#pointy enough to imply violence? check

[letsduneit]

i just think they should have let feyd rautha pop his pussy a bit more and whip out some of these fuckers as part of his signature emo look

[daresplaining]

Mattea Murdock, the Daredevil Drummer of Philly

In celebration of the forthcoming new Spider-Punk: Arms Race series (not to mention Hobie stealing scenes in "Across the Spider-Verse" last year), I wanted to finally write up my long-overdue overview post on Mattea Murdock! If you haven't read her introductory run yet, check it out here.

Mattea truly stands on her own in the wide canon of alternate universe DDs. She is a female Daredevil, she is Latina, and she somehow managed to escape Marvel's NYC gravity and base herself in Philadelphia, where she defends its citizens from violence and exploitation. Hobie and his self-styled Spider-Band encounter her in Spider-Punk (2022) #3, when they make a detour to fix the busted Spider-Van. They are all immediately-- and correctly-- impressed.

Mattea: "Yo, Kam!" Hobie: "Wait, you know each other?!" Kamala: "Duh! You think I wouldn't know the Daredevil Drummer of Philly?" Hobie: "You're a drummer too?" Mattea: "Best in town." Hobie: "Oh man, my friend Gwen is a pretty dope drummer too. I think y'all would definitely get along." Mattea: "Hope they're ready to get outplayed by a pretty, blind girl." Spider-Punk vol. 1 #3 by Cody Ziglar, Justin Mason, Jim Charalampidis, and Travis Lanham

I talked a little about her killer character/costume design when she was first introduced (I was a fool; of course she's blind), and my love for her look has only grown. It's badass, distinctive, and it slots her beautifully into Hobie's punk rock world while still evoking that trademark Daredevil image (red, sticks, pointy bits...). Her irises are red, which is a visual choice I enjoy in more heightened, fantastical DD stories/art styles, and I think it works for Mattea. Heck, I could even imagine them being colored contact lenses she's chosen to wear for the aesthetic. Also, one detail that wasn't in the previews is the fun little laughing devil face on the back of her jacket (I'm not punk rock enough to get the reference if it is one, but it reminds me of Darkdevil):

Of course, always a big priority for me is Daredevil's power-set, and Mattea provides a quick primer on her unique perspective, mostly focused on hearing and the radar sense:

Mattea: "What? You think just 'cause I'm a blind girl, I can't see? Echolocation, my abuelas used to call it. But it's more intimate. Instinctual. Can hear a kick drum from ten blocks away. Can see it too. If I think hard enough, I can even see what the garage it's being played in looks like." Hobie: "Yo, are you doing it right now?" Riri: "She's definitely doing it right now."

This is not my favorite description of Daredevil's powers, nor-- to be honest-- a particularly informative one. She can gather spatial information through walls...from ten blocks away? I also never love an overuse of visual language in any explanation of these powers, especially as it's implied that Mattea, like Matt, is completely blind. Surprisingly, no direct mention is made here of the hypersenses as a whole, beyond the reference to hearing a kick drum from ten blocks away. Even her hearing doesn't receive that much attention in the story overall, which feels like a missed opportunity for such a musical character. Her blindness, too, is pretty much irrelevant to the story, and never comes up again. But I do LOVE that she uses the term "echolocation", though is still very clearly the radar sense, in all its vague, undefined, semi-magic glory.

And visually? This is great. I'm always a fan of the cross-hatching visual, especially against a black background, and artist Justin Mason doesn't go too overboard on the detail, which is another preference of mine. And thematically, I love the ways in which Mattea's drummer identity is tied into her superheroics-- not just for laying a beatdown on bad guys, but also for channelling and enhancing her echolocation/radar sense. One of my favorite scenes in the comic is when she plays a drum solo on a roof edge to scope out the Kingpin's lair. I'm willing, in that moment, to ignore any gripes about radar sense irregularities out of respect for the coolness and thematic heft of the concept. I mean, this rocks:

Mattea: "Come on, show me the good stuff."

At the end of the day, though, this is not a Daredevil comic and Mattea is not the main character. Plus, it's only five issues long, and introduces a bunch of other new characters as well. There was only ever going to be room for the creative team to offer a cursory introduction, hopefully generating enough interest to prompt these characters to appear again in other comics. In that, I think they fully succeeded with Mattea; we get a cursory sense of her powers (or at least, enough to show that they're the normal DD set), her personality (delightfully cocky, playful, tough, fearless), a few hints of her backstory, and some truly kickass fight scenes. There's a bit of suspension of disbelief required to believe she can use drumsticks as a stand-in for billy clubs (unless her drumsticks are made of something really hefty-- and hey, maybe they are), but this is Spider-Punk. Hobie killed Norman Osborn with a guitar--twice. It's not about realism, it's about style.

Mattea: "Been waiting for this for a long time, Fisk. Real long time." Fisk: "I'm going to break you, li'l girl--AWGGH!" Mattea: "Big, strong man who sends out his band of wackos to push over people too weak to fight back." Fisk: "Wouldn't get too cocky, girlie...you're not the only one who's fast! I'm gonna hurt ya. A lot. Then I'm gonna kill ya. And I'm gonna love every second of it. You know, this is the same look you had when I had your old band clapped a few years back. I like it. Brings out your eyes--GAAAH!" Mattea: "There's something you need to understand about me, papi. I'm not the kinda girl who goes down without a fight."

I can't wait to see more of Mattea and learn more about her, her world, her friends, and her enemies. In particular, she seems to have a history (possibly romantic?) with this world's Kamala Khan, and I would love to see more of that relationship. While Mattea Murdock clearly has a lot in common with Matt Murdock, she also seems happy to be a team player, unlike Matt, and I really enjoy that. Though I guess it's not that surprising a distinction. After all, every drummer needs a band.

[gilverrwrites]

Meet Cute Uglies

GN!Reader/Black Mask, ≈800 words >[Bruce | Dick | Jason]<

CWs: Swearing, implied threats of violence, mentions of: cheating & messy break ups, vandalism.

There’s a hostage situation taking place with Joker down at the peer, no cop is gonna care about a tiny bit of vandalism. At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you thread your keys through your fingers and ‘casually stroll’ across the street towards your ex’s car.

The lying POS had been cheating on you the whole relationship, sneaking around with the one co-worker he’s told you not to worry about, taking them on dates and fucking them in your shared bed when you were out of town. You’d wanted to keep the break-up amicable, if only to avoid the stress, but he’d been set on making it as messy as possible; airing your dirty laundry, trying to turn your friends and family against you, showing up at your work and causing problems until you snapped and told him that if you ever saw him again; you’d make him regret it.

It had been weeks since you’d last seen him, so you were pretty certain he’d gotten the message. Until today, when you’d spotted his car parked up outside your apartment building. You’d done a double take at first, but no, that was definitely his car. You could recognise it a mile away, a black 79 Mustang, it was a rarity in this day and age, his pride and joy, and it made a very satisfying CREEEAK noise as you dragged the tip of your key along the driver's side door. A sadistic sort of joy washes over you as you circle the vehicle twice over, destruction in your wake, but it’s not enough, not yet. You’re two letters into carving the word ‘CHEATER’ on the bonnet when a voice calls out to you, stopping you cold.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The voice does not belong to your ex. It’s angry, gravelly, Gothamite through and through, and kinda sexy, but you don’t turn to look at them. If it’s a cop, you’re already busted, and if it’s anybody else they should mind their own business.

“Keep walking.” You instruct as you continue on with your masterpiece.

“I don’t fucking think so.” The voice is closer now, you can sense the presence of its owner close behind you, close enough to touch you. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you the golden rule of Gotham?” You ask, making light work of the ‘A’. As you move on to the ‘T’ you wonder if you can make it look like a penis. “If you see something; No, you didn’t.”

“I think the only person that needs to be taught a lesson here, is you.” And then he grabs you, a firm, leather-clad hand clutching onto your upper arm and spinning you around to face him. Your keys clatter on the hood of the car.

“What the fuck is your prob- ” Your sentence is cut short as you comprehend who you’ve been arguing with, who currently has you locked in the palm of his hand. It’s an unseemly sigh up close, the mask, skull-shaped and pointy. Its expressionlessness only serves to strike more fear into your heart, but what the hell does Black Mask care about you vandalising your ex’s car for, it’s not like he hasn’t done worse things for less.

