshold of the bedroom that you once shared  – you wonder if he still uses the cream-colored sheets you bought for him as opposed to his preferred navy blue – and returns with a shirt: it is your mustard-yellow sweater. It is wrinkled and smells just like him and something new (gunpowder, perhaps). The dried drool marks tell you that he sleeps with it bundled in his arms. “Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You do not move to take it. “I gave it to you,” you remind him. A crushed soda can is under your foot and again, you are back in the alley saying farewell to your love. “I want you to keep it.”

But there is no alleyway – only a vacant apartment suite. He does not wish to return it; in a hasty, split-second decision back at the nightclub, he wagered his ownership over what has become his most cherished possession. Just for the chance that you might say yes.

Just for the chance to spend one last night with you.

He rolls his wrist, extending his arm further. “No. It’s for the best.”

And so, you pluck it from his grasp and tuck it inside of your purse – the final harvest from the tree, to be seeded and planted elsewhere. “I’d better get going,” you tell him. “I wish you all the best. It was good seeing you again. Really good . . .”

The doorknob hovers under your palm. “Wait,” Mista suddenly calls. You stop. He rubs the back of his neck. “Would you like to stay for a bit?”

“I shouldn’t. It’s late.” Your tongue betrays your heart. It is treason within your very soul. “Besides, it’s probably for the best if I go.”

Your reverberation of his words makes him wince. More than anything, you want to drop your purse and climb into his arms – to feel his warmth again. You need to leave. Yet, you step away from the door and take a seat upon the flattened cushions of the couch. You still remember where to sit to avoid the broken springs. “Unless, I mean . . .  I guess if you really wouldn’t mind.”

Mista perks up. You mirror his grin. He takes the spot beside you, careful to leave a considerable amount of distance between your bodies. He reaches for the remote. The reception has not improved – it remains fuzzy, pixelated, and colorless.

“I’d offer a boardgame, but . . .” He gestures to the boxes; you get the hint. The channels flash by. “Any preferences?”

“I’m fine with a cooking show,” you tell him. “Or a movie.”

He settles for the latter. At some point, you leave Mista to fetch two drinks from the kitchen. The refrigerator is nearly empty, save for a few bottles of water. When you return with your beverages, you find that he has fallen asleep. You leave him be and watch the reminder of the movie with nothing more than his heavy breathing and the voices of the actors to keep you company.

You turn the television off once the end credits begin. Mista has not moved. If not for the heaving of his chest, he might have been a dead man. Without a clock on the wall, you cannot tell the time. Prediction is all you have – and so, you predict that it is just after midnight. Regardless, you have overstayed your welcome. It is time to leave.

Your fingers brush across his arm as you lean over his hunched form to rouse him from his slumber.  You would hate to leave without saying goodbye. “Mista . . . “ you coo; your speech slurs and it is only then that you realize your own exhaustion. “I’m gonna go home, ‘kay?”

He stirs beneath you. Eyes puffy from sleep, he ogles at your figure. You hover over him, your breath close enough to ghost his cheeks. His long, dark lashes twitch when you breathe too sharply – when he parts his legs for you to slide in between them so that he might capture your lips with his own. One hand to the base of your neck, the other to your waist: he pulls you flush to his body, caging you with arms that feel unfamiliar. More muscle, you suppose.

You press against his chest and detach. His grip loosens, although only enough for you to raise the back of your hand to puckered lips to wipe the saliva from your face. He has already lost you – once more and it will become a life sentence.

“Mista,” you warn, turning your head away to resist his second kiss. The twinges of early love bloom again in the core of your belly. You want him. But you cannot have him. “We can’t.”

Your lipstick stains his mouth. It makes him look undeniably pretty.

“One night,” he pleads – yet his hands leave your body. “I know what you said, about waiting until I’m finished with Passione. But that was easier said than done. I can’t leave them; not now, maybe not ever. They’re mia famiglia. And so are you.”

Your head falls limply. “You can’t have us both.”

“Why not?” He speaks your name when you hesitate to answer. A finger hooks beneath your chin, tipping your head so that you must meet his gaze. “Why not, cara?”

He demands a truth that you have never professed. Not to him, nor your sister – and never to yourself. “I’m scared, Mista,” you finally admit. Confession weighs you down in his grasp. “Because I know the day will come when you won’t come back. It’d be better if I’m not around for it.”

A faint smile, laced with sorrow, etches upon his face. “Do you have that little faith in me?” he asks.

Faith? It was never for the lack thereof. You trust Mista with every fiber of your being because he saved you. And it was not just you – he took the lives of three men to protect the virtue of a woman whom he had never met because she could have been you. She was almost you. That night, when he had heard that woman’s screams and saw the man crouched over her bruised form, Mista felt as though his body had projected itself back into the gymnasium of the school you once attended together. Only this time, he knew how to put up a fight. He acted in the way that the constraints of boyhood had once held him back from.

No, you do not place your mistrust on Mista – you place it in the souls of every man and woman that poses a threat to his safety. The fact that you do not know how to convey this to him mystifies you. Actions are far easier than words, and so you press your lips to his once more. You feed off his touch alone.  

You recline against the backing of the couch, hands pressed flat against the cushions. keening into Mista’s palms as he slides your skirt down – past your thighs, past your knees, and past your ankles. Your panties follow suit. His mouth presses against your slick folds; as touch starved as you have become, it takes little more than his kisses to stir your core. As if commanded by muscle memory, your legs coil around his shoulders and yank him closer the moment his tongue slips past your heat. He groans against you, low and gravely. It makes you gasp when his teeth graze over your hardened nub. When he brings his finger to join his tongue, you find that you are unable to stop your hips from rocking against his lips. A second finger coaxes you, and then a third – you come undone in his mouth, heaving for air.

You cry out his name in prayer. Mista pulls away, letting your legs fall back down. The spasm of your thighs turns your abdomen to jelly. You cannot move. You draw him in for another kiss, savoring the taste of your balm that coats his skin. He mutters his desires and you nod, eager to feel him fill you again. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to the bedroom.

It fills you with gratification to see that the rumpled sheets and folded pillows beneath you are in fact the color of sweet cream.

Soft snores leave Mista’s lips. He sleeps on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other tucked beneath your head. Unlike your lover, you are wide-awake. You stare at the browning wallpaper of the bedroom wall, willing yourself to believe that the stagnant flowers are truly billowing against the wind in a field elsewhere.

You toss the duvet from your body and stand, careful not to wake him. The mattress breathes in the absence of your weight. In the darkness, you collect your discarded clothing and don your clubbing attire. You cast one final look to the sleeping dark-eyed boy before clicking the heavy door shut behind you.

A tiny voice cries out – a child from the next apartment suite perhaps, startled by nightmares no doubt. Though, as your ears strain and listen, it almost seems as though the child is calling your name. It is a ludicrous idea. Still, it unsettles you, for there is something familiar in its tone. You tighten your grasp on your purse, readjust your heels, and leave.

Regret is a sickening temptation – and you have ruined everything. 

| 4291 Words | Masterlist |

[wandawillkill312]

Okay...

What if Emperor Belos was a Human who came to the Demon Realm, fifty years ago and "brought order" to it, but also fell in love with Azura- who turned out to be a real person-, which led to them dating and having sex, but Azura slowly saw him, as an evil being- while at the same time, found out she was pregnant with his child?

And what if they were set to get married, but she went to the Human world to escape him, changed her name and identity, used magic to cloak her bile sack/falsify documentation/convince everyone that she is a human who lived on Earth since she was born, got a normal Human job and had Belos's child?

And what if that child was Luz- meaning that her mom Camilla is really Azura and she is also secretly the author of The Good Witch Azura (Just to make some extra money)?

But more importantly...

...What if Belos is building that portal, because he secretly found out that Luz is his daughter and he wants to go to the Human world, find Azura and bring her back to the Boiling Isles, before revealing everything to Luz, as he delusionally thinks they will all be happy together as a family, after that?

Lemme know what you think?

[jadekitty777]

On Your Six, Chapter 1

Okay first of all, did we all coincide the Taiqrow Week with Father’s Day... accidentally? Because that’s secretly genius. 

Secondly, whoops we’re also meshing with Qrowin week - hope y’all are okay to share!

Finally, let’s get down to business. Hi y’all, hope you haven’t missed me too much. Hopefully I can make up for my silence with this absolute beast of a fanfic. This is going to be a single, interconnected story matching the prompts of the entire week. I hope those of you who choose to read it, will enjoy it!

Day 1: Tattoos for @taiqrowweek

Rating: T for this chapter, M for overrall

Words: 2.3k

Summary: Qrow was what most of society would call a small-town criminal. But to those oppressed, he hoped only to be a healer. In an effort to make a change in the world, he moves from kingdom to kingdom, searching for branded omegas in need. His goal? To turn the derogatory words the reformatories forced them to bear on their skin into works of art.

Then one day, his past catches up to him in the form of Taiyang, his former best friend, with a brand of his own stained onto his skin and a plea for help in his eyes. Qrow has no choice but to answer, even if it means he’d have to face his mistakes once and for all.

[An ABO-style universe in a modern-day style Remnant. No Grimm, because people are the real monsters in this one]

Ao3 Link: On Your Marks

~

The day Taiyang walked into his shop, before even a single word was spoken, he knew.

It wasn’t from any particular mannerism. Everyone’s body language was different. A chattering mouth. Averted eyes. A tapping foot. A drooped posture. In the short time Qrow had been doing this, he’d learned no single action could encapsulate the variety in which people expressed their shame.

