#and its tiring to see all the infighting when we can barely focus on the actual legislation being put out to ban us

[mueritos]

need to get off twitter because all of the “transmascs dont experience violence and oppression” discourse is rotting my brain....

[deathbyvalentine]

Prompts

Wayward Road - Spy AU

The car was already idling on the curb when she stepped out of the building, glancing over her sunglasses to ensure there were no passersby watching as she climbed in a moment later. The car pulled away quickly and smoothly, the door barely shut as it did so. As soon as she was seated, the woman removed her hat and red wig, tugging her blonde hair out of its confinement to tumble around her shoulders. She took off the lanyard around her neck, tossing it into the glove compartment where it clattered and joined a hundred like it. The sunglasses were removed, and she shrugged off the professional blouse, revealing the casual t-shirt underneath. A quick rub with a handkerchief and the scarlet lipstick painting her delicate mouth was also removed. In less than a minute, she had become a completely different person.

Only when they hit the highway did she relax and finally look over at the driver. Sean had remained quiet during her transformation, knowing the importance of the ritual of it, allowing Ash to slip into the version of herself he knew. When she reached over and stole his flask of coffee, he knew it was safe to approach. 

“Did you get what we needed?” She nodded, holding up a hand to show the small usb drive tucked against her palm. Long gone were the days of smuggling paper files under coats and in briefcases. Stacks of information could be hidden behind a finger. 

“It’s been a while. John reckoned you might have gone native.” She snorted. “Oh yeah, because that’s so like me.” “If it helps, I told him it were much more likely you were dead.” “Correct.” She fiddled with the radio, ignoring his look of displeasure.  “So, who were you this time?” “Amma Hunter. Journalist.” She didn’t even hesitate, or stop to recall. “Old money, getting by on daddy’s cash, not as clever as she thinks she is. Best relegated to being a glorified secretary or celebrity fluff pieces. No need to watch how you talk around her.”  He shook his head. “I will never understand how you keep track.” “Oh, it’s easy once you’re used to it.” She let her head loll back against the headrest and grinned. “It’s not like identity really exists anyway if you don’t have a stable life.” “That’s really fuckin’ depressing, you know that?” “I’ve been told.”

+++++++ Sean and Ashley had met when John had recruited her. You gotta give kudos to a teenager trying to rob someone of his status, especially one that almost managed it. She knew who he was (impressive in of itself) and tried anyway, figuring the rewards far outweighed the risks. No background, no family, no connections - she was perfect for this line of work. It was Sean who had suggested offering her a job. John had only regretted it since when he had been forced to listen to the two of them for more than five minutes.

It hadn’t been plain sailing at first. Ashley seemed comprised purely of thorns, snapping at any question she deemed too personal. Which honestly, seemed to be any question. But when Sean realised this, she relaxed. Soon, something like trust began to grow, not that either of them would ever call it that. Trust, like love, was for children, one of her favourite sayings. 

She often did undercover work, something Sean had never quite got the knack of. He was her fire support, her recon guy, her rescuerer on more than one occasion. Rebekah found the jobs, Izzy tossed them the research, Cordy gave them the tools, John told them what to do and Tammy stitched them back together. They all had their place - Ash thought of Sean as the great sword to her dagger. Same result, different approaches.

Sometimes, he wondered where Ash came from. Her accent was painfully neutral, but sometimes he noticed when they shared a room on a job, nightmares would frequently leave her kicking and moaning in a language he didn’t understand. Plus the fact she was clearly too fucking young to know half the shit she knew and have half the scars she had, and yet. But in this job, everyone had stuff. You didn’t dredge it up. 

She didn’t ask about his military service, he didn’t ask about the nightmares. An unspoken deal.

Synstrid Coffee Shop AU

The girl dashed inside, out of the thunderstorm, rain dripping from the ends of her pink hair. Her dress clung to her skin, making her shivering even more apparent. She was not dressed for the weather in the slightest, her legs bare and the sequined jacket she was wearing was clearly more for effect than any warming qualities. She could have just stepped out of an endless summer. Syn stood behind the counter, pausing in her wiping down before closing. 

There are moments in life that sometimes seem scripted. Where you can picture it as a scene in a movie perfectly. The soft focus warm lights of the coffee shop. The plinky piano music providing background music. The way she tossed her hair  - the camera would zoom in on the rain drops scattering like stars. Syn did not believe in fate, or destiny, or any of that crap. Which was lucky, because Astrid did, wholeheartedly. 