“My problem…” He jerks you closer, using your captured arm as leverage until you’re pressed against his chest, his mask inches from your face. Up close he smells like wood and smoke, like fine whisky. “is that’s my car.”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“No.” It’s a stupid, instinctual response. Your brain is trying to deny your impending doom. If only the ground would open up and swallow you, that would probably be less painful than whatever he has planned. He nods, pointing at the license plate which you hadn’t checked in your moment of rage, and you struggle to peek at it over your shoulder. “I’m sorry?”

It’s a pathetic little squeak of an apology, a pointless plea for leniency that makes him laugh. “Oh, you’re sorry huh?”

“Yeah, see, I didn’t know it was your car. I thought it was my ex’s and he’s such a jerk and… you don’t care.” He neither confirms nor denies, he just continues holding you close. You can see steely eyes boring into you through the eye holes of his mask. “Are you gonna shoot me?”

He laughs again, realising your arm. Before you can make to leave, he presses forward, caging you between his body and the aesthetically destroyed car. Somehow the new position makes you feel just as trapped but more relaxed than the previous. “Haven’t decided yet.”

You’re not sure what he’s debating between, you’re not sure you want to know, but you ask anyway. “Why?”

“Been a long time since anyone had the guts to talk to me like that. It’s cute.” He’s nodding at you, or maybe to himself. “I’m kinda into it.”

[insomnikat-mused]

Prelude to the storm

Kakashi is no stranger to death. But then, he’d never seen death look quite so… provocative.

KakaSaku 1.4K. Prompts @whumptober day 25 "Lost Voice" and @kkskevents day 1 "Swapped".

CONTENT WARNING: Film Noir AU, which means some blood and implied violence + referenced canon death.

Story under the cut.

--

Five hours had passed since the asset missed her check-in.

At the start of the sixth, Hatake Kakashi and two others infiltrated the building. Bring her back, the Lord Fifth had ordered before sending them on their way. In one piece, preferably.

It was an unusual request given the nature of their operations, but Kakashi had nodded in confirmation. He wasn’t paid to question. And honestly, he didn’t care.

To be an S-rank first-responder took a certain kind of character. A particular combination of talent, experience, and drive to routinely volunteer for such assignments; and a certain degree of madness to do so without carrying a loaded weapon.

On paper, Kakashi had it all— the perfect cocktail of skills and crazy. Everyone worth a damn knew it.

That’s why, when S-rank missions go south, they bring him in. When the target’s still hot but the body counter’s started. When all bets are off but someone still needs to go in and call it:

Terminate or salvage. Takeover or sweep.

Kakashi doesn’t do rescue missions. He executes damage control. And though 'Closer' is not a name he’s fond of, he finds it far more preferable to 'The Cleaner'.

--

Not more than a few meters into the building, Kakashi picked up the scent of blood. Silently hand-signaling his intent to the others, he split from them to investigate the secondary hallway.

It does not take him long to stumble onto the first body.

Kakashi knelt down beside the man and raised a brow, intrigued. Blood had pooled and soaked along a long cut across the man’s back. The slash was clean. Precise. Intentional. The wound wasn’t deep enough to do any serious damage, but it wasn’t skin-deep either. If this man lived, it would sting for weeks and would leave a permanent mark.

A nasty looking bruise bloomed on the man’s temple from where he’d been knocked unconscious. Kakashi placed a hand near the open mouth and confirmed a weak breath. Incapacitated, not dead, but— unfortunately for the man— not his objective.

Kakashi stepped over him and continued down the dimly lit hallway, following the trail of similarly wounded, similarly incapacitated men like scattered breadcrumbs.

A broken light flickered ominously.

As he rounded a corner, the scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils. Bullet holes riddled the far wall— never a good sign. His pulse quickened as he stealthily approached what looked like the gilded double-doors of a nightclub and peered inside.

A woman stood alone at the bar surrounded by bodies.

(The memory flooded his mind before he could suppress it: Rin’s face, stricken with horror, staring at him in disbelief. Blood spilt from her lips as she stuttered his name. She’d touched the gaping wound in her chest before her legs buckled. And though they, too, had been surrounded, Kakashi dropped the smoking gun that had been in his hand and caught her.

He’d held her frightened gaze as she’d died… as the guilt and the darkness consumed him.

He’d never held a gun again.)

Kakashi blinked. At first glance, the woman propped against the bar did look similar in age and build. Auburn hair. Lithe but athletic. Young— all creamy smooth skin and lean muscles. He’d be surprised if she’d seen twenty-four years yet.

(Rin hadn’t.)

The kid had been dolled up to look older though: full red lips and thick eyeliner. Her body fitted with a lacy black mini hugging all the right curves. The look screamed nubile. The look screamed ripe for the taking.

And judging from the bodies sprawled around the room, men had certainly tried.

The flimsy dress was now torn at the sides. Strappy stiletto heels were draped over a nearby chair, blood dripping from their pointy ends. Strands of hair clung sweaty to her neck and face but even in her dishevelled state, he could tell she was a veritable bombshell.

Kakashi swallowed. He was no stranger to death. But he’d never seen death look so… provocative. He took a deep breath and pushed the doors open slowly.

Eyes the color of poison darted up and glared at his entrance. She leaned into the bar for support and a low growl escaped her— two parts warning, one part pained— as one hand curled defensively over a bullet wound in her shoulder.

A single blade glinted in her hand like a fang. She was wounded but she still had fight, and the air around her resonated danger.

“Easy,” said Kakashi, hands raised in placation. “I’m here to help.” He gave the med kit in his hand a little jiggle and hoped she recognized it for what it was.

She did. But instead of lowering her blade, she pointed it at him expectantly. Her posture remained tense and alert.

In a low but clear voice, Kakashi recited his identification phrase: “I come for the fall harvest.”

He watched her eyes widen with understanding. A bitter, mocking sound wheezed from her lips as she shook her head in seeming disbelief. Under any other circumstance, he’d have not accepted a response from her other than the confirmation phrase given to him: I sowed the seeds in spring.

Instead, auburn hair was yanked off— a wig! —revealing shoulder-length hair a shade of red so pale, it was pink. The blade was lowered. And in a final attempt to identify herself, her hands moved to sign the following letters: A. N. B. U.

Well, shit. “You’re the asset.”

She snorted and limped towards a nearby stool. Green eyes scrutinized him as she sagged into it and waited for his next move. He had no doubt that she was scanning and assessing him as quickly and thoroughly as he of her.

From what he could see, there were at least five shots in her: one gunshot wound to her shoulder, another on her upper-left thigh, two shots of whiskey judging from the empty tumblers sitting next to the bottle beside her, and one ANBU-issued serum shot. There was simply no other way to explain how she was able to dispose of so many men and still be conscious.

He watched the way she leaned onto the bar to refill a glass, her breathing labored but controlled, and he added a broken rib to her list of likely injuries.

As he crossed into her personal space, his eyes narrowed. The red skin on her arms and neck were telling. The first signs of bruising bloomed around her throat. He had no doubt that, later, it would fill into the shape of a hand.

She was raising the glass of numbing, amber-colored alcohol to her lips when Kakashi blocked her and shook his head.

She glared, angry, and angled her neck for him to take a better look at the bruises.

Someone had succeeded in getting close to her. Not enough to stop her, but enough to leave his mark and shake her. From the corner of his eye, he saw the slight tremble in her hand.

Kakashi swallowed down the bile that rose to his mouth and shook his head again, more vehemently. “Hold on.” From his med kit, he produced a pill and wordlessly handed it to her.

Without being told, she downed it with the whiskey and coughed.

“I’m going to check your wounds now,” he said, looking down at the one on her shoulder. “If that’s okay?”

No answer was not a no, so Kakashi worked, quick and discreet— bandaging enough to slow the bleeding but not enough to inhibit mobility. For now, he needed her able to move. The fixing and the healing would come later.

He’d just secured a splint to her thigh when her body slumped into the bar, head tucked into her arms.

“Hey.” Kakashi lifted her back up and snapped his fingers sharply beside her ear. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound but they were unfocused, unable to lock onto his questioning gaze. “Still with me?”

A smirk curled the edge of her lips and, for a moment, he’d swear she’d eyed him accusingly.

Did she see through his lie?

It didn’t matter in the end. The sedative made her eyes fall closed. Her body went limp. And he exhaled with relief. Finally. “I’m sorry.”

From the gilded double door, a soft scratch was followed by an even softer ‘woof!’ It was the signal. Time to move.

Kakashi slid one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. “I’m going to carry you,” he explained gently to the unconscious woman in his arms, “because you’re valuable. And it will cost me dearly if you’re damaged further.”

--

A/N: I'm considering making this a full-fledged story. What do you think?