Yet, not a single one could escape the stench. It was a foul thing. Sharp and smokey, like a tire fire on a junkyard, it lacquered over an omega’s scent so completely that it was near impossible to catch a whiff of the true smell that was originally there.

Even now, as Qrow inspected the damage upon his former friend’s bare back, mere inches away from the man’s scent glands, he couldn’t pick out a hint of the sunflowers and fresh soil that was Tai. Nothing left except the reek of burnt rubber and dishonor.

He didn’t call attention to it, just like he didn’t call attention to the shake in his friend’s shoulders as he placed a hand over the first mark. “This is extensive.”

“I know. But, I didn’t know who else to turn to.” Even as he turned his head to look at him, Tai hunched over a bit, and the brand seared across his shoulder blades stretched with the movement. “You’ll help me, right?”

Qrow’s eyes flitted between watery eyes and stained skin where the word SLUT, all in caps like some mockery of a grand declaration, taunted his every decision since their falling out and left the taste of bile on his tongue.

“Of course.” He promised.

~

It was widely thought that it was a farmer that first came up with branding back during the Early Modern period. Having been “inspired” by the tagging of the cattle which kept them in order, the alpha decided to do the same to omegas, ascertained the same outcome would follow. The practice was later adopted by prisons and other corrective facilities. Back then, it was merely a way of keeping track of those who had been in and out of the system by searing the skin with an iron that had the center’s insignia on it.

Advancements to the printing press and mail systems did away with that particular need, but while the jails abolished the practice, reformatories did not, releasing studies that claimed the procedure resulted in more ‘proper’ and ‘desired’ behaviors in omegas and were absolutely critical to full rehabilitation.  Despite newer evidence showing these original claims were likely falsified simply for convenience and often actually had a devastating effect on an omega’s psyche, the three-century long old policy had yet to be abolished from the system.

The most the outcries had done the past few decades was change the method on which the ‘brand’ was applied. Instead of an iron, it was done with a tattoo needle and instead of an insignia, it became a single word that was like a permanent reminder of what landed the omega in the facility to begin with. The stench was caused by the use of the chemically enhanced ink that made it impossible for laser technology to fully remove.

In short, if an omega wanted the mark gone, their only choice was to cut out their own skin. Most, like his mother, accidentally killed themselves trying.

Which led to where Qrow was today, trying to shake things up in the only way he knew how. So, he jumped off society’s grid, took up a needle and his drawing skills, and turned the marks into works of art. More importantly, he gave the omegas who came to his door a way to recover and take back their lives.

He just never thought Tai would be one of them.

Once he’d taken the pictures he needed and Tai’s shirt was back on, things were relaxed enough he could brew some tea. As he handed the other man his cup, Qrow finally asked, “So, how’d you find me?”

“Wasn’t that hard.” He replied, fingers wrapping around the porcelain. “The omegas back at the reformatory would whisper before bed. It didn’t take me long to figure out they were talking about you.”

Qrow froze, trying to hide his trepidation. “Oh? They say my name?”

Tai snorted. “Not your name, but a name.” His expression turned cheeky. “Don’t worry though. Only someone who knows Harbinger used to be your Relics & Wyverns character could put the pieces together.”

“Ah, can it!” He barked as a flush worked its way up his neck. Still, tension drained from him. While there were no laws that specifically stated what an omega was required to do with their mark after their rehabilitation was complete, if he was caught tampering with it for them, he knew the courts could claim he was willfully interfering with a person’s emotional stability. Might even get him on a few counts of practicing mental health care without a license too.

Still, he didn’t particularly want to be sent to the slammer, which was why he worked so hard to keep to the underground. Never told anyone his name. Moved often. Kept minimal contact with clients. Whatever it took to make sure only the people who needed to find him could.

“I’m glad that you’re doing alright for yourself.” Tai said, giving a cursory glance to the shoddy working space that doubled as his apartment. Beyond his tattoo kit, he rarely took much with him when he relocated. Sometimes he got lucky on the accommodations and the place would already be partially furnished, other times he had to make do with what he could afford from the nearest thrift store.

This place was one of those latter times. He had a mattress on the torn up box spring with a chipped nightstand beside it, a circular, rickey table with two chairs for the dining room, a fairly barren kitchen area, and a slightly beat-up leather recliner for the clients.

It wasn’t hard to see Tai was really reaching as he said, “Your place is… nice?”

It was Qrow’s turn to snort. “At least be honest and tell me I live in a shithole.”

“I was not going to – okay, yeah it is kind of a shithole. But, you’re eating okay and everything, right?”

What an omega. “Yes mom, I’m getting my three squares a day and I’m even brushing my teeth before bed.” He lent back, the plastic chair creaking underneath as he did so. “But you didn’t exactly come here to critique my living conditions. Think there’s a lot more important stuff to talk about, don’t you?”

Suddenly, the tea was much more interesting than his face. “Yeah. Right. Um, guess there’s a lot to catch you up on, huh? You don’t even know about-”

“Whoa, hold up a sec.” He quickly interrupted. “Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t ask for any of my clients’ stories unless they feel like sharing. Some do, some don’t. But my help doesn’t come with any strings attached.” He met his gaze, stressing the next part carefully, “Even if they’re friends, okay?”

Tai still seemed to hesitate. “But, don’t you want to know about Yang?”

Of course, he did. He had about a thousand and one questions whirling through his head. But that didn’t matter right now. “You ready to talk about her?”

For the second time that day, tears shimmered in Tai’s eyes. He looked away quickly, saying nothing.

Yeah. He figured as much.

“Then no.” Qrow cleared his throat some. “Besides, I’m still a total disaster when it comes to handling people when they cry.”

That one, at least, earned him a weak chuckle.

“Some things never change?” Tai said with a sniff, rubbing the corner of his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“If it ain’t broke…” He shrugged. “Anyways, what I meant was, how do you want to change up that lil’ blemish a’yours?”

“I, uh, I don’t know. What do you normally do?”

“Turn it into a single design. But, I’ve never had to work on one so large before. That thing’s taking up about half of your back. Still doable, just… more difficult.” It was easy to busy his designs enough the word got lost under all the rest. Working on a scale of this size though, there weren’t many things he could think of that would both look nice and cover up the word. “Not to mention, we’ll have to take a lot of breaks, so your skin can heal.”

“How long do you think it would take?”

“Well, with three weeks between each session and the scale and details… probably nine to twelve months?”

Tai’s face fell. “Oh.”

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, no I mean…” He sighed. “I was just, kind of hoping it would be done before October, is all. Before the kids come home.”

Kids?!

As in plural?!

Qrow had to bite his tongue to physically stop himself from breaking his own rule. Took a deep, steadying breath.

Okay. That was six months away. There was no way. Unless…

“Well, we could make it four separate designs. One for each letter. That way I could work on one side and then the other while it’s healing. If we meet every week, should be doable. Gonna be some long hours under the needle for you though.”

Tai lit up just like the sun he was named after. “I can handle it. I’ll do anything. Oh-! We could even make it four dragons, couldn’t we?”

Qrow barked out a laugh. “I mean yeah, if that’s what you want. Give me your scroll deets. I’ll work up some designs over the next few days and send them to you.” As he pulled out his device to input the information, he added, “We gotta work out a schedule too. What days are RO?”

“She visits on Tuesdays and Saturdays right now. It’ll go down to once a week pretty soon. I’m also TA-ing at Sanctum Middle, so weekdays are pretty full.”

It was all par for the course. Even after doing time at the reformatory, omegas still had to have frequent visits from their rehabilitation officer, to make sure they were keeping a steady job and homelife. That meant good evaluations from his superiors and a living space that looked like not even a speck of dust had had a chance to touch down. This was especially important for omegas like Tai, who would have to fight for every top mark he got. If he failed to, the RO would claim he was still unfit to raise his own children and keep them in the fostering system.

Qrow knew that was the reason for the six-month time limit. He had no doubt that once Tai was out of parole and had his pups back, he’d be hightailing it out of the kingdom. But for the RO to still be visiting at that frequency… “Did you come looking for me right after you got out?”

“I-” The tea had become interesting again. And cold. “Yeah. I knew you were working out of Mistral, and Atlas allows for transfers to Argus.”

At this rate, his tongue was probably going to have indents from his incisors. Once he knew he wasn’t going to start prying or, worse yet, shouting at Tai - because really how stupid could he be?! – he opened his mouth and said, “So, Sundays then?”

For the first time in nearly six years, Tai smiled at him. “Sounds perfect.”

~

For the next few days, Qrow did nothing but draw. Whether it was with a buzzing needle or a pencil, his hand was rarely empty. Even as he downed his morning coffee or spun his suppertime noodles onto his fork, his other hand was moving over a sheet of paper, his muse on overdrive as he tried to pick out the perfect designs for each letter. By nightfall, he was sending at least half a dozen pages full of sketches to Tai, then checking his phone every five minutes as he impatiently anticipated his reply.

It didn’t actually matter where they started, because once they decided on which letter was going first, Qrow’s focus would narrow to the second one over. The tricky thing was, Tai had always been the type who was simple to please – well before a reformatory could ever drill that lesson into him. Even when they were young, whether it was a question of what game they wanted to play or what food they wanted to eat, Tai would almost always just grin and say ‘whatever you want’. Which meant, every sketch was perfect and Qrow had to work twice as hard to actually find something he truly fell in love with.

He knew he finally struck gold for S when Tai figured out how to use the circling tool on his scroll and sent the shot back with an exuberantly loud ‘THIS ONE’, followed by a horrendous amount of exclamation points.