Astrid approached the counter and began chattering immediately. “Hi. I know you’re like about to close, but I needed to get out the rain and charge my phone, and I was just DRAWN to this place, you know? It was like a beacon in the dark.” She barely paused for breath, eyes resting on Syn’s face. Her eyes were green, and it was hard to tell if they were as unnatural as her hair. “I’m Astrid. By the way. I know you didn’t ask but I can already tell we’re going to be friends.” She reached out and shook Syn’s hand - her skin like ice. 

Against her better judgement, Syn felt a flash of concern. “Right. I’m Syn. Flip the door sign to closed and sit down. Don’t touch anything. I’m getting you a towel, a hoody and a cup of tea. Fifteen minutes, then out, alright?” She rolled her eyes at the grin Astrid gave her. Just her luck that the mad girl would come in on her shift.

Diesel and Devotion

It would be soon. He could feel tug in the back of his mind like a fishing line, insistent. He wouldn’t go though. Not yet. He was putting his territory in order. He had burnt the propaganda posters that had once coated his room, all traces of Liberator Diesel gone. It felt like a relief. He didn’t have to look at the failed idol, the disappointed expectation. For the first time in a while, he could be himself. 

Not that he was truly himself of course. But then, he never had been. Diesel was a man who’s mind had always been moulded by other people. The Combine. The Industrioclasts. And now, he had asked someone to do it, to switch conditioning so Petrol could finally be the person he was meant to be. Who cared if Vector was unhappy? Certainly not Vector himself.

He wasn’t looking forward to the Nexus. He would die or he wouldn’t. Either way he would have to sit inbetween the infighting he didn’t give a single fuck about any more, explain himself to people who wouldn’t understand over and and over, and watch the universe move on, leaving him behind.

But Devotion would be there. He didn’t have the vocab to describe what she was to him. He wanted to impress her, terrified of disappointing her, but only by his own standards. He wanted to be close to her, but calling her comrade or sister felt cheap somehow, applying a Combine filter onto a relationship that didn’t exist within it. He was tired. What he wanted more than anything was to sit with her, watching the others, and wait for a final morning to dawn. No pressure. No obligations. Just quiet company.

Pain - WR

Her body was a patchwork of scars. The one above her knee from where her leg had broken and the demon had stood on it, pressing down. The one on her hip from a vampire’s teeth. The long scratches down her back from a wolf. So many others. Only her face had managed to get away unscathed, and she couldn’t help but wonder for how long. Then of course, there was the bits you couldn’t see. That she ignored. 

They came out when she slept, usually. Nightmares that woke her kicking, drenched in sweat, unable to breathe. Sometimes it was of dark, shadowy things touching her. Sometimes it was of things that actually happened. Sometimes it was things about to happen. Sometimes it was things she was terrified would happen. Sometimes it was all of those things. 

She told herself she contained it to when she slept, but that was plainly untrue. She saw things that weren’t there, or maybe were, but couldn’t tell the difference between the two. Her mind and the thin reality of the real world were in constant competition. She couldn’t stand to be touched because of the visions that might slam into her head but also because it felt too naturally intimate, too close. Her temper flared too often for it to be normal, she drank too much and slept too little.

Tonight, she woke up remembering how it felt for her leg to snap under a pair of claws, like it was nothing more than a twig. She jolted up just as she heard the crack, chest heaving. Kara was still asleep beside her, breathing even and soothing. The room was dark, lit only by the street light filtering in. In the corner, she saw Violet, silent and almost hidden in the shadows. As usual. Ash pulled the duvet over her head, as if it would keep out the bad things. She had long ago learnt it wouldn’t.

Red - Sharp Objects. Trigger Warning for abuse.

My bad childhood grew inside me like a tumour, pressing against my spine. It was in my blood as I matured, blossoming like some ugly flower. I would never be rid of it. It would not be scrubbed or burnt or let from me. Not that I didn’t try. My skin told stories about how hard I had tried to wipe myself clean. I would always be waiting for the moment it conquered me completely and decided to jump to the next victim. 

Amma didn’t catch it from me, but she caught it from momma. I could see it growing in her too, though she wore it much better than I did. She let it strengthen her spine, keeping her up tall, not stooping her over. She didn’t even know she was diseased. She was biological warfare, unafraid of the hurt inside her. She had found ways to rip it out, take it outside, make it the world’s problem.

There were similarities between us. Her lips were the same shade of cherry red as my cuts. She tilted her head the same way, eyes just as adept as mistruth. She wasn’t so much my mirror as my shadow. Or maybe I was hers? Darker, quieter, always following.

I love her more than I love myself, though that isn’t too hard. The way she could externalise hate, I externalised love. I loved a lot of broken things, it was the only way I could think of to love myself.