[recurring-polynya]

@trulytaka​ asked: um i’ve always dreamt about a tattoo artist!renji falling for a client AU. it’s okay if you can’t come up with anything, just a suggestion!

How is it even possible that I have never read a Tattoo Artist! Renji AU?? (If there is one, please, send it to me immediately). Anyway, I got way too enamored of this idea, this is not even remotely a drabble, it is 4400 words and it is incredibly self-indulgent, I am absolutely not sorry.

It takes place in America and everyone is Japanese-American, because I am way more comfortable writing about American tattoo culture. I have never actually read a Tattoo Artist AU, I don’t know how they are supposed to go, this is just based on my own experiences getting inked. It’s mostly a story about Rukia and Renji being incredible nerfballs, there are not nearly enough stories about Rukia being a nerfball around Renji.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

💀     🛹     💕

Izuru Kira found Renji Abarai in the break room, simultaneously trying to cram a burrito into his face and read a Hellboy comic. He was holding the comic open with his elbow in an attempt to avoid spilling guacamole on Abe Sapien.

“Your two o’clock is here,” Izuru informed his distinguished colleague.

“Oh, great!” Renji replied, creasing the foil wrapper into a spout so that he could pour the last of the salsa drippings into his mouth.

“She’s waiting in the consult room,” Izuru went on, watching Renji toss the crumpled foil ball across the room, completely missing the trash can. “Look, have you met her before? A Miss Kuchiki?”

“Just exchanged a few emails,” Renji replied, as he scrubbed his hands at the sink. “Why? Is she scary?”

“Not in the usual way of Abarai clients,” Izuru replied. “I was just… wondering if she was... in the right place.”

“Her request was very specific,” Renji replied, scooping up his comic and the manila folder underneath it. “In fact, I am quite proud of what I came up with for her.” He whipped the folder open.

Izuru stared at it for a moment. “That is so specific.”

“I honestly think this is one of the best tatts I have ever designed. I hope she’s a real weirdo, because not just anyone deserves a masterpiece of this caliber.”

“Mmm,” Izuru agreed. “Yeah. Anyway, if there’s been a, uh, miscommunication, see if you can just… redirect her. Both Momo and I are in today, okay?”

Renji scoffed and stuffed his comic in Izuru’s hand as he marched down the hall toward the consult room. A miscommunication. Renji wondered what was wrong with her. She was probably mousy and wore glasses. Izuru always assumed girls like that would rather have a sad poem about the sea or a sprig of herbs inked on her wrist (conveniently, his specialties). Plenty of mousy girls with glasses would rather rock some fangs or dripping daggers, in Renji’s professional experience.

“Knock knock!” he announced, as he slid the door open. He took one step into the room and stopped dead.

Rukia Kuchiki was not mousy. She did not wear glasses.

Renji didn’t know much about suits. He did not happen to own one himself. But he guessed that Rukia Kuchiki’s suit was expensive, in part because it fit her perfectly, despite her tiny frame. It was jet black, and didn’t have a single speck of lint or cat hair on it. Her perfectly manicured hands were folded neatly on top of her crossed legs. She was wearing very tall, very pointy heels. Their soles were bright red, which Renji had learned from television meant that they were super expensive. He realized that he probably shouldn’t be looking at her legs, even though they were very nice to look at. His eyes snapped up to her face, but that honestly wasn’t any better.

Renji wasn’t often attracted to women, but she had probably the most interesting face he had ever seen-- heart-shaped, with big, dark eyes, a sharp chin, the cutest little nose. Her make-up was subtle and professional, and her hair was swept up with a clip, although it must be fairly short, because a few pieces hung down in front of her ears, and a thick lock dangled between her eyes.

She looked like a mean lawyer from a movie, one that would drive a fancy sportscar like an act of violence. Scary, for sure. But not in the usual way of Abarai clients, who tended toward the large and beefy, not that sharp and sharklike.

That nose, though.

Suddenly, her face split into a big grin. “Hi,” she announced brightly. “I’m Rukia Kuchiki.” She had a deep voice, a very beautiful voice. “You must be Renji Abarai.” Her eyes flicked to his arms. “I mean, of course you are, who else would have those arms? They’re so cool.”

“My arms?” Renji said stupidly. “Are they… famous?”

Rukia’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, well, I follow you on Instagram, and you don’t have any pictures of your face, but your arms are in a lot of the shots and they’re, well, they’re kinda distinctive. Do you think, um, would you mind if I looked at them?”

Renji’s eyebrows shot up. It’s not like he wasn’t used to having his arms checked out, but most people were more… subtle about it. Oh, well, it was her dime. “I didn’t do them myself, obviously,” he pointed out, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt so she could see the baboon skull on his left shoulder. A skeletal arm traced down the rest of that arm, complete with an outline of his own hand bones. On the right side, a snake spine coiled around his bicep, ending with a hissing skull. “I mean, it was my design, but my friends-- the other three tattoo artists here-- all helped ink me up.” He plopped down in the chair that sat catty corner to the couch where Rukia was sitting, and held his arms out. “We’re sort of a full-service studio. I’m the skeletons and monsters guy. Izuru, the guy you met on desk duty today-- is good at calligraphy and watercolors and little, itty bitty tattoos. Momo is our nature girl, she specializes in flowers and animals, and she’s great with bright colors. The snake skull was all her. Shuuhei is really into classic tattoo art-- you need a hula girl or a heart with an arrow through it, he’s your man. He’s also incredibly talented at revamping old regret tattoos, there’s good money in that.”

“Mm,” Rukia agreed, finally tearing her eyes away from his forearms to look up at his face, and abruptly turned even pinker. A lot of people fantasized about getting a tattoo and then got a bad case of nerves when it was time to make the leap. Maybe all this was way out of her comfort zone. Renji was trying his best to be friendly and chatty, which usually helped, but he was not used to dealing with this class of lady. He hoped he wasn’t coming off as too familiar.

“Actually,” Rukia went on, pulling on her fingers nervously. “I picked this place specifically because of you. For your work, I mean. I’m kind of a big fan. I saw some of your paintings at an exhibition over at the Fine Arts College, and I just, you know, fell in love. I’d always thought I’d like to get a tattoo someday, and when I found out that you were a tattoo artist, I knew it had to be you. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, and I’m babbling and I’m really sorry, I’m just very excited.”

Renji blinked. “You’re not babbling,” he replied slowly. He was sort of hoping she might say some more things about how much she liked his art in her beautiful voice. “Wait, an exhibition at the art school? That must have been at least three years ago, when I was doing my MFA.”

“Er, right,” Rukia looked a little sheepish. “A friend of mine had some work in the same exhibit, you probably don’t know her. My favorite one of your paintings was the one with the Black Lagoon creatures eating hamburgers at a diner, but I also really liked the one that was like a huge monster with a big bone mask stalking through a city, the way you did the shadows was just incredible.”

That particular painting was currently wrapped in brown paper and stuffed behind Renji’s couch. His last boyfriend had told him it was “creepy.”

“Uh, glad you liked it,” Renji managed. “Who was your friend?”

“Her name is Inoue. Orihime Inoue.”

“Oh, the robot girl!” Renji exclaimed. “Er, I mean she drew robots. Constantly. For every assignment. I didn’t mean to imply she was… robotic. In any way.” Jeez, Abarai, pull it together, he chided himself. “Yeah, I remember her. I didn’t know her well, but she sure could draw some tight robots. Is, she, uh, doing well?”

“She’s doing storyboards for a stop-motion animation studio,” Rukia replied.

Renji smiled. “That sounds perfect for her.”

Rukia bit her bottom lip and Renji’s throat went dry.

“So, um, you said in your email that you would have a design for me to look at?”

Renji realized that he was gripping the folder like a doofus. “Right! I did a couple of variations,” he explained, passing it from one hand to the other. “But you explained the concept pretty clearly, and I’m really happy with how the first one came out. I mean, obviously, it’s your tattoo! Please give me any feedback you have, you won’t offend me, even if you hate it! Tattoo designs often take a few iterations, it’s very normal, don’t hold back.”

She was staring at him, those big eyes wide and sparkling. “Can I… see it?”

“Oh! Right!” He shoved the folder at her.

Rukia opened it up and gasped.

“I especially love the way you draw skeletons,” Rukia’s email had read. “Do you think you could tattoo a grim reaper doing a sick kickflip on a skateboard onto my outer bicep? I do lift, so I am pretty jacked, if that makes a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” Rukia sighed in a tiny voice.