Qrow had never felt prouder.

It was a small effort to resketch the piece in full and line it. Adding color was more challenging, as he had to balance what looked nice with the limitations of his inks. But leaving it without was absolutely not an option. Not for someone who used to decorate his walls with paintings of tropical beaches and autumn-locked forests and had had a Crayola box spectrum of begonias sitting on his windowsill in his childhood room. Tai was a man who radiated a rainbow both in his life and in his heart. To try to dull that by leaving him in nothing but blacks and grays was a crime Qrow wasn’t willing to commit.

Besides, the design wouldn’t translate well without it.

So, he kept working at it until he knew it was just right. When the omega’s excitement only seemed to grow, he knew his labor was over.

[yellowocaballero]

thoughts on writing gertrude? loved your latest evil con update :)

Oooh, thanks for asking. Truth be told that the story was the result of me stress-procrastinating on a large project at work due that day, so the writing process was basically me slapping the keyboard a few times for about two hours and then posting it without really even looking it over. See if you can catch ALL of the grammar mistakes, lmfao!!!

But it was a lot of fun to write a POV I’d never written before, especially one so different from everybody else’s. She’s also a very distinct personality and character, with a lot of ‘rules’ that I had to come up with on the spot, lol. What I really did enjoy was structuring the story similarly to some of the older TV shows I like, like Murder She Wrote or Columbo. I also adjusted the internal narration and the style to be a little more flowery or film noir, with a focus on evocative yet precise language and ruminations, because I needed to drive home that she and Agnes were absolutely pyromaniac girlfriends and that she felt very much A Certain Way over her that she was refusing to admit. 

(Some characters ruminate and some characters don’t. As a writer, try to stay away from long rambling paragraphs about a character’s thoughts, because that’s dull as shit. However, whenever I write from the POV of Archivist!Sasha and Gertrude, these two people absolutely follow logical trains of thought compulsively as part of how they problem-solve or plan. They have constructive and directed trains of thought that they use to problem-solve/narrate the story. If you’re writing from Jon’s POV, he ALSO has these trains of thought, except they are nonconstructive, rambling, illogical, and soaked in stress and anxiety. I have Jon think about how he FEELS and I have Sasha and Gertrude think about what they’re DOING. But also avoid long paragraphs of internal narration cuz that shit’s boring lol.)

But writing from Gertrude’s POV was very interesting to me, because I couldn’t use her to give the audience emotional cues. Normally when you’re writing something gross you rely on both description/word choice and the POV to signal to the audience that it’s gross - the spider’s legs were luminescent, scratchy, carapaces, shifting and groaning under their unnatural weight, but more importantly Sasha felt bile rise in her throat and was hit by a stab of nausea. You can only get so scary actually describing something, you also have to lean on emotional cues through loaded language and other character reactions. But with Gertrude, the whole scene in Jon’s bedroom (that, to be clear, was a bedroom coated in giant spider webs containing a half-human half-spider teenager groaning in agony and lashing out violently) was described clinically and professionally. Because she’s a professional, and she just wasn’t fucking scared by it. Because we’re soaked in her POV, we aren’t scared either. The scariest thing to us is how much Jon is clearly suffering. But, on the flip side, when Jon’s acting and looking more human, the most normal and innocuous things he does becomes dangerous and threatening, because Gertrude’s running her little logic programs telling her that he’s dangerous. 

Beyond the joys of POV, characterization wise: Gertrude brings narrative conflict wherever she goes because she is instantly half a step away from throwing down at any moment lol, which makes her perfect for instilling tension and conflict in a story. The main tension of that story was Gertrude and her distrust/horniness for Agnes, and Gertrude and her distrust of Jon - something she ultimately only dropped because she had decided to dismiss him as a threat (orrr diiddd sheeee....). Also, exploring her and Agnes’ relationship was FUN AS HELL, because I was constrained by how little these characters wanted to talk about what they were feeling. The ‘I’m only talking to you for business reasons’ thing was lifted from WTNV, which is the platonic ideal of romance. It was fun to also kind of explore from an outsider’s perspective how weird it is that a 60 year old fire messiah (she looks more like mid-twenties, it’s a testament to how Gertrude thinks of Agnes that she thinks of her as an older woman) is best friends with a teenager and they’re both very protective of another, younger, spider-teenager. Her relationship dynamics with the other characters are fun too: she denies it but Gerry is obviously like a nephew to her, she’s entrenched in a massive Will-they-won’t-they with Agnes, and she has people in her circle, but she obviously really doesn’t actually give a shit about or love anybody but herself. Gertrude cares about herself, and keeping the world safe, and that’s it.

AU notes: so basically what happened was that Agnes had her Crisis of Faith earlier than in canon, and she’s kept up very secret and limited communication with Gerry since the 1999 Evilcon (they were banned from any evilcons afterwards, so they never met up again as kids after that and they never saw Jon again). Instead of killing herself she decided to run away instead, so she asked for Gertrude’s help in torching any of her cult members who stopped her from leaving. They Fell In Love and had A Night of Passion and Spoke Longingly of Running Away Together before Gertrude’s sense of duty to her job made her break it off. Agnes is now enthusiastically trying to live out that ‘real life’ thing when she gets word that Jon’s spider-person transformation has started happening and that he had to run away, and is now homeless in London. Gerry’s been meaning to go ditch his mom and live with Agnes too, so basically Gerry and Agnes teamed up to go rescue Jon and falsify their identities so they can all try to live the normal life they never got. They’re best friends and continue living together until we see them all as adults in the main story. Agnes and Gerry are MUCH happier than in canon and Jon’s...well, he’s having a time of it, but he’ll end up alright! Right?

Also the only music I listened to while writing the whole thing was Billy Joel, Jim Croce, Hall and Oates, etc. :) Thanks for the q!! 

[bonnie-barstow-of-flag]

He’s My Husband: Rescue is On It’s Way

@avictimofthejazz​ (pre-plotted Fake Marriage AU based on knight of the Juggernaut)

Bonnie Barstow’s heart thundered with a trepidation that only deepened with every stride driving her towards the crash site. Her panicked breath tangled in the hollow of her mouth, refusing to be swallowed down or ushered outwards between her teeth. Every frayed nerve urges her to turn back, to let the Semi-driver investigate. Very few could survive that kind of wreckage, Bonnie knows. The unspoken, unwritten statistics stacked against him batter her throbbing forehead. Yet, a relentless hope continues to propel her forwards. 

“MIIICHHHHAEELLLL!” His name tears free of her lips, shattering the terrifying edge the relative silence had gained. She can feel her own eyes swelling forcefully with tears as she flings herself inside the missing driver’s side window. Her heart plummets downwards, creating a tangible pang in her chest.

He was slumped over backwards, his eyes closed behind his beautiful long lashes. It was worse than she thought! He’s half-dead, but still with them.

“Are you okay?” She chokes out before she can stop herself. Forcibly the mechanic’s trembling hands shove in his direction to complete a preliminary inspection. Relief bristles across every inch of her skin when his eyes crack open. His eyes were lousily attempting to focus.  

Michael’s sundrenched skin still beheld warmth, though his forehead was marred with a rather large bruise. Swallowing down the bile associated with the discovery, she presses her fingers to push back unruly waves of coffee-brown locks. “Are you sure?” His answer left her with no real confidence.

Here in the twisted mangle of Kitt’s shell, he had nearly perished! There is no way in HELL she is permitting him to carry on with the mission until he’s checked out by a medical profession. She might have a PHD next to her name, but she was no expert on human health. Even she knew that goose-egg sprouting upwards on his forehead could proclaim trouble.

“We’re... we’re going to get you to the hospital.” She decides on the spot. Oh, she knew there’d be an adamant protest, but she wouldn’t hear it. Bonnie didn’t care who the evil culprits were, what they were after, or what they intended to accomplish next. Michael Knight was her first and foremost priority; even before tending to the badly battered Kitt. 

It seemed to take an eternity for the ambulance to arrive. Every few seconds, she found herself checking her delicate gold watch, willing the moments to move at a quicker pace. 

“I need to go with you,” she insists to the nearest paramedic as they loaded him into the back. 

Unsure, he cast a glance towards his co-worker. The first man shrugging. He didn’t care. The other bulkier gentleman nodded. “Hop in, but please for the love of God, stay out of our way.” He gruffly replied, lending her a hand up into the cabin and urging her to sit near him. Instinctively, her hand grapples for his. “Come on, Michael. Stay conscious. Stay with me...” she pleads. Her fingers gripping his with unusual force as if by doing so, she could keep him from slipping away. 

Watching the stretcher being rolled away with a half-conscious Michael Knight on it, she feels her panic building up again. “Wait for me. I’m going with him.” Her tonality holds more force than even she expected. She pushes her way past a few impeding doctor types to get back to Knight’s side.

The brunette knows the hospital’s policy likely won’t be as lenient as the one the ambulance paramedics had. Here at the hospital, they won’t allow anyone but immediate family members go back with him. She can’t pass for his sister. So Bonnie seizes the next best option. “He’s my husband!” She blurts out before she can so much as debate the wisdom of such a claim. While she has never approved of lying and the falsified tale roils in the confines of her stomach, she had satiated a relentless desperation. If Michael was mistreated, harmed, or God-forbid died and she wasn’t there, she’d never forgive herself. Internally, she hopes and prays that it works. 