Tommy&Jane/Guardians

He leaned his elbows on the smooth wooden counter, flipping idly through a catalogue of the latest magical ingredients, occasionally highlighting something that could potentially be useful for his kit. The shop was empty, lit up by golden evening light and dust. It was one of his infrequent visits back to the UK, to check on Jones, check on the Guardians and visit his biological family. The rest of the time he was in Kos, with Asclepius. Resting before the next inevitable crisis. He covered a few shifts in the magic shop to keep himself busy, keep him from thinking too much. 

There was nobody else in the shop apart from Jane. They had worked mostly in companionable silence, her putting away some books in the forbidden section. Now though, she came through, holding a tray filled with two mugs of tea smelling of flowers and herbs. She set one in front of him, the slight click of ceramic against the wood. He nodded his thanks and went back to his catalogue, but Jane didn’t move.  “How are you doing?” “Fine. Business is kinda slow.” “I didn’t mean about the shop darling.”  “Oh.” He finally looked up, pushing up the glasses on his nose with a thumb. “Um. The world isn’t immediately ending. Jones isn’t immediately dying. Michael isn’t dead, A isn’t dead so I guess I haven’t got much to complain about.” Jane tilted her head, long silky hair slipping off her shoulders. “You do realise that not being in immediate life threatening danger and fine are not the only two states you’re allowed to be in?” “Yes.” “Then maybe act like it?” She sat carefully on one of the overstuffed armchairs, holding her own cup of pink coloured tea. “You look tired.” “I’ve not been sleeping too well.” He rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, avoiding eye contact.  “Let me guess. Waiting for something bad to happen?” She nodded, sipping at her tea. “Happens to us all. Why do you think Michael was like Michael was? Drinking and sex is a good a way to cope as any. How are you coping?” “Um. Not like that?” As in, he wasn’t, not really.  “You need to find something. You’ll end up a bit mad otherwise.”

 She placed her mug down on the side table, fingers going up to fiddle at the necklace nestled between her collarbones. Tommy was suddenly struck with how caring she actually was, hiding it under a veneer of snark and cleverness. She cared about the new guardians. For some reason, he thought the four would be all too eager to ditch them and go and live their lives they had been denied for so very long. She hadn’t done that. He remembered how it felt to hug her, all caring and no expectation. He wished he could have asked for another one, but his odd pride wouldn’t let him. He wasn’t quite sure what had happened to his softness, his lack of shame for his love of affection. Now he felt constantly guarded, like he needed act constantly. “What did you find?” She laughed, beautifully. “Love. Family. Books, actually. Leaning is quite a good one when you’ve got centuries to spare. I wouldn’t rely too hard on your family though. I’ve seen what they turned Michael into.”  “Fair point, well made.” “Don’t... Just don’t force yourself to not enjoy things because you’ve got a responsibility. You’re allowed to love things.” He thought of Mae, shouting at him for not giving up Asclepius. “Sure. Might want to tell the others that.”  “Fuck the others.” She smiled, picking up her tea again. “Do what makes you happy and save the world.”

Getting one’s soul back

The hall was stiflingly hot. Sweat dripped down the small of his back and from his hairline. He resisted the urge to wipe it away, keeping his eyes cast down onto the floor in front of him. His knees ached from the kneeling on the uneven stone floor, his neck from looking down. The throne in front of him was still empty. He had lost count of how long he had been waiting.

There was a dreadful scraping noise as the door behind him was dragged open. Footsteps began to cross the floor, slowly. When he next dared to glance upwards, the demon was one the throne. It had thick black fur, matted and dense. The head of a great big bull, eyes filled with yellow malicious intelligence, horns curving upwards with a wicked point. A leg draped casually over one of the arms of the grey throne, ending in a hoof. The Minotaur tilted it’s head, surveying him. 

“So, the time has come.” “Yes sire.” “Ten whole years.” “...” “And a chance for renegotiation.” Idly, it clicked a finger, sending something scurrying from the shadows, bleeding and pathetic, holding a pile of letters and papers. He flicked through until he found the page he was looking for. “So, what can you offer me for the return of your soul? Traditionally offerings have revolved around blood, memories, other people’s souls... But I’m a modernist. I’m open to more.” “With all due respect sire. I would not like to renegotiate. You can keep it.”

There was a long, long pause. “Well. You have surprised me. May I inquire to the reasons why?” “Frankly...” He considered, shifting on his knees, before the Minotaur impatiently gestured for him to stand up. “I’ve found it easier without it. Making all my decisions just about what feels physically good. It’s simple, but in a nice way.” The demon huffed a laugh, amused. “Well, maybe you humans are finally cottoning on to what we’ve known for millennia.” It adjusted the pile of papers. “So what will you give me to not return it?” “Wait, what?” “You’ve weaked your negotiating position. Now you have to work to continue enjoying your life. Go on. I’m listening.”