“Um, in the first variation (that’s page 2) I added some sunglasses, and in the second one, the grim reaper is flipping the bird and also its head is on fire. I guess I thought that grim reapers should be gender neutral but now I’m wondering if you would have preferred more of a… lady grim reaper?” Renji yammered absently.

“Oh, no,” Rukia murmured softly, flipping through the pages. Renji wasn’t even sure she had listened to a word he had said. “These are amazing. I love the sunglasses, but I also like the way you put little flames in the eye sockets in the first one…” She waved a hand absently. “Oh, and don’t worry, I like a non-binary skeleton.”

A small problem had just occurred to Renji. “Hey, um, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I… may have overestimated the size of your arms.”

“Oh?” Rukia asked, and abruptly shucked off her expensive suit jacket. She was wearing a pale purple sleeveless silk blouse underneath. She held one arm out experimentally, and then flexed. The muscle definition on her bicep made Renji take an involuntary swallow, but the fact that she was wicked cut did not buy him much in the way of real estate.

“I’ll just shrink it down maybe 25%,” he reassured her. “I’ll have to simplify some of the detail on--”

“No,” Rukia frowned, her eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t do that.” She thought for a moment. “I’m not committed to having it on my arm.” She uncrossed her legs and hefted one high-heeled foot onto the coffee table in front of her. “What do you think? Is my thigh big enough?”

Renji tried to make words come out, but it just wasn’t happening.

“Er… sorry,” Rukia said slowly, tugging at her hem. “I forgot I was wearing a skirt today.”

“Huh?” Renji scrambled to recover. He needed to say something. She looked really embarrassed. Say something! Say something professional about her leg! “Sorry, I was, uh, thinking!” Good, good, now keep going. “Don’t be self-conscious, I see people’s bodies all the time. Bodies are no big deal, we all got ‘em, right?” This was true in the abstract sense, but he knew these were blatant lies as they exited his mouth. Most people’s bodies were no big deal. He had only known her for five minutes, but was certain that Rukia Kuchiki’s thighs were a very big deal. He studied her leg, stroking his chin, like he was some kind of anthropologist of thigh tattoos. Mostly he was trying to figure out what would seem like an appropriate amount of time to look at a person’s thigh, a person who was your professional client that you most definitely did not have the hots for. “There’s certainly plenty of room,” he declared. “But, you know, people are going to see it less. Which is a selling point for some people! It’s just a personal decision that you’ll have to make. It sounds like you had a big vision.”

Rukia gingerly placed her foot back on the floor. “I had actually been wondering if maybe the upper arm was too public, anyway,” she admitted. “The fact is, I just got full access to my trust fund, and this is sort of a celebration, but I may have been a little overeager to piss off my big brother. He’s very stodgy.” She contemplated the area of her leg that was covered by her pencil skirt. “But so are a lot of people in my field. I can wait until I’m running my own company before I get started on the full sleeve of my dreams, right?”

“Worked for me,” Renji replied, utterly lost by whatever she was talking about. “What… field are you in?”

“Oh, finance,” she dismissed.

Finance. Of course. Renji tried to shoo away the weight of disappointment that was settling in his stomach. He was talking to a friendly client who was clearly loaded, loved his work, and was contemplating thousands of dollars worth of future business. He should be thrilled. He should probably be trying to sell her one of his old paintings-- they were only gathering dust, anyway. Renji would never break the studio policy about hitting on clients. The fact that she would surely laugh at him if he asked her to his favorite burger joint ought to make things easier, right?

“This is so hard!” Rukia declared, and Renji was shaken from his reverie. She was just contemplating his draft designs again, though, flipping back and forth between them.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he reassured her. “You can think about it and email me. If you’re happy enough, we can schedule your session, and we’ll work out the details between now and then. Chat it over with your pal MechaHime, she’s got good opinions.” He paused. Momo always said he was too nice during consults, they were running a business, but he couldn’t help it. “Or you can just call back when you’re ready. No pressure.”

Rukia slammed her fist down on her knee. “No! Let’s schedule it! Do I pay now?”

“20% deposit. Let’s go out front, Izuru will ring it up.”

“Perfect.” She looked longingly at the drawings again. “Can I take these with me? You’re absolutely right, Orihime will know what to do.”

Renji wrinkled his nose. “It’s actually against studio policy but…”

Rukia’s face suddenly became very serious. “Then it’s against policy.” She winked at him and smiled. “You should take care of your intellectual property, Mr. Abarai.”

“I never get over to this part of town, to be honest,” Rukia admitted as they walked back up to the front. “Is the taco place across the street any good?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s great,” Renji agreed. “Momo and I painted a huge mural on their wall, so they give us free churros.”

“Are tacos a good post-tattoo celebratory meal?” Rukia asked curiously.

“Well, you actually want to eat beforehand,” Renji pointed out. “It’s important to keep your energy up. I don’t estimate yours should take very long, I’m gonna book you a two-hour slot.”

“Ah, okay,” Rukia agreed, and Renji realized belatedly that...maybe… she had been asking him out? No. Surely not. His brain scrabbled for a response, but then he stepped into the reception area and his brain shut down entirely.

“It’s DONE!” Shuuhei bellowed. “Behold my work, ye mighty, and despair!”

Tetsuzaemon Iba, serial client, yakuza enthusiast, and assistant manager at a doggie day care, was flexing. He was not wearing a shirt.

From behind the reception desk, Kira was wearing a dour frown and shaking his head.

“It’s a masterpiece,” Renji declared. “I admit I was skeptical, but it looks fantastic, man. You happy with it?”

“It” was a massive tattoo, covering the wide landscape of Iba’s broad back. It featured a lucky cat, grinning maniacally, its paw held high. It was on fire. The kanji for “lucky charm” was incorporated somehow. It was a disaster. It was perfect.

“How could I not be?” Iba boomed.

“Whoa,” a tiny voice behind Renji said.

Iba’s face went pale when he realized that he was being Peak Iba in front of an elegant, professional woman whose shoes probably cost more than his entire net worth. “Gimme me my shirt!” he demanded of Shuuhei.

“That’s… amazing!” Rukia exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Wow, how long did that take?”

Shuuhei blinked slowly as he passed Iba his shirt. “Five sessions.”

“Well, it’s so cute!” Rukia announced. “You must love cats.”

Iba lifted at the same gym as Renji and watched Momo’s Pomeranian on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was a regular fixture at the tattoo studio, and all four of them liked to drag him, but no one, none of them, had ever roasted him this hard. Renji cursed that no-asking-out-clients rule, because he wanted to buy Rukia Kuchiki her own body weight in tacos and then ask her to be his wife.

“He’s more of a dog person,” Shuuhei supplied.

“Great with dogs,” Izuru added.

“Shut up, you jerks, I am a lover of all animals,” Iba grumbled as he pulled his Hawaiian shirt over his shoulders. “Is this your lawyer, Abarai? Did you finally get arrested for that hairstyle?”

“I have an MBA, actually, not a JD,” Rukia replied matter-of-factly. “And I am his client. Can you show that large man my tattoo design? Is that allowed?”

Renji chuckled, and pulled out his drawing.

“That,” Iba declared, “is a wicked tatt.”

“Oh, you showed me that email!” Shuuhei recalled. “It came out great.” He regarded Rukia. “He was really excited about that one, you made his day.”

Rukia just beamed proudly.

“Are we booking a session, then?” Izuru asked hopefully.

“Yeah, two hours,” Renji nodded.

“Let me just finish ringing up Iba, and I’ll see when you’ve got an opening,” Izuru replied.

“This your first one?” Shuuhei asked Rukia conversationally.

“Mm-hmm,” Rukia nodded.

“Well, you made a good choice. Clean design, mostly black with just a few color pops, should go on quick and easy, and it’ll hold up really well, too.”

“This is Shuuhei, the one I was telling you about, who fixes a lot of bad tattoos.”

“I have never had to fix an Abarai tattoo,” Shuuhei declared. “He’s great with first timers. Very gentle. I’ve fallen asleep while he was inking me.” Shuuhei pointed to the pair of crossed scythes gracing his upper arm. “This is one of his.”

“Oooh, neat!” Rukia agreed.

“You’re being embarrassing,” Renji informed his friend.

“Always,” Shuuhei agreed. “Nice to meet you! I hope I get to see the finished product.” He waved to Iba as he headed off toward the back. “Don’t forget to moisturize!”

“Everyone’s so friendly here,” Rukia said softly to Renji. “This isn’t at all like I pictured it.”

Renji stretched his arms behind his head. “Nah, we’re just a bunch of goofballs who like drawin’ on people. Very lowkey.”