[biomedmillie]

Debunking health-related IG posts

Post One:

The whole portrayal of this image is wrong; the body is efficient at ‘cleansing’ by itself. The liver is the body’s detoxification system and as such any product or food claiming to ‘detoxify’ or cleanse your system is unfortunately exaggerating its abilities. The symptoms the image is describing are common for those with a generally unhealthy diet, whilst some have no scientific backing whatsoever. 

The sugar cravings are most likely attributed to high sugar and low-fibre foods that are not slow-release, whilst belly fat is due to an overconsumption of calories (all adipose tissue acts as stores for excess sugar). 

Bloating and gas can come from a diet with little fruit and veg- this means low dietary fibre as well as poor gut flora which help absorb nutrients from food, causing gut problems.

There is no scientifically proven link between diet and skin condition (although if a certain diet or avoidance of foods work for you, stick with it!).

Low energy, again a claim from eating fast-release carbohydrates.

Overly sugary foods and liquids can cause bad breath (NHS, 2019).

Constipation is again due to a low fibre diet; insoluble carbohydrates such as cellulose act as roughage which aid peristalsis (rhythmic contraction of the gut).

Certain energy restrictive diets can improve cognitive function, but no paper I could find linked diet with mood (Brinkworth, Buckley, Noakes et al).

Post Two:

Again, another mysterious claim of ‘detox’. This one comes from a specific chemical in apples, mainly Phlorizidin. This is a drug that helps lower blood sugar concentrations and was previously considered as a treatment for Type 2 diabetes (the drug, not a diet of apples). However, this drug is inefficient at lowering blood sugar and better alternatives have been found.

There seems to be a common belief in pseudo-science that bile lets the liver excrete toxic or ‘bad’ substances; in all my studies there is no literature to support this, bile aids in digestion and is an alkaline mixture rich in bicarbonate ions to neutralise acidic chyme once it enters the duodenum. All excretion is facilitated by the kidneys, which essentially act as a filter for the blood.

Post Three:

There is some credence for celery juice’s ability to boost your immune system’s function due to its rich source of vitamins, particularly vitamin C which supports your immune by increasing the cellular processes of the cells that run it (Carr, Magini, 2017), but to say it removes ‘viral waste’ is ridiculous to say the least. Despite viral waste not even being a legitimate medical term, viral debris from destroyed cells will be removed by phagocytosis; white blood cells (phagocytes) engulf the cell, destroy it and absorb the remains.

Furthermore, common viruses such as the Flu are Pyro viruses, meaning they increase your body’s temperature. This is because your hypothalamus increases its ‘set point’ (the core body temperature) to kill the virus off. There is no scientific evidence to significantly suggest that celery juice aids this.

All in all this post is incredibly misleading.

Post Four:

The literature on this is extremely mixed, with some studies reporting inconclusive results and others reporting effects in contextual memories. All studies agree certain odours activate specific context-dependent memories (meaning there is no inclination to suggest that just because you’ve been sniffing rosemary you’re going to remember Avagadro’s number). All in all, there’s not enough scientific literature to draw a conclusion, and I have no clue where the author got their “75%” from.

I’ll reference a prominent paper on this below, but again this post is extremely misleading (Ball, Shoker, Miles. 2010).

Conclusion:

In summary, take IG posts with a pinch of salt! Medical facts are stretched or even falsified to create a satiating quote that we all wish to believe, of which the avid science student will often roll their eyes and scoff at. Before changing your diet and lifestyle, always consult a healthcare professional before doing so.

Note: If any information is factually incorrect please privately inform me with some scientific support and I will always correct my work- we could all learn a little more! However I do fact check to the best of my ability using accredited journals and studies published by the scientific community. I will not be naming the authors; my intent is to shame no one, but to inform the general public about evidence-driven science.

References:

Brinkworth GD, Buckley JD, Noakes M, Clifton PM, Wilson CJ. (2009) Long-term Effects of a Very Low-Carbohydrate Diet and a Low-Fat Diet on Mood and Cognitive Function. Arch Intern Med. 169(20):1873–1880

Ball, L.J. Shoker, J. Miles, N.V. (2010) Odour‐based context reinstatement effects with indirect measures of memory: The curious case of rosemary. British Journal of Psychology. 101 (4).

Carr, A.C. Magini, S. (2017) Vitamin C and Immune Function. Nutrients. 3;9 (11).

NHS, (2019). Bad Breath. [online] Available from: https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/Bad-breath/ [30/12/2019]

[lacobscur]

hey u wanna see me write some rly incoherent stuff thats berserker and kariya behind the scenes because i kept thinking about it and since f/z didnt give us any deets and matts not around to supply the real kariya facts, its my city now. this hops around at random and ill add to it whenever i feel like it.

and also sometimes my homestuck past rises up from the depths and grabs me by the throat until i write something in second person.

“Who is that?” you ask, interrupting Kariya’s thoughts with your own.

“Sakura,” he replies quietly. “This war is to save her. Fight for her sake.”

Sakura turns at the sound of Kariya’s voice, likely under the assumption that he’s speaking to her. A question begins to form on her lips, but you take the opportunity to manifest, ignoring the pained inhale from Kariya as you do so. The girl doesn’t flinch at all, or even react, just stares at you with the blank stare she’s had this whole time.

You take a few steps forward, out from behind your Master, to kneel before her with your hand extended towards her. Nothing changes in her countenance. “You’re... what Kariya summoned?” she asks quietly, her voice coming forth as if echoing over an insurmountable gulf. 

“Yes,” you answer, coherent enough.

Sakura lays her hand delicately upon your own, and it feels like she is a doll that someone else is puppeteering. Perhaps she is lost, but it will take more than you to help her. You both know this. “Be careful of grandfather,” she says, looking into your face.

“I don’t fear him.” It’s something like this: you’d like to say that you could protect her if she wanted, but you offer the truth instead, as minuscule as it is. You’ve never been one for lying. She can take what she wishes. 

Sakura nods minutely and then slips her hand from yours. “Neither does Uncle. You two should still be careful.” Her eyes meet yours directly, and she does not even minutely flinch away from the lurid glow of your curse and the biting despair within. You give her a nod in return, and she walks away without further comment, disappearing down the hallway like she’s already a ghost.

You stand and return to Kariya’s side before dematerializing. “She didn’t fear me,” you inform him, with a mourning sort of wistfulness.

“Neither did I,” he replies, stubborn over something-or-other you don’t have the inclination to figure out.

“Do you really think that you’re so well-off that someone sharing a trait with you is a good thing?”

Kariya falls silent at that, watching the empty hallway for a long while before he finally sighs and turns away.

----------

You don’t watch Kariya when he stumbles into the church. You can’t. It’s too much, too personal, too familiar, the rising sense of regret like bile in your throat as Kariya acts out a role it’s too late to avert. It was always going to end like this, and you knew it. Instead you watch only the figure on the second story, who eyes the scene from the transept like it’s the climax of a play. Perhaps it is. You’re not one to judge that -- you just watch him, under the ostensible excuse of protection, guarding your Master from the only threat here that never mattered at all, and you know it.

Attention only wavers from the overseer when Kariya hauls his way out and you disappear with him. He finds himself in the street, curled over himself on the ground screaming something incoherent between his sobs. He screams at you, too, when you materialize and heft him up over your shoulder, wordless. He weighs nothing, save the weight of scars, and it’s almost as if his hatred and regret and despair could melt right into your own fog.

He screams himself raw, which doesn’t take long, and retches when you put him down in what might ostensibly be called his home. When Kariya finally manages to look at you again, you can’t tell if his gaze is accusing you specifically of betrayal or if it’s directed to the world at large. There’s nothing to say, so you don’t try.

You just sit down next to him, and wait.

“Why,” he asks you eventually, once he’s ran out of tears and his throat can produce something other than cracked screaming. “Why.” Hoarse and broken, just a final plea.

There’s nothing you can tell him. Nothing will make it better, that this is merely a tragedy on loop and if you knew how to fix it you would have done something already, if you knew how to remove yourself from the tracks set out, neither of you would be here. But an ‘I don’t know’ means nothing, so you give him no reply, just rest your hand on his shoulder and hope that provides some stable reminder of existence, as if that were enough. 

You aren’t sure, when his breathing evens out, if it’s because he’s exhausted himself to sleep or because he’s fallen unconscious. 

----------

this also goes here (link)

----------

Command seals are new. You’ve never had them used before, almost surprisingly (though your attention is quick to flicker to the King on the battlefield, Kariya’s also too far gone by those points to care, and this is the only Grail War you’ve ever been in). Unsurprisingly, you come to the conclusion that you don’t like them. Kariya’s hand glows and then fades, two of the red squiggles dying out as the shadows around you roll and boil in clear anger. You told him this wasn’t how For Someone’s Glory worked, and you told him that Rider had nothing to do with either of you, and yet --

Kariya stares at you with a fixed expression. It’s hard to sway him once he’s fixated on a goal, which is something you both know and respect, but find it extremely irritating at the moment, when he tells you to wear the guise and get out.

“I - don’t - want - to.” You snarl out, each word punctuated with sharp irritation. It’s the angriest you’ve been at him, the only time you felt genuinely collared, the command seals like an over-tight chokechain around your neck.

“You have to.”

“Says who?” 

The shadows roil around you, spiking up and giving you a malformed facsimile of Rider. It hurts to take this form, the furious buzzing in your brain (bugs, bugs, isn’t it? Biting and painful, swarm without form, you can’t fucking think). The fog was never meant to be used like this and it complains when forced, command seals dragging Rider’s guise onto you and keeping it there. 

Rider’s face must look strange, warped and glowing in a furious scowl.