Distant thunder and the smell of rain

Her skin was drenched, covered in goosebumps and feeling electric. There was nothing like this, nothing at all. The awareness of her body, the burning of her hot blood, the feeling of skill. She hauled herself further up, feeling the edges of rugged rock cut into the pad of her feet, soil grinding underneath her nails. She could imagine all too much what it would feel like to fall, the splinter of bone and snap of muscle. The thrill, the risk sent shivers of more than cold up her spine. 

Finally, Canyon made it to the top. There was a ridge, perfectly made for someone to sit, dangling their legs over the seemingly expanse below. It would be so easy to slip over and experience flying, just for a moment. She sat, careless, excited. And took a breath. Her hands fiddled with the nubs of horns beginning to appear as she meditated on the landscape, the occasionally flames jumping out, unbothered by the rain.

There were mists and darkness curling in the air, obscuring and revealing with each of the breaths of wind. If you closed your eyes, you could pretend or maybe just hear the wind telling you stories. She could hear it in Abyss’s voice, deep and echoing with the weight of past knowledge. Everything was so fragile. That’s what made everything so strong. 

Her eyes were drawn to the horizon. The flashes of lightning, the deep deep rumbling of thunder you could feel in your bones. She wondered if the storm would ever make it here, whether she would ever stand in the rain and thunder and dance, letting the water wash everything that didn’t matter away.

She hoped so. She really did.

who is responsible for your thoughts

Melanie sat back in her chair and took a furtive glance around before putting her feet on her desk, stretching back. Today was a long shift. She couldn’t help but hear her mother’s childhood warnings about her eyes going square on days like this. Spending her entire shift looking at constantly updating monitors and making notes. They didn’t put this on the recruitment posters, the unglamorous side of being a GeneCo scientist.

On the screen, the clones lounged on the sofas in the central room. They stood out starkly, their white scrubs on the black cushions. On the next monitor, words scrolled, white on a black screen. Mostly, they were observations about the clones or the room or hunger or thirst. Occasionally, and these were the ones Melanie noted down, there were thoughts about deeper things. Emotion. Life. Their connections with the other clones. 

Whenever there was a thought about way lay beyond the compound they were in, that’s when she idly pressed a button, wiping it off the screen. On the video feed, a clone would look briefly confused, but then carried on, a new string of thoughts beginning to scroll on the text monitor. This was how you trained them not to want more. Not to want to explore or change or see anything but the rooms they were surrounded by.

Melanie wasn’t particularly troubled by the ethical implications of her job. After all, it wasn’t like clones were real people. They were made for this, trained for this. They didn’t need their free thinking minds - they were never going to do anything with them anyway. It wasn’t their minds that was important. It was their organs. 

The stolen painting/the last of it’s kind

The two girls sat in front of the painting, chins to hands, contemplating it in silence.  “So what do we do with it?” Tess finally broke the silence, leaning back to look over at Zubeeda.  “I’m not entirely sure. I honestly didn’t think we’d pull it off.” “What did you think would happen??” “Oh, I didn’t think we’d get arrested or anything like that. I just figured we’d end up tripping the security system and fleeing into the night, that sort of thing.” “Good to know you had faith in us.” Tess muttered, turning her attention back on the painting.

She wasn’t so sure what made it special. It was pretty, sure, a landscape of somewhere in Wales. There was a lake, and trees, and a sky filled with delicate clouds. But what made it different from the thousands of other pastoral landscapes that filled every art gallery she wasn’t sure. She didn’t really get art, as a general rule, and this was no exception. 

It hadn’t even been particularly difficult to steal. In through the backdoor of some old guy’s house, all glass and chrome. His kitchen was probably worth more than Tess’s entire house, maybe even street. It made her feel a hell of a lot less guilty about looting him. She was confused by Zubeeda’s direction to ignore jewellery and watches and wallets though, heading straight for the unassuming painting hanging over the huge fireplace. But Tess had long gotten into the habit of listening to Zubeeda’s instincts and she wasn’t about to stop now.

She also hadn’t questioned it when Zubeeda had pulled several tubes of rolled up canvas from her bag and tossed it to the flames, watching the fire hungrily devour the fuel. After that they worked quickly, lifting the frame, removing the painting and carefully putting it inside a protective roll.  “I think I know a guy.” Zubeeda stood, putting her silky black hair into a high pony tail. “And I had a tip off that this artist is super rare. His prices are about to go through the roof.”