“I guess I’ve thought a lot about the getting tattooed part of getting tattooed, but I never thought of it as… a job. That people have.”

“It’s a great job,” Renji replied. “I love it. I’m just lucky that Izuru over there has enough business sense to keep the other three of us from running it into the ground.”

“That’s certainly the truth,” Izuru agreed, as Iba headed out the door. “Two hours, you said? Renji’s got a 4-6pm block open on a Wednesday, three weeks from now. The 24th, how does that work for you, Ms. Kuchiki?”

“Do you think that’s enough time to settle on a design?” Renji asked. “If you come up with changes, it should only take me a day or two to incorporate them.”

“Oh! Yes, three weeks should be fine. I thought… it might be a little sooner,” Rukia replied, sounding a tad disappointed.

“Abarai’s a busy man, three weeks is actually pretty quick,” Izuru explained.

“Right, of course!” Rukia nodded. “Yes, I’ll take the 24th!”

She then paid her deposit, a process which involved her taking approximately ten thousand items out of her purse, including a full-sized drawing pad, a single fingerless glove, and a Pez dispenser with a duck head. She was the most contradictory person Renji had ever met, and he just wanted to know everything about her. But instead, they were going to exchange a couple of emails about a grim reaper on a skateboard, he was going to spend an hour and a half two inches from her naked thigh in a state of intense, non-sexual concentration, and then he would likely never see her again.

“Okay, I guess that’s it!” Rukia said, stuffing the last of her worldly belongings back into the purse. “Three weeks, then!”

“Three weeks it is,” Renji agreed. “Unless we happen to run into each other at the taco place.”

Rukia blinked. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Right. Ha, ha, of course!” She’d been walking backwards toward the door, an impressive feat in those heels, and she spun suddenly to pull it open.

“It’s a push,” Renji and Izuru chorused together.

“Ha, ha, of course it is!” Rukia laughed nervously, and ducked out.

Izuru stared pointedly at Renji. “Wow,” he said.

“I don’t know what you have against her,” Renji scowled. “So she’s professional. She was really nice. She’s a big fan of my work.”

Izuru cocked his head. “She’s clearly also a big fan of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Renji said.

“Look, I’m sorry I implied that a person who drives a Lotus Exige would not be interested in having your weird skeleton doodles permanently placed on her body,” Izuru held up his hands, “but did you really not notice the little hearts and singing birds floating around her head every time she gazed longingly at you?”

“Since when do you know anything about cars?” Renji snapped.

“It looked fancy and I asked Shuuhei what it was, okay!”

On cue, Shuuhei burst back into the reception area, Momo close on his tail. “Are we talking about the hot client who has a crush on Abarai?”

“Did you ask her out?” Momo asked breathlessly.

“She’s not really his type,” Izuru mused. “Very corporate.”

Renji frowned. Did he have a type? If his type excluded people like Rukia Kuchiki, he might need to get a new type.

“Who cares, she was adorable!” Momo insisted. “I woulda asked her out.”

“Renji, if you go out with her, can you get me a ride in the Exige?” Shuuhei added.

“I’m not gonna ask her out!” Renji protested. “What happened to the no-hitting-on-clients rule?”

“The rule is no creeping on clients,” Shuuhei correctly. “This is different. She’s clearly into you, big time.”

“Also, she seems non-terrible, unlike the questionable human beings you usually take up with,” Izuru pointed out. “We could relax the rule if it netted you an actually decent partner for a change.”

Renji scowled judgmentally at Izuru, as if his own dating history had been remotely better before he and Shuuhei finally hooked up.

“Oh!” Momo waved her phone. “Speaking of which, I googled her, like you told me to, Izuru--”

“Izuru!” Renji protested.

“--and you were right! She’s not just one of the Kuchikis, she’s the granddaughter!” Momo thrust her phone in Renji’s face. It was some article about some fancy charity event, complete with a picture that was clearly Rukia, dressed in a dramatic black and gold evening gown.

Renji wanted to push Momo’s hand away, but he also didn’t want to stop looking at Rukia in that dress. “The who?” he asked.

Izuru and Momo sighed dramatically in synchronized exasperation.

“Embarrassingly rich old money family? I don’t know what they actually do, but they’re always in the newspapers, donating money for something or other--”

“Billionaire philanthropists,” Shuuhei intoned in a fake deep voice.

“--I heard they’re descended from some famous clan of samurai back in Japan,” Momo ignored him. She jerked her phone back and started tapping at it frantically. “I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of the grandson-- Rukia’s brother, I guess. He always makes those lists of top ten hottest bachelors.”

“He’s dreamy,” Shuuhei seconded.

“Impossibly dreamy,” Izuru thirded.

Momo flipped her phone around again, to reveal a picture of a very serious, and very handsome man in a classic three-piece wool suit. Renji supposed “impossibly dreamy” was not an inaccurate description.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen pictures of that guy before,” Renji shrugged. “He’s okay. Rukia has a more interesting face, I think.”

Momo and Shuuhei exchanged raised eyebrows.

“You do like her, then?” Izuru asked, his face brightening. “You’re wrong, by the way, Byakuya Kuchiki has the face of an angel.”

“Rukia says he’s stuffy,” Renji shrugged. “And fine. I like her. She’s cute and nice and had good taste in tattoos. What’s not to like?”

“Are you gonna ask her out, then?” Momo pressed.

“Absolutely not,” Renji replied. “She’s my client. Besides, as you just pointed out, she’s loaded. What’s she want with a scumbag like me?”

All three of his friends groaned.

“You have good delts and sexy hair,” Izuru pointed out.

“You give amazing hugs!” Momo declared.

“You draw fantastic skeletons,” Shuuhei added. “Which, apparently, is relevant to her interests, and not a thing you usually find on Tindr.”

“Also, we’ve already established that she does like you, regardless of whether she has a valid reason for doing so,” Izuru concluded. “So, if you’re at all interested, you really shouldn’t let that stop you.”

“I think you should go for it,” Momo encouraged.

“Me, too,” Shuuhei agreed.

Renji grimaced. She was an amazing girl, too good to be true probably. If she had any sense at all, she would certainly turn him down. But maybe… just maybe… she didn’t have any sense. “Okay,” he grudgingly agreed. “I’ll do it. But not until I’m finished the damn tattoo!”

[clarketomylexa]

To The Witches I Have Known, Chapter I

The Woods and the Griffin’s might as well be the Montagues and Capulets of Polis, Connecticut. As the heirs to their family lines, Clarke and Lexa have been juggling the magical politics of their rival covens with normal life since they were old enough to understand. But when a magical incident sparks fears that haven’t been felt since the unsteady truce was made between them – an incident that Clarke is the prime suspect of – both of them are going to have to get much better at multitasking.

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“I hate Halloween.”

Anya is in a sour mood, so much so that Lexa doesn’t know whether it’s the recent spiral the weather has taken or her cousins frostiness that has her fingers retreating into the woollen cuff of her sweater. She would say it was normal – Anya has never been the easiest to get along with – but she almost stepped on Wednesday earlier as the cat hogged the watery puddle of sunlight in the hall and she didn’t even say sorry.

“It’s pumpkin spice season,” Lexa suggests in appeasement.

“Public ridicule season,” Anya corrects her bitterly, shooting a scathing look in the direction of the merrily grinning jack-o-lanterns gathered at the steps of the gazebo. It had been a strange transition into fall. The leaves on the outskirts of the square are frozen halfway between green and russet orange, but the town committee had descended on main street on the first of October regardless with the manic kind of excitement that came with the prospects of pumpkin carving and scoping out costume options at the dinky shop in the corner of the square that never seems to realise that Halloween isn’t a year-round event. Not that she would ever give Anya the satisfaction, but Lexa quietly loves the eeriness of the festival regardless, of the silly mockery it makes of them every once a year.

Anya folds her arms over her chest. “If I see one more pointy hat, I’ll be giving out hexes for free,” she promises darkly.

“Anya!” Lexa’s eyes saucer. She whips her head around to check if they have been overheard but this early people are too wrapped up in their eight a.m. hunt for coffee to notice the pair. She turns back to Anya, lowering her voice anyway. “You know Titus doesn’t like you saying that,” she scolds quietly.

Lexa was seven the first time she realised magic wasn’t commonplace. The enormity of such a secret was almost too large to understand for a girl who had grown up chanting Latin incantations and watching coven meetings through the rungs of the staircase when she should have been asleep, but Titus hadn’t wasted any time in sitting her down and drilling the importance of confidentiality into her. She had walked around tight-lipped and grey-faced for a week afterwards for fear of retribution.