Kariya matches it with angry determination of his own. (You’re forced to remember, that this is a scar, an empty swatch, it shouldn’t be surprising that it’s easy to lead around a corpse.) “Me. The seals.” The seals burn as if a reminder, but that’s not the answer you want and he knows it too. You raise your lip at him in a silent snarl, expectant and waiting. After a few seconds:  “Kirei,” Kariya answers, and you don’t bite back the furious, bitter laugh that bursts in a single syllable past your teeth.

Ah, the priest. Of course, of course he would continue puppeteering, and force you to do something like this. It’s too late for you to do anything else, and besides: the command seals have been laid. Ignoble and wrong as it may be, you’re stuck. You stand, at least enjoying the feature of Rider’s height that lets you loom over Kariya better than usual. “Fine,” you say before disappearing, word falling bitter to the ground.

Irritating, irritating. The things you do for a war you both know neither of you will win.

(You’ll forgive him, of course, he is merely buffeted around in the same ocean you are. But sulking makes you feel better. Gives you something to concentrate on other than the pain and skittering dysphoria currently over your body. Damn bastards. All three of you, Master and priest and your horrid fool self.)

----------

There’s no map, but the directions Kariya gives you are simple enough. A few streets away, off to the side of the city, somewhere in the depths of a parking complex where weapons have been left behind for you. Unobtrusive, an easy place to stage both an ambush and a battle. Kariya sighs and closes his eyes when he finishes describing where the parking garage is. “Go there,” he says, leaning back against the concrete wall, “and fight the King.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Kirei told me.”

You know better than him, you know that the priest is a liar. But what good would it do to say that? Going to the King is what you’ve fought for all along. Besides, Kariya is attached the the priest -- one show of kindness, or even showing a lack of blatant dislike towards Kariya is enough to earn that, considering how rare either are -- and you have no inclination to remove that one minor consolation prize from him, no matter how falsified it may be. It also serves your purposes just fine. The king is the reason you came here, the reason you took this form, and informing Kariya anything he might already suspect will only distance you from that. So, you stand. “Alright.”

“I’ll stay here,” he says, and smiles up at you, tight and forced and barely a smile. Perhaps just a side effect of the scarring.

“Alright.” A pause. 

He says he stays because it’s the closest he can get to your leyline without being eaten. Both of you know better. He stays there mostly because the walls are soundproofed and he knows how badly your fighting will hurt, and he stays because it will be easiest to clean up his body when it’s here. Just kick it into the pit. No one will have to see him die, this way. Because he knows this is where you both die, and so do you. There’s nothing else from here -- and if there were, who would chase it? There is no Tohsaka family for Sakura to return to; Kariya failed, so chasing the grail loses all direction, only a mad aimless flailing, guided only by Kirei and Kariya’s lack of understanding. You chase nothing but the King. The only option is to die, and hope that it might mean something to someone one day -- or at least, not hurt anything any more than living already has.

You stand and bow to him, and then you leave. “Farewell.”

“You, too."

What an unfortunate joke this is.

[santheweird]

Hey Sarge! (Chapter 6)

Summary: Due to the lack of jobs because of World War 2, Alexander Sami Hale joined the army to keep her family’s head above the water.

She falsified her enlistment form, convincing the officials that she was actually a boy named Alexander Hale.

When her sergeant, James Barnes, was captured by the German forces during a battle in Azzano, Alex went AWOL to aid a man named Steve Rogers to rescue his best friend.

This is her story.

Warnings: War flashbacks, mentions of PTSD, survivor's guilt

~

It was easy to find the two who had stormed the commands tent.

A day after the 107th came back from Azzano battle-weary and in low spirits, some sort of USO troop came to camp. Alex wasn't there, but apparently some man named Captain America came to talk to the troops and “raise their morale”. Alex guessed that it didn't work, but she heard that the soldiers had a ball of time bullying poor Cappy off the stage.

Since she had never seen that blond before, she had her suspicions that that man came from the USO troop circuit, so after gathering what she might need, she headed towards the backstage of the ridiculous looking stage at the edge of the base camp.

Convincing them to bring her along was a whole ‘nother thing though.

Alex swallowed thickly at the twin looks of surprise directed at her after she voiced her request.

The female officer spoke first. “I know that we should be the last ones to tell you that you’re planning on doing something extremely reckless, but we’re going to have to say no.”

Alex stamped down a wave of indignation. “Why?”

“You’re injured, and you just came back from a terrible battle a few days ago. You should focus on resting up and recuperating-”

“With all due respect Ma’am, I’ve done enough resting.” Alex interrupted. “And recuperating. And thinking. I’m not gonna sit here all day moping over our defeat when hundreds of our comrades are locked up as prisoners and suffering. Barnes saved my sorry ass, and I’m not going to let this-” Alex gestured at her bandaged face and arm. “Get in the way of rescuing him.”

“You know Bucky?” The man spoke for the first time since Alex entered the tent.

She nodded. “I’m from the 107th. He’s my sergeant. You know him, right?”

“Yeah.” The blond pressed his lips into a firm line.

“You wanna save him, right?”

“Of course!”

“Then bring me with you.” Alex begged. Under the bandages on her face, the still healing skin stretched painfully, but she ignored it, determined to convince the two to let her tag along. “Like what Phillips said, the prisoners are in a heavily fortified fortress with some of the best defense systems in the country. You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

The two turned to each other, and a silent conversation seemed to transpire between the pair. After a brief moment of silence, before they both looked away.

“You’re right. We won’t be able to pull it off without any help.” The man trained his eyes on Alex. “But if you do this, you will get in trouble for straying.”

Alex returned his gaze. “I don’t care. Bucky risked his life to save mine. I’m willing to do the same for him.”

The man nodded in acknowledgment, a trace of regard in his eyes.

“If the both of you are done posturing, we have to go now.” The female officer spoke, clearing her throat. “I know someone who can take us to the enemy base, but we’ll have to go before anyone catches us leaving.

Alex let the corners of her mouth twitch up slightly. “I’m Alexander Hale.”

“Peggy Carter. Pleased to meet you.”

“And I’m Steve Rogers.” The man picked up the pack and shield(?) at his feet.

Alex frowned at the familiar name.

“Steve Rogers? As in-” Her eyes widened. “YOU’RE THAT STEVE ROGERS?”

~commercial break~

(Lmao jk)

It was actually a good thing that Carter and Rogers decided to allow Alex to tag along. If they didn’t, Alex would have headed to the enemy fortress by herself, distance be damned. The thing was that since half of her rifle was obliterated by a deadly beam of blue light back in Azzano, Alex would have been diving head first into the base with only an old and slightly rusted revolver.

Good thing that wasn’t the case.

Carter supplied her with another rifle that didn’t seem prone to jamming halfway through battle, along with a small-ish knife which might come in useful. Rogers refused any weapons and instead brought a thin, kite-shaped aluminium shield ridiculously decorated with stars and stripes.

(She later learned that it was actually a stage prop and not an actual shield.)

Shortly after Carter had briefed them on the location of the German base and gave them a transponder to contact them for extraction, anti-aircraft guns had started shooting at them. Immediately forgoing the initial plan of letting the plane take them all the way to the enemy base itself, Rogers had bullheadedly decided to jump out of the plane into the surrounding forest instead. It was stupid, since there was a higher chance of getting impaled by a branch hidden by the darkness, but Alex understood that he did it so that the pilot would be able to steer the plane safely out of the enemy airspace.

It didn’t stop her from cussing at Rogers in her head though.

When they finally landed on the ground (Rogers was terrible at steering a parachute), Alex fiercely yanked the man down to the ground as a line of trucks rumbled past. Their breathing felt extremely loud for once, and Alex half thought that the sound would give them away. It thankfully (and obviously) didn’t, but Alex still warned Rogers to stay down low.

She grabbed a fistful of mud from the ground and smeared it all over the shield strapped to his back. The colour had been bothering her for a while now, and the red, white and blue was practically a beacon to any enemy soldiers out there.

“Follow my movements as we head to the base.” She whispered. “Go down when I go down, and only move forward when it’s all clear. Always stay in a crouch, and never stand unless absolutely necessary.”

Rogers nodded wordlessly, but Alex still kept a close eyes on him just in case.

As they moved silently under the cover of the darkness, Alex observed him through the corner of her eye. Rogers moved as if he was used to being small and not to attract attention. There was also a certain...clumsiness to the way he moved. Like a toddler. He still did a good job in hiding his enormous build and bulk though.

Either way, Alex was still confused as to why Bucky had said that she was so similar to Steve Roger. Not in temperament, but physically.

She filed her questions away for later, and there was several moments of tense and almost palpable silence before Rogers spoke up.

“Those trucks were heading to the HYDRA base.”

“Yeah.” HYDRA?

“Think we can hitch a ride?”

Alex stopped abruptly. Rogers didn’t manage to catch himself in time and nearly bumped into her.

“What do you mean ‘hitch a ride’?” She muttered, her brain working a mile a minute.

“There’s another line of those trucks coming up behind us soon. If we manage to get into the one at the back, it’ll save us a lot more time and let us get into the base.”

Alex cocked her head to the side, and sure enough, she could hear a faint rumble of engines coming up through the forest. How did he manage to hear them from so far away? She mulled over his proposed plan for a bit, and shrugged. It should be feasible, and saved them from the later headache of trying to go through the fortified security of the area.

They ducked behind some bushes as the sound of engines grew louder. They waited until the second-last truck barely rumbled past, before Rogers whispered a barely audible ‘Now!’ and they raced across to the back of the last truck, grabbing hold of the back of the cargo bed and hauling themselves under the tonneau.