Anya laughs shortly. “I think Titus would rather I didn’t say anything at all.”

“Anya…”

“You know it’s true,” her cousin insists, “I’m barely a Woods, god forbid I have any opinion that doesn’t reflect the coven’s.”

The truth sits uneasily on Lexa’s chest. She twists the braided silver band on her ring finger, feeling responsible.

“I’m here to watch you and that’s it,” Anya continues, “next year I’ll be out of a job.”

Anya is the outcast of their household. She’s prickly at the best of times, with all of angles and sharp lines of the Woods and none of the softness Lexa inherited from her mother. Lexa doesn’t think Titus ever forgave Anya’s father for his illicit liaisons with a witch from another coven, or for his disappearance – lord knows why, but Lexa has learnt that Titus is more paranoid old man than wise advisor she thought he was when she was seven-years-old and hanging iron off her bed to ward away fairies. He ostracised her when they were younger, and is even more reluctant now to give his twenty-two-year-old niece the responsibility that a witch of her age should have – especially considering their family name.

In turn, Anya has fully embraced the role of black sleep, vintage leather jackets and all.

“You’ll always have a job as long as I’m in charge,” Lexa vows, reaching across to take her cousins hand in hers.  

She couldn’t call her childhood conventional. Since her mother died her care had been transferred to Titus and the coven to raise her as they saw fit, which had meant a rigorous regime of magical theory, and strict practice on top of trying to maintain a normal existence. The normal existence part still has her stumped, but there’s never an excuse not to perform. She is after all, the eldest direct descendant of the Woods line, as far as the coven is concerned, she’s their property and amongst all the craziness, sometimes she thinks Anya is the only thing keeping her sane.

“Sap,” Anya accuses. The show of affection makes her squirm and she disentangles their hands to cuff Lexa around the head, feigning indifference. “Anyway,” she changes the subject swiftly, tucking her hands into her pockets and scanning the empty square while Lexa tends to her mussed hair. “It’s not about that. Titus can shove it up his own as far as I care. You’re going to be eighteen next year.”

“Is that why you’re walking with me?” Lexa prods.

Anya stiffens before she can help it and Lexa knows she has struck a nerve. It takes a conscious effort to disengage every muscle in her body, but when she does, she elongates her strides and Lexa jogs to keep up, hands tucked inside her pockets as the wind picks up. “You’re lying,” she accuses calmly.

Her cousin shifts under the scrutiny, “how’s Costia?”

“Anya!” Lexa snaps, taking her by the arm and forcing her to stop in the middle of the sidewalk. They level their stares at each other, unflinching for a moment before Anya gives up the childish competition and snatches her wrist back. “Fine,” she relents ungracefully, massaging the skin, then nodding in an indication they should keep walking.

Lexa acquiesces but eyes her warily with each step it takes to formulate her answer.

“There’s been another incident.”

“An incident?” Lexa pounces on the word.

Anya nods. “Titus and Indra didn’t want to tell you.”

Frustrated, she stifles a biting comment. For all they drill this ridiculous sense of responsibility into her – ‘you’re almost of age Lexa, the coven must be your focus from now on’ – Titus and the others tend to censor what she is told like she’s still the eight-year-old she was when her mother died. Hypocrisy at its finest.

Anya is agitated again as she glances around. She puts a hand on Lexa’s back and guides her roughly down the nearest walkway between the second-hand bookstore and the coffee house where it smells like decaying paper and stale dishwater. Anya’s hand twitches, then goes up to smooth her hair behind her ear and Lexa tries to regulate the uneasy throb in her chest.

For as long as she can remember Anya has never been afraid of consequences, especially where it meant disobeying Titus and her discomfort now is unnerving.

“Lincoln found a dead raven on the back steps this morning,” Anya relays quietly when she seems satisfied they aren’t being heard.

Lexa’s breakfast curdles in her stomach.

Anya pauses to fish something out of her pocket. “Next to it was this.”

The odd object sits against her hand as Anya holds it up for Lexa to see, the black ribbon it’s strung on tangled in her fingers as Lexa takes in the intricate design. It looks like a seal stamped into a round of metal, a pentagram inside three rings of tarnished Latin that, for all of her afternoons cooped up in the dining room translating ancient texts under Titus’ trained eye, Lexa can’t decipher.

“What is it?”

Anya shrugs but hands it over and Lexa lets it sit in her palm. She thinks the pattern is familiar.

“Titus thinks it was the Griffins.”

Lexa’s head snaps up in alarm. “No,” she argues stubbornly.

“Lexa…”

The door a few feet further down the alley opens and an acne covered teenager emerges with a black trash bag at his side. Anya falls silent while he throws it in the trash can and gives them a confused glance before returning inside. “It had their magic all over it,” she informs Lexa curtly when the boy is gone.

The only other magical – but not non-mortal – founding family of Polis, Connecticut, the Woods had been stuck in a power battle with the Griffin’s since the town was founded. Every other non-mortal family in the area had fallen into an alliance on either side, and the magical violence that was said to have gone on between them got so bad, the fatalities rivalled the Salem Witch Trials. Gustus used to tell Lexa stories of when he was young to scare Lexa into practicing her magic even though every part of her body felt drained and rubbed raw. Apparently, four mortals had to end up as collateral damage before Titus enacted the truce.

Any act of violence now would be like an act of treason.

“They wouldn’t dare,” she insists confidently. Titus has had her involved in magical politics since she was old enough to understand it; both covens agreed to the truce, neither would risk the consequences. The Griffin’s might be altogether too liberal with their magic but they aren’t stupid.

Anya purses her lips like she doesn’t agree. She keeps her eyes trained on the spot where the alley opens out onto the square like she’s worried hellfire will erupt out of the cobblestones if she continues to explain. “Did you know Clarke is back in town?”

Lexa’s heart leaps and she pretends it doesn’t. “You can’t be serious?” She scoffs instead, understanding what Anya is implying. “You think Clarke did this?” It’s ridiculous and not just because the Clarke Lexa knows is too preoccupied with practical magic and floating bottles of vodka from her parents’ stash up to her bedroom to be sending malicious omens to the Woods’ doorstep.

And then there’s the other thing.

Lexa doesn’t talk about the other thing.

Anya throws her hands open in an aggravated ‘who knows’ gesture and Lexa fights not to get defensive.

“I’m not saying she didn’t,” Anya retorts. “She’s a Griffin, Lexa.”

Lexa hates that that’s an accusation in itself. Mostly because ‘she’s a Woods’ has plagued her entire life; the excuse for lab partners and dodgeball team mates rejecting her. More than any of the curses that are cradled in the aging pages of the books Titus keeps in the upstairs hallway, Lexa thinks having your identity boiled down to nothing but your last name is the worst curse of all.

Anger at Anya simmers into frustration in the pit of her stomach and she slips the seal into her pocket and shoulders past her cousin onto the main street.

“Lexa,” Anya grouses, quiet guilt colouring her tone as her steps clack in her effort to catch her. “Wait.”

Lexa shakes her head. “I need to talk to Clarke.”

Polis is just as insignificant as Clarke left it four months ago, but somehow, it still feels better than the draughty colonial of her grandmothers that she spent the summer and then some shut up in. She’s pretty sure the only thing of note that has happened in four months is her poor house plants ultimately death on her windowsill – apparently the half-hearted self-watering charm she had uttered on her way out wasn’t long range. That, or her mother walked into her room one day to see her dinky tin watering can hanging in mid-air and had dismantled the thin spell with an eye roll.

Her parents have always had a liberal attitude to magic. As long as she wasn’t spell casting in the front yard or enchanting her stationery to write her biology essays, they were content to let her explore her it on her own terms.

She hadn’t known magical theory was something people practiced as actively as they did until her parents got tired of her quote unquote behaviour and sent to her study under the tuition of her mother’s mother. Or that’s what they told her when she came home on the last day of school to find her bags packed in the hallway – ‘you’re the heir Clarke, you need to learn to control your magic’.

In reality, she knows it was really a ploy to get her out of town after Abby interrupted Finn kissing her goodnight after homecoming.

Her parents had never been phased by her frivolous magic use in the past, and the Collins are notorious for being unreliable allies – evidently magical politics doesn’t take a break for school girl crushes.

The bell rings for the end of the period and Clarke rises from her desk, rubbing her thumb over the braided band on her ring finger. She doesn’t know what excuse her parents gave the school for her absence but she can feel the teacher’s hesitancy to bring the subject up as he waves her to the front of the class and it’s suffocating. The Griffins are formidable figures in the eyes of the town, and it feels like Mr. Walker is handling her with kid gloves as he hands her a sheet covering the last few weeks, tells her to read Macbeth and suggests she borrow a classmate’s notes. It feels too stiff and formal, and suddenly her whole life is being played out in front of her; a clinical rotation of coven meetings and maintaining magical politics that she isn’t ready for.

She nods into the panic bearing down on her chest and leaves as quickly as she can.

The building used to be a private residence before it was the high school. Like everything else in Polis the high arched ceilings, wrought iron embellishments and stained glass were leftovers from the gothic revival period that her history teacher – as old as the town itself – loves to go on about. In Junior year a rumour went around the back staircase was haunted by the ghost of the last owner, who’s grisly death in the late 1880’s had been enough to give The Tribune content for four months straight.

People seem to have gotten braver over summer though, because the staircase is packed again – likely because the ‘haunting’ stopped as soon as Bellamy had been busted by an Octavia intent on revenge for her broken curling iron and suspended from magic use for the summer. Either way, Clarke is unhappy to collide with a trio of rowdy Freshman with their shirts shredded and fake blood soaked. Agitated, she curses at them loudly for getting the concoction on her sweater, trying to pick it off with her finger nails to no avail before looking up in defeat and freezing.

Lexa stands halfway down the corridor, head in her locker as she diligently switches out her books and Clarke watches, feeling abruptly guilty as she tucks her hair behind her ear and twists the lock to scramble the combination.

She didn’t tell Lexa she was back.

She didn’t know if she was supposed to tell Lexa she was back.

There text conversations had switched abruptly from numerous and emoji filled, to once a week at most and strangely formal at the end of Sophomore Year. It left them in an awkward twilight zone of ‘just friends’ that neither of them quite knew how to navigate correctly.

When Lexa turns to walk to class Clarke raises her hand in a static wave, and an urgent expression passes over Lexa’s face.

“Clarke!”

Whipping her head around, she sees two girls narrowly miss being taken out by the backpack Octavia has slung over one shoulder as she barrels down the stone staircase, flinging it to the harlequin tiles to throw her arms around Clarke’s neck. The girls mutter something crude and following behind, Raven flips them off aggressively. “Freshmen,” she mutters, picking Octavia’s backpack up off the floor.

“Ignore her,” Octavia disentangles herself from Clarke and when she looks back down the hall, Lexa has gone. Octavia cards a hand through her hair, taking her backpack from Raven with an exasperated glance. “She’s cranky because her car got scratched.” Her fingers are full of stacking rings and black nail varnish chipped down to the cuticle, but the sight of her friend, in her Champion tee and black jeans ripped at the knee, just as chaotic as usual, is familiar in a way Clarke didn't know she needed. She feels the vestiges of irrational terror slink away.

Raven gives Octavia a pointed look. “Last time we take my car to the lake,” she informs the brunette curtly as she leans in to give Clarke a hug.

Clarke is appalled. “You went to the lake without me?”

“You dyed your hair back,” Octavia retorts smartly and Clarke winces.

“My grandmother wasn’t exactly a fan of cotton candy pink.”

‘Not exactly a fan’ is an understatement. The woman, who was still as spritely as Clarke remembered her being when she was five years old, had rolled her eyes at the audacity of ‘teenagers these days’ and marched Clarke into the dining room to sit her down and mutter Latin until the home done dye job leached out of her hair.

She hadn’t heard someone do a verbal spell in years.

“Boo,” Octavia pouts, reaching up to twist a lock of Clarke’s hair around her forefinger. “I’m not ready for serious Clarke.”

Pink starts to crawl up the coil but Clarke bats Octavia’s hand away in alarm, looking around wildly to check if they had been seen, the strictness of her grandmother still sits weirdly ingrained in her immediate reactions. She adjusts her hair over her shoulder and tucking the now pink-ended lock behind her ear where it isn’t noticeable. “I’m not serious,” she argues, “I’m Clarke. I am!” she insists when Octavia makes a comically sceptical face. “Look, we’re still going to Atom’s tonight, right?”

“His parents are out of town, everyone is,” Raven confirms and Clarke sits back on her heels, satisfied. “Great,” she decides, “then I’m going to be one hundred percent fun Clarke.”

Raven snorts, “God help us.”

Costia has a polaroid of them tucked inside the metal slit of her locker that Lexa notices as she listens to the redhead grumble about the Chemistry pop quiz sprung on her by an unsympathetic teacher, humming and then nodding when she is accused to not listening.

She doesn’t know what to make of them exactly. Her and Costia that is. A witch herself, she understands the complexities of the situation Lexa has been born into, and despite all the ways that that simple fact makes her more likeable, it also makes the prospect of “them” infinitely more complicated. Which is probably why they are hanging in an awkward dimension of hugs that last too long and walking each other to class every other day.

“I’m sure you did well anyway,” she says mindlessly.  

There are dollar store witch hats strung on fishing wire from the arched ceiling and poster paint cut outs of ghosts and the school initials tacked to the walls. She fixates on the stylised pentagram inside the ‘o’ of ‘All Hallows Eve’ on a poster advertising a Halloween party in town that no one will attend, and lets the trepidation that’s been clawing at her chest all day swell to a boiling point. The seal sits in her front jean pocket, conspicuous enough that she untucked her sweater from her waistband as she walked into advisory for her own piece of mind.

“Lexa?”

She straightens, “yeah?”

“You’re really out of it today,” Costia’s brow peaks in concern, as she dips her chin to try and catch Lexa’s eye. “Did something happen? Or…”    

Shaking her head, Lexa wills herself to engage. She hasn’t seen Clarke since Octavia and Raven had interrupted their almost-reunion but the need to speak to her grew more urgent with each minute the seal gathered weight sitting in her pocket. “Just a lot going on,” she explains pathetically and Costia slides a hand up her arm.

“Anything I can help with?”

Lexa opens her mouth to assure her that ‘no, it’s fine’, when a blonde firecracker struts up to them with a melodramatic sigh and a faux-hurt expression.

“Are you cheating on me Lexa?” Clarke demands flinging her hand over her heart like she’s in a soap. “Does this ring mean nothing to you?” She thrusts her ring finger under Lexa’s nose, indicating to the familiar silver band, and Lexa struggles to hide the amused quirk in her lips.

Costia rolls her eyes, taking her cue to leave, “I’ll see you tonight, Lexa,” she says sweetly, squeezing her hand, then looking over, “bye Clarke.”

“Bye, Costia.”

Clarke twists her ring like it isn’t sitting right under her knuckle and leans a shoulder against the locker. “I’m sorry,” she apologises when Costia has disappeared. “She likes you.” Lexa doesn’t know how she is meant to respond to that, grappling for a reply feels like reaching out into a muddy pond in search for answers.

“She’s not my fiancée,” she drawls instead.

Clarke snorts.

It’s ironic, Lexa thinks, that, for the amount of weight their so-called “engagement” holds within the magical community, it has become such a joke between the two of them. Since the ceremony four years ago – a date which Clarke likes to ironically mark in her calendar as their “anniversary” and give Lexa cards with ‘To My Loving Husband’ embossed across the front in scripted letters – Clarke in particular has taken every available moment to mock the sanctity of the fealty they swore to each other and their rival covens in a bid to stop the violence. And after a while, compelled by the ridiculousness of all of it, Lexa joined in.

“How was Maine?”

“Four months shut up in a library translating…” Clarke glances around, then lowers her voice, “incantations that haven’t been used since Salem isn’t my idea of a good time. I lit a sparkler on the Fourth,” she perks up, “but my grandmother was worried it would set fire to her herb garden so she put it out.”

All at once, Lexa remembers being five-years-old and standing on the front lawn with a kiddie-sparkler in hand. The sparks burn stone-cold and morph into technicolour from the spell her mother recites in her melodic voice – purples, blues, greens and oranges twisting in and out of each other wonderfully. It isn’t the Fourth, she thinks – they didn’t celebrate holidays like that before Lexa was school aged – but the sky is a watercolour of dusky pink. Midsummer perhaps.

Then, as quickly as the memory came, it vanishes, leaving an echoing ‘whoosh’ in the vacuum of her head. She blinks, dizzy.

“Lexa…”

“We need to talk.”

“Oh?” Clarke sings flirtatiously.

“It’s serious.”

Her face drops, “oh.”

The bell trills but Lexa learns into the nearest classroom to find it dark, the desks empty and blinds pulled, and she wills Clarke inside, waiting until she is perched on the edge of the nearest desk before pulling the seal out of her pocket.