Alex exhaled, and looked up. Two enemy soldiers stared back at them.

It was to be expected, really.

When the enemy soldiers charged, Rogers automatically went for the one on the right, leaving Alex to deal with the one on the left. Before he could fire, Alex shoved the barrel of his gun upwards and rammed her elbow into his stomach.

The soldier folded in into himself with a groan. She wrenched the gun away from him completely, and slammed the butt of the gun to his head, knocking him out.

Alex's shoulder twinged painfully and she scowled, hoping that the stitching wouldn't come out in the middle of this operation. They were in enough danger as of now, she didn't need her injuries fucking up everything.

Rogers peeked through the gaps between the cloth, the second guard similarly knocked out at his feet. Before tying the two guards up, Alex stripped one of them of their outerwear, putting it on over her old, tattered, blood-stained uniform. She picked up the gun that was dropped, and bile rose in her throat when she recognised the blue gleam on it.

It was the same type of gun which had wiped out more than half of the regiment. It obviously wasn’t the exact same one which had killed her friends, but seeing it up close in her hands suddenly made her think of their agonized screams when they disappeared into dust, the entire battlefield full of the sharp, strong smell of burnt human flesh. Layers of thickened petrol on her hands and face, scorching hot and suffocating, the air so thick with fumes that she was practically choking-

“-ale? Hale?!”

Alex jerked her head upwards, wide-eyed and trembling. The gun in her hands had dropped to the floor again and she was clutching at the bandages on the side of her face. The truck was slowing down, and Rogers was a few inches away from her, a hand outstretched.

Alex jerked away from the concerned hand. “Don’t touch me.” She gripped her hands to stop them from shaking. “Please, don’t.”

The man withdrew his hand immediately, concern etched on his face. Alex turned away. She yanked the guard’s helmet off his head and onto hers, completing her imperfect disguise. The visor in front covered up her bandages completely, which was a relief. She had covered it with camouflage paint to prevent the stark white from showing up in the darkness of the forest, but it would seem more conspicuous in the factory than in the foliage.

“What- why… what are you… doing?” Rogers gestured at Alex’s outfit, the uniform bulging out at awkward places due to the bulk of other clothes underneath.

Alex flipped the visor up, trying to plaster a smile on her face. It looked more like a grimace. “Not sure about you, but I don’t think I would like running around in the enemy base in an American uniform.” She joked weakly, adjusting the helmet.

He was about to open his mouth to reply, but the truck slowed to a stop. They snapped their gaze towards the back of the truck, where a soldier might yank open the tonneau and reveal the two stowaways inside. Rogers took off the shield on his back and slowly slid it onto his arm, moving to the left of the entrance. Alex flanked the right.

They stayed there, waiting, until Rogers tilted his head slightly, as if trying to hear something.

“There’s someone approaching. Just one person though.”

Before Alex could even ask how the hell he knew that, the cloth was pulled open. And Steve Rogers smacked the shield right on the poor guy’s face.

Alex reached out and grabbed the the straps on the man’s uniform before he could fall to the ground. With a grunt, she pulled the unconscious body into the truck as Rogers kept a lookout. After gagging and tying up all three of the soldiers, she jumped out of the truck lightly after Rogers, ducking into the shadows as they swiftly made their way into the depths of the factory.

~

Finding out where the prisoners were kept was so laughingly easy that Alex had a brief thought at the back of her mind that they were walking into a trap. She had distracted a guard in her disguise as Rogers snuck up behind him and grabbed him. The soldier gave them the location in stuttered, broken English, before they left him bound and gagged behind a pile of boxes in a dark corner.

As she fished out the ring of keys that she found from another unconscious guard’s pocket, Alex half thought that a group of enemy soldiers would jump out from several hiding places ad open fire on them.

As Rogers spoke to the P.O.Ws in the cells, Alex tried every single key on the ring to find out which was the right fit. She cursed when her vision blurred slightly and missed the keyhole.

“Hale, you alright?” Rogers asked, his voice low.

“Yeah, it’s just-” She made a noise of triumph when a key finally turned in the lock with a satisfying click.

Alex steadily worked on all the other cell doors as Rogers gathered the soldiers round. There was a diverse mix of Allied soldiers all around, and they murmured quietly amongst themselves to avoid making too much noise.

When she unlocked the final cell, Alex looked up and relief rushed through her at the sight of two familiar faces.

“Dugan! Jones!”

Gabe Jones was the first to recognize her voice. “Alex? What are you doing here? And in that uniform?”

A grin spread across her face as she took off her helmet. “It’s just a disguise. Cap’n America himself wanted to break in to rescue everyone, and I couldn’t just sit still-”

“Christ, kid! What happened to your face?”

Alex scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. “Don’t worry bout it, mostly stupidity on my part.” She scanned the sea of faces briefly. “Where’s Sarge?”

Their expressions changed. Dugan and Jones glanced at each other, their features unreadable.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Before either one could answer, a voice commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

“All right. The tree line is northwest, 80 yards past the gate.” His voice was low and hurried. “Get out fast and give 'em hell. I'll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find.”

“Wait, you know what you're doing?”

“Yeah. I've knocked out Adolf Hitler over 200 times.”

Alex doubted that. Without a word to Dugan and Jones, she silently slipped away after Rogers. He startled when she fell into step with him a few minutes later.

“Do you actually know where to go?”

A pause. “No.”

Alex snorted, before fixing the helmet back over her head. “Guess we’ll have to ask someone again for directions.”

~

Notes:

- Well, shit. Please don't kill me about the terrible update intervals.

- I'm working on trying to be more consistent, and setting proper goals for myself. At the moment, I have to force myself to see that I'm only able to update once a month, although I'm itching to try to finish and upload a chapter every week.

- I got a good friend of mine to beta read for me, and also to provide a fresh perspective into my chapters, so that I can continue to upload quality works for all you wonderful people! (And also cause my tenses need a lot of work)

- However, she's a student, like me. We both have our responsibilities, and I really don't want to pressure her into meticulously reading through this story when she's already stressed out by other things. That's why there might be a slight delay between chapter updates and the like. We're sticking to monthly updates for now, but there might be slight changes when our timetables change or when exams arrive.

- (this is the February update btw)

- I'm also working on a bit of a buffer for between uploads so that if anything happens, at least I'll still be able to upload a chapter for the month!

- Alright, now to talk about the chapter!

- I have to admit, this is not my best chapter, and I really wish that I could edit this better, but the more I look at it, the more I hit a blank wall.

- Having to adhere to movie canon and what actually goes on in the scenes were more difficult than I thought, but I've dug my grave and I'm going to lie in it. It's what I planned on, it's what I'm gonna do.

- (And also because I rewrote this thing three times (not including scene rewrites) and I don't wanna work on it anymore. The more this sits in the 'not uploaded yet' pile, the more I want to sink into my pillows and scream.)

- To be honest, this chapter is more of a filler than anything. Just to establish Steve and Alex's encounter and relationship and impressions of each other.

- In army squadrons, there are different roles for each soldier. Alex is the scout, which is why she knows how to sneak around in a forest undetected. The disguise part is more of a 'done on a whim' sorta thing, but it still works.

- I haven't placed much emphasis on Alex's injuries (burn and shrapnel wounds hurt like a fucking bitch) but they are plot relevant in the series. Not just for the next chapter, but also further on as the story progresses.

- That's about all I have for now! Hope you enjoyed, and hit me up at the ask box for anything you wanna tell me!

- (Also the formatting might be fucked up since I'm doing this on mobile. Will edit properly later on)

Tags:

@mizz-kraziii @cami23593 @beautiful-aravis @buckybarnesneedscuddles @dottirose @katykyll @frittiefries @chipilerendi @fandomsandahintofmagic @jaditestuff @nxxdyh @myrabbitholetoneverland

Chapter 5 Chapter 7

Masterlist

[allisonlegal]

CEO of PT Center Settles Improper Medicare Billing

Geoffrey S. Berman, the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, and Scott J. Lampert, Special Agent in Charge of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, Office of Inspector General’s New York Region (“HHS-OIG”), announced today that the United States filed and settled a civil fraud lawsuit against FUSION PHYSICAL…

CEO of PT Center Settles Improper Medicare Billing was originally published on Allison Legal Law Firm

[mislavthehunter]

The Garrison, morning after the storm

As morning finally came around and the storm stilled, Mislav was pretty sure he might have dozed off now and then, enough to be startled awake when Gwynleve stretched lazily next to him. They must have shifted position during the night, as Gwynleve's side was pressed up against Mislav's back.

“It seems the storm has passed,” Gwynleve yawned, his voice thick with sleep, and Mislav tensed when he felt warm breath on his neck. Gwynleve had turned his head to face him. “I took the liberty to have a horse prepared for you. She is closing in on retirement age in the army, but she is sturdy and strong and will help you carry the order back for you when it is ready. I'll withdraw the sum from your payment, it will not be substantial.”

“Thank you?”

“I figured that if you wish to go south, a good horse would be of great help to you.”

Mislav nodded stiffly. It would be a great help. He stayed very still as Gwynleve got up, climbed over him and sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. He looked up as Gwynleve's hand touched his shoulder.

“Do not worry,” Gwynleve said, the determination clear in his voice. “Soon you will be free of these lands and the burdens you carry. Nilfgaard might demand much, we might leave nothing but ashes while at war, but we do not stand idly by and watch what I have come to understand is blatant abuse of the subjects who are under our protection.”

The two fell silent, and Gwynleve nodded greetings at his quartermaster who had realised he had over-slept and was now panicking, the assistant had left while they slept, and the two guards had been the ones to wake them up as they tried being quiet about donning half their weight in metal. They watched as the quartermaster ran out of the tent, screaming for his assistant and trying to pull his clothes on properly.

“Now that we are alone, I have a proposition,” Gwynleve said, folding his hands and resting them on his knees, ignoring how Mislav stopped breathing. He was not looking at Mislav, just staring straight ahead into the tent-wall. “You have filled our storage well, Mislav. You probably run into the same problem with the village, leathers and furs last, and there is a limit to how much I can justify purchasing. The income will lessen over time.”

“I know,” Mislav said, and tried to move, but Gwynleve was sitting on the bear fur and more or less trapped him inside it. “It's fine. I know how it works.”

“I would still like to help,” Gwynleve said. “I know what you have of value is in the leathers and hides you provide, but you have something else I might be interested in.”

Mislav's head bumped against the headboard as Gwynleve turned and looked down at him. He had been trying to get out from under the furs without jostling the commander.

“You can give me some of your time and company,” he said, smiling gently as Mislav rubbed the top of his head. “Twelve hours, and I'll buy you free from your contract.”

Apparently everything Mislav was thinking could be read plainly on his face, the full range from horror and straight through to blind fear. Gwynleve turned, got off the bed and sat on his haunches beside it so he and Mislav were on the same level.

“Mislav, I hope you know by now that I am not a cruel man, I would never enjoy causing you pain or humiliation. The only reason I do this is that I cannot stand seeing a man living on a slave contract, and you have precious little else to bargain with,” Gwynleve said quietly. “You are fully entitled to say no. I'll let you walk out of here, and we will never speak of it again. We can keep up the current arrangements.”

“I'll owe you, instead,” Mislav said, after clearing his throat a few times. He wrestled himself free of the furs and sat up, un-sticking his shirt from his back. “I know how debts work.”

“No, you will have provided me with company, that would be a proper trade,” Gwynleve said patiently, slowly as if he was talking to a simple person. “Twelve hours of your time is all I ask, and we sever all bonds when you leave. You will be free to go wherever you wish, with the blessing of myself and Nilfgaard. I will provide you with a letter of free passage to any city, and a certificate of identity so you can, for example, get a bank account to store your money instead of leaving it in a garrison. No, I will not be able to take any of it away from you. They will be yours by law.”

Mislav stared at the ground between Gwynleve's feet until his vision started swimming. He could leave White Orchard soon. Perhaps in a few days, if Gwynleve was agreeable. Pack what little he had, pay his debt, and ride off before they could protest. He had calculated maybe two years, if Nilfgaard did not tire of furs. Three, if he had to rely on merchants again.

One night, and he could be free.

“You can back out whenever you wish,” Gwynleve said. “I am not an unreasonable man. If you get even the slightest uncomfortable, say so, and this entire thing will be forgotten.”

“And if they come asking from the village?”

“I will tell them the truth. You provided for Nilfgaard, we paid you, and you gained enough crowns to find your freedom. I will help with the contract, if it is witnessed by me, they cannot claim it falsified or that you did not pay your due.”

Mislav swallowed bile, trying to wrap his mind around it. Twelve hours, and he would be a proper person again. The thought kept spinning around in his mind like a leaf caught in a whirlpool.

“I will let you think about it in peace for a while, I will be inspecting the keep,” Gwynleve said as he put his cape on and strapped on his sword-belt.

When the commander returned half an hour later, it was to find Mislav in the exact same position he had been left in. Mislav had not been able to get his mind working at all towards the problem at hand, his thoughts had been circling the idea that he could be riding wherever he wanted, free of debt and villagers and history, on his own horse and with the good will of a Nilfgaardian commander at his back if he did this right.

Gwynleve just smiled, held the tent flap back, and waited for Mislav to get dressed and join him outside.

“I will not make you decide today,” Gwynleve said, as he and Mislav walked down from the keep to the east gate and the livery stable where Mislav had put his horse up for food, water and a bit of rest through the storm. “Go home and think about it, and if you decide to accept my proposal, bring the contract with you so I may have a look at it. For all we know there could be a clause in it that you have missed. In that case, we will need some lawyers.”

“I'll be back soon enough with the things you need,” Mislav said, deciding to ignore the whole selling his time for freedom idea for now as a stable boy brought his horse out and held the reins, waiting for him to mount her. “What you want on this list is common enough, I'll bring the oil you need to make the cloaks waterproof as well, there will be more storm soon.”

“We would appreciate that,” Gwynleve said as he stepped back, his uniform shining in the morning sun. “Think about my proposal, Mislav. Nilfgaardians keep to their word.”

[altarfated]

⛓

Send ⛓ to capture my muse.THEY WOULD CALL THEM VALIANT,   gifted,  pertained to the revision of their society.  they were christened GOOD people,  defined by the deeds in which their society rewarded them for,  grandiose displays of their prowess, stifling the festering defiance that boiled beneath the surface of a falsified sense of peace.  It dwells within his gaze, holds his lips firm and unwavering, if this world of theirs was so virtuous, sullied not by the hands of depravity, then how was it that he had endured suffering for that ends, to become a hero, to BE what they expected of him. never was he a CHILD perhaps not even a HUMAN but a substitute, a face and name that needed nothing as inconvenient as a sense of self.

Shouto’s gaze rises, catching the contrasting emotions that contorted his friend’s expression. betrayal tasted acetous, he knew that feeling, knew how it corroded one’s insides, knew how it made bile rise in the back of their throat. it had never been an intention of his, to grow close to the students in his class, if anything, it was to prove a point, to resound with the notions of rebellion; to prove to THEM that he would and could be useful.  

             ❝   if  you’re  looking  for  a  reason,  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you.  ❞

it’s dismissive, clamping a firm lid on any sense of comradery that had been fostered between them; smiles and laughter a distant and purposefully neglected memory. he’d never intended to become attached. the restraints hold him secure, even if he was to resist, it would only end with him in incarceration, he was not that foolish.

          ❝   but  if  there  are  things  you  want  to  say,  you  should  say  them.                       it  won’t  be  long  until  that  will  no  longer  be  possible.  ❞

if he said he hated Shouto, then he would accept that without question, for it was to be expected. friendship ? for so long the concept of it had sounded almost foreign to him, to be witnessed beyond the veil of shrowded glass, something he could never become part of, HE WAS NOT OF THAT WORLD, AFTER ALL.

his relationship with the league was nothing short of manipulative, he would use them to attain his goals, they would use him in return, there was nothing that could be misconstrued and yet… within the walls of U.A. high, he’d found something that made him look back on those decisions, question things he’d thought he was always certain of.

there are things in this world that are neither black nor white. those who would call themselves pristine and righteous stained in the same repulsive colour as those they would deem deplorable. perhaps there was no way for Tenya to understand that but in the end, at least this way, he’d no longer have to bite his tongue and pretend as if what had grown between them was anything but fragile and inevitably broken.

[rinrinp42]

Magic Eyes Can Suck

Title: Magic Eyes Can Suck

Author: AO3: RinRin/ @rinrinp42 Rating: Mature (M) Wordcount: 2,061 Prompt: Halloween Event 2018: Prompt #11:'Spirit.’  for @sumigakure Warnings/Notes: Kinda a crossover given that I'm using the Entities from The Magnus Archives, so I'd say some of the general warnings for a horror podcast apply, also, Body Horror, and mentions of torture.

Summary: Madara demands to see his brother.  He does not know what he demands.

“Izuna!” Madara yelped in the middle of the debrief over the falsified mission that exposed a spy with Hashirama.  He finally had put it together, that bizarre, strange voice that had come from the door that should not have been.

The Hokage gave him a concerned look even as Tobirama shot him a venomous one, shut up practically dripping from his eyes.

“Mada, Izuna's dead,” Hashirama said in a concerned tone.  Madara rolled his eyes.

“No, I know that, but,” Madara turned to Tobirama, half angry, half bewildered, “But the door that spoke, its voice was Izuna's, distorted, but his.”

Tobirama closed his eyes.

“Don't do this,” he warned, voice low.

“Tobirama!  You've known Izuna was alive and didn't tell Mada?” Hashirama demanded, voice dripping with reproach.

Tobirama looked between them, eyes calculating.

“He's not what you think,” he finally said, eyes boring into Madara, “Do not ask for him, it won't turn out as you wish.  There is a very good reason he has not visited you.”

Madara scoffed at the warning.

“He is my brother, of course he's what I wish for.”

It was true, all Madara wanted was his brother back.  Being tied to the weird door was fine in the face of his return.  Hashirama clearly understood what with his sad smile.

Tobirama looked at him with pity and reproach.

“I cannot call him, that is not how this works, but I will….send word as I can that he should come.  You will regret this Madara.  I can only hope the rest of us do not.”

With that, Tobirama swept from the room, two ANBU peeling off from the ceiling where they had been hiding to follow him like lost puppies.

A few days passed with no word on Izuna, then a week, then a few weeks.  A month and Madara was no closer to seeing his brother than he was before he knew of his survival.  So Madara did the only logical thing.

He stormed the ANBU building.

One of the younger ANBU, one in a lizard mask, tried to stop him, but he blew past the kid.

“Tobirama!  Where the fuck are you?” he demanded, yelling out the words, “I know you know I'm here!”

The lizard masked kid darted in front of him, but Madara batted the brat away.  He did stop when another ANBU appeared in front of him, rabbit mask looking back at him.

“Lizard, go see Sparrow for healing.  You did well,” the rabbit masked one said, “Madara, Shishou is busy, but given that otherwise you will put all of us in traction, please follow me.”

Madara ignored the rudeness, and the mixture of disdain and sarcasm dripping from her voice and gave a sharp nod.

“Lead on,” he sneered.

She turned sharply and stalked into the building, Madara on her heels.  They slipped from room to room, the rabbit masked girl barely glancing at the scenes they walked past, though Madara grew uneasy at the signs of torture and experimentation.

They stopped in front of a wooden pair of doors.

“Shishou is through here,” she said.

Madara pushed past her, words burning on his tongue.  An involuntary whimper strangled them.  After all, no matter his feelings about Tobirama, it was not every day that he stripped down to a pair of hakama and his mesh top.

It was…. quite the sight, and Madara was just a man.

And then Tobirama glanced over his shoulder at him and quirked an eyebrow.  Moment over, he was back to hating the damn smug bastard.

Madara looked past him and paused.  He was…. he was painting a wooden door.  A spiraling maze in red dominated the unstained wood.  Madara knew Tobirama was more than a bit unhinged, but why would he…

His eyes fell on the body.  The still cooling body that had barely any blood on or around it.  His gaze flickered to the bucket in Tobirama's hand.

He swallowed back the bile.

“It's best not to waste it,” Tobirama said, turning back to the door, “I only need a little under half for this.  After all, blood does not paint nearly as easily or as evenly as, well, paint.”

“Why are you-” Madara paused, trying to swallow and wet is dry mouth, wanting to not croak the words, “what is this?”

Tobirama placed the bloody paintbrush and bucket down and turned to face him.

“You asked for this Madara.  I'm sending word, an invitation to Izuna.”

Madara blanched.

“That, that can't be right,” he stammered, eyes darting around.

“I told you, you'd regret this.  It can end now, I'm not done,” Tobirama said, his voice low and his gaze intense.

Madara swallowed.

“Who was he?” he asked.

“What?” Tobirama frowned at him.

“That man, who was he?”

Tobirama's eyes were darker than he'd ever seen them as he stared at Madara.

“A spy we caught,” the rabbit masked girl said.

Madara nodded, decisive.

“You would have killed him anyway.  I want to see my brother.”

Tobirama stared at him for a moment longer before snorting and turning back to the door.

“Come back tomorrow.  If he's willing, he'll be here.  Not sure when tomorrow, but apparently it doesn't matter.”

The rabbit masked girl tugged his arm.

“Satisfied?” she hissed.

He nodded and followed her out.

That night he dreamt of Tobirama and rooms painted in the blood of everyone he'd ever loved.  Tobirama kept asking if he was sure it was worth it.  Dream Madara didn't have an answer.

The next day he dragged Hashirama with him.  It would be a good way to show the other just how unsuited for peace Tobirama was.  Madara could multitask.

Except when they walked in, the rabbit masked girl was waiting.

“Hokage-sama, Uchiha-san, Shishou has sent this Rabbit to guide you to where our esteemed guest is.  Please follow.”

Rabbit led them a different way, no torture in sight, simply various ANBU training and making plans over maps and reports.  Madara ground his teeth, of course the damn bastard had to neuter his plans.

Finally Rabbit opened the last door and the open area from yesterday was revealed.  The blood painted door was set back in the opposite wall, the blood still a vibrant red as if it were freshly painted though it looked dry.

Tobirama was sitting against one of the walls on the side, dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, scrolls and reports scattered around him. And turning about to take it all in was…

Was Izuna looking just as he had the day Tobirama killed him.  Well, with the exception of the spiral covered blindfold covering his eyes.

“Izuna?” Madara whispered, taking a half step forward.

Izuna turned towards him, head tilting, but said nothing.

Madara started to walk forward, eyes locked on his brother.  Izuna seemed to track him with his missing eyes.

“I can't believe it's you,” Madara choked on the sob trapped in his throat, “I've missed you so much you brat.”

Izuna opened his mouth, and Tobirama pointedly cleared his own throat with an “ahem”

A rueful look crossed Izuna's face even as Madara shot Tobirama a venomous look.

Izuna swallowed and then tilted his head around as if he was working something in his mouth.

“It has been a while,” he finally acknowledged, “But I have my purpose now and visits to those who knew me do not factor in.  Unless you wish to-”

“Izuna,” Tobirama's voice was sharp with reproach.

Izuna turned towards him, a wide grin on his face, “But Archivist, I was teasing.”

Tobirama shot him a look over the scroll full of disbelief.

Izuna huffed, “Fine Archivist, no mentioning of my door.”

“Izuna, I can't, you're here,” Madara reached out.

“I am.  How could I resist?  The Archivist asked so sweetly.” That grin again, the almost unhinged, hungry look.  But Madara ignored it, ignored how Izuna now thought murdering some poor soul and using their blood as paint was “asking sweetly”, ignored how Izuna only called Tobirama by that bizarre title.

He just reached for Izuna.  Izuna pulled slightly back as Madara tried to hug him, an awkward look on his face.

“Izuna?  What's wrong?”. Madara asked, worry in his voice.

“I... don't like to be... hugged,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

Tobirama snorted at that.

“You don't like touch at all Izuna.  Be clear,” Tobirama paused and looked at Izuna, “Well, as clear as you can be.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?!” Madara snarled, taking a step towards Tobirama, his eyes burning with the desire to switch on his sharingan.

Izuna scoffed from next to him, twisting his top in a move that made Madara's back ache in sympathy.

“We can't all be about Truths Archivist.  But thank you for the... reminder.”

Tobirama visibly rolled his eyes, turning back to the scroll.

“Tobirama!  Why can't we be like them!” Hashirama pouted, flopping down next to the younger Senju.

Tobirama ignored him.

“Tobirama!”

“Your order for me to call for Izuna means I am behind on work.  Stop trying to distract me.”

“But Tobi-”

Madara narrowed his eyes at the damn ingracious bastard, even as his hands lashed around Izuna's arms.

The door behind Madara creaked open and he spun, snarl on his lips to confront whichever of the damn murder-pets was disturbing them.

Lizard squeaked at the sight of his sharingan and stumbled back, arm being caught by Rabbit.

Madara sneered, turning back towards his brother and froze.  His breath quickened as his eyes darted all over the, the thing that was standing where his brother had been.

Its body was Izuna's, but stretched out, as if there were extra bones, skin taunt against them.  It had over a foot of height on Izuna, body bowed to keep its head at the same level as Madara's.  It favored standing on its elongated feet as if it were a deer.  The shirt that had fit Izuna well now was both too large and too short, hanging from the thin flesh in places but stopping at the thing's hips.  The pants were no better having become no better than loose shorts.

The extra joints from the extra long bones in its arms meant that the sleeves were too short as well, showcasing the final set of flesh covered long bones perfectly.  A twisted forearm that ended in large, boney hands, as large as the thing’s torso with long thin fingers.

And Sage, the fingers!  The final phalanges were at least double the length of the rest and came to points, pushing out of the skin.

Madara stumbled back, eyes wide as the thing calling itself Izuna cocked its head to the side as if observing him.  It cackled, sharp pointy teeth gleaming pearl-like from the too wide mouth.

Behind it the blood painted door now seemed to be three dimensional.  The twisting spiral maze seemed to be reaching out towards Madara.

He was not aware, but he had started up a litany of “nonono” interspersed with pleas to the Sage, to the Juubi, the Biju, to the oft forgotten gods themselves.

He sunk down to the ground as his back hit the wall.

The thing slinked closer, wide pointed rictus of a grin in place, looming over him.  One huge, pointed hand lifted, talon of a finger pointing at Madara.

Y̸̹̬̏̓̅͠ö̸̘́̈́û̶̬̼̮̹̉́̾ ̴̖̫̝͝ͅw̴̦̙̺͆́i̸͚̎͠s̴̝͕̃̈́h̴̺͔̮̎̍̇ė̶͙̘̻̑͘̚d̵̺̬̣͒ ̶͔̱͚͗́f̵̳̝̾o̵̖͔̒̄r̵͕̐̕ ̷̟̒m̵͕͋͆̍ẽ̵̟̥̤,̷̨̖̦͋͂̓́ ̶̹̤̫̞͒́̕͘M̵͉̫͙̟̓̎͌ấ̴͍̳̬͍d̸̦̞͌̋a̵̝̗͖͗̿͒̈-̸͍̦͂n̵̢̮̜̙̐́̆̆i̸̞̱͗͋͒͂i̷̤͎͂͐̑̉

“Izuna,” Tobirama snapped, and blessed gods and honored Sage the thing moved back.

Tobirama strode in between them, staring down at Madara.

“Anija, take Madara home, now,” he ordered, staring down the Izuna-thing until it backed up more.  He glanced back at Madara, turning from the Izuna-thing.

Madara whimpered as he stared up.  Tobirama had a large, glowing red eye open on his forehead.  Further glowing red eyes claimed positions on each cheek, and his chin.  They lined his throat like a perverse glowing necklace or collar.  Each joint that Madara could see was adorned by yet another glowing red eye.  Extra eyes spread over his chest and stomach, dotted his arms, and, when Madara could gather his courage to look, peered up from the top of his foot.

And each blinked and moved separate of the rest.

Both of Tobirama's normal eyes and the one on his forehead focused on Madara.  There was pity in them.

“Oh Madara, I told you, you'd regret this.”