“Do you know what this is?”

It looks oddly mundane hanging from her fingers. In this light, it’s hard to make out the tarnished Latin or the pentagram inside it, but it’s ice-cold despite the hours it has been sitting in her pocket and that’s enough to make her sceptical.

Clarke’s eyes saucer. Lexa takes careful note of her reaction.

“Where did you get that?”

She opens her palm and the seal sails into her hand.

Lexa has always been taken back by Clarke’s liberal approach to magic. While Titus has drilled into her that magic serves a purpose and that purpose is not her own personal needs, Clarke seems to find a need for it in every situation. Quietly, she thinks she admires the easiness she wields it with because, the truth is, Lexa is too scared of magic to do the same.

“Do you know what it is?” She dodges the question. “The Latin’s illegible, but it looks like a penta –”  

“It’s not,” Clarke shakes her head. She puts the seal flat on the desk, ribbon at the top, then turns it one hundred and eighty degrees so the pentagram is inverted. Suddenly, Lexa knows where she has seen it before. “This is dark, Lexa,” Clarke warns her, “like, black-magic-devil-worshipping dark.” There is an element of awe in her voice that twists in the put of Lexa’s stomach. “Where did you get it?”

“There was one on the cover of that book you used to have,” Lexa says calmly.

“Lexa.” Clarke insists.

She sighs. “Lincoln found it on the back steps.”

Clarke scrutinises her. “There’s more.”

“Anya thinks it was you.”

“What?”

“Did you do it?”

Clarke straightens, growing stony at the accusation. “Do you think I did?” She fires back.

There’s a whole host of replies Lexa could give, all of them laced with the political idiocy that Titus likes to spout around the dinner table, elitist bullshit about how the Woods are magically superior in the traditional sense of their craft, how the Griffins are liberal pretenders, imposters and manipulators. But none of it has ever translated to Clarke in her mind. When she looks at Clarke she sees herself, a freer version of herself maybe, but still, someone stuck in this mess other people have made for them and she can’t knowing blame her for something she doesn’t have the capacity to do.

“No,” she admits, hoping she is right.

Clarke deflates in relief. She lets out a heavy sigh and sifts her fingers through her hairline, shaking out blonde locks until Lexa can see a pink streak, the colour glimmers slightly like a mirage in a way she knows isn’t drugstore hair dye and fixates on it. “I didn’t,” Clarke promises in a voice so soft it’s barely there.

“I believe you.”

[saibh29]

Survival 101: Earth (Part 1)

Pairings: Bellamy Blake / Reader (Sawyer)

So I’ve been working on this one for quite a while, its been done many times before, the whole rewrite of the 100 with your own character. I’m not expecting my version to be any better than anyone else’s but i’m hoping people will enjoy it anyhow. 

I’m going to be going along with the episodes and adding in parts and maybe changing it up a bit as well. I’ve given the ‘reader’ a name just because I needed one for the storyline. 

I really hope people like this and depending on how it goes down i’ll keep writing it along with the seasons for as long as people want to read it. 

If anyone would like to be tagged in the next parts please just let me know.

@angelaiswriting @georgiagrl1990 @angryares @selldraug

********

So overall you were having a pretty crappy day. It had started out normal enough, waking in your tiny, cold cell in the Skybox. Now however, it seemed likely that it would end with your death in a large fiery explosion.

You and the other 99 ark delinquents had been marched from your cells first thing this morning, systematically tranquilized and gradually reawakened in a drop ship hurtling towards earth.

From somewhere you could hear Chancellor Jaha explaining what was happening to you all. You weren’t paying attention though too focused on the bone jarring rattling that you were experiencing. Your entire body was shaking in your seat as the ship rocketed back towards earth.

The whole ship was groaning with the effort of re-entering the atmosphere and not breaking into tiny pieces. Across from you a boy floated, enjoying the final moments of zero-g. He was talking to a blonde girl, a girl you recognised as Clarke Griffin. The chief mechanics daughter. You’d seen her a handful of times since she entered the skybox. Mainly because her solitary cell was right next to your own.

“The parachutes are going to deploy. Get back to your seat or die”

Parachutes, parachutes meant almost certain pain. Yeah there it went, the metal of the exodus ship almost screamed in protest as everyone started shouting and shrieking with fear. Cursing you held tight to the seat belts laced around you. Gravity reasserting itself as you were slammed back into your seat, head feeling like it may explode inwards from the pressure.

The floating space walker had vanished, thrown into the side of the ship. Maybe even dead from the impact.

With another groan and horrific impact crash the ship hit the ground, sliding for what seemed forever before coming to a sudden stop. The machines went quiet and for the first time in your life you couldn’t hear any hums from life support machines or engines.

Clarke had unclipped herself and was bending over the spacewalker checking his pulse as the others unclipped and ran down the stairs to the lower levels. You carefully unclipped yourself as well following the main group of teenagers downstairs. Watching as they argued loudly about whether or not to open the door.

The main instigators being the reappeared Clarke Griffin and a man wearing a guard’s uniform. You didn’t recognise him and he seemed older than the 18 year cut off for delinquents in the skybox.

“If the air’s toxic we’re all dead anyway”

He had a point there. “Bellamy!” a dark haired girl appeared. Finally you smiled, Octavia. So the boy she was hugging must be Bellamy. The brother she couldn’t shut up about. Silently you moved carefully through the mass of people getting closer to the front of the group.

You could hear mutterings about Octavia as you got closer. “That’s the girl from under the floor”

“No one has a brother anymore”

“That’s Octavia Blake the girl they found hidden under the floor”

Octavia’s head spun around and you saw the violence in her eyes. Before she could act on it you’d turned and driven your fist into the nose of the boy speaking. His eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped like a stone. All talk stopped as eyes turned to you as you looked over at Octavia. Her eyes widened in wonder as she took a step forward.

“Sawyer”

“O!” she grabbed you as the two of you locked your arms around each other holding tight.

“Octavia?” Bellamy snapped “Who is this?”

It was Clarke who answered him, staring at you like she’d seen a ghost. “That’s Sawyer Kane. Councillor Marcus Kane’s niece”

“Hello to you too Griffin” you glanced at Bellamy and the uniform he was wearing once more. “You never mentioned the almighty Bellamy was one of my uncle’s underlings O”

“He wasn’t anymore…”

“Enough” Bellamy snapped pulling Octavia away from you, he grasped the lever and ignoring Clarke’s shouts pulled it down. The dropship ramp groaned and slowly swung open. Earth lay there in front of you. You were home.

 *******

Predictably the delinquents had gone crazy when allowed off the ship. Racing around, screaming and laughing. Pulling things from the earth and generally living up to the role of renegade teenagers. You however had climbed to the top of the dropship, enjoying the freedom of being able to move your limbs and muscles once more. All you could see from the top was more forest, laying out in front of you like a never ending green carpet.

Below you Clarke was arguing with Wells Jaha about how to find food for the whole camp.

“And how are you two going to carry food for all 100 of us?”

“4” the space walker, Finn, announced grabbing two gangly boys who unfortunately happened to be walking by him at that moment. “Can we go now?”

“Not yet” Clarke looked up catching your eyes “Sawyer?”

“Griffin?”

Clarke sighed “Don’t make me beg Sawyer. Please”

You stared levelly at her for a moment longer before nodding “Fine 5” you jumped from your perch landing easily on your feet in front of Wells.

“Wait if Sawyers going so am I” Octavia announced linking arms with you “Make it 6”

“Hey, O! What the hell are you doing?”

She shrugged off Bellamy pulling you along behind her “going for a walk”

Bellamy glared hard at your back as you passed by him. He disliked you already, not something you could do anything about right now.

“Earth, Sawyer. This is so fucking cool”

“Yeah, awesome” you looked carefully around the woods. You had no idea where you were, what was out here and what the world had left in it. So until you all did, the best thing to do was be cautious. Very cautious.

 *******

You were walking easily over the forest floor, taking point in this group of teenagers. Behind you the others stumbled along tripping over tree roots and multiple other debris. You were close enough that you could hear when the conversation inevitably turned to what you’d all done to end up being thrown in the skybox in the first place.

“I got to know what you two did to get busted” Finn was asking the other two boys. Monty and Jasper just shrugged smiling at each other.

“Sumac is not the only herb in the garden, if you know what I mean”

“Someone forgot to replace what we took”

“Someone has apologised like a thousand times” Monty hissed at Jasper the two of them then continuing to bicker between themselves like an old married couple. Jasper was the one whose stare eventually fell on you curiously.

“So what did the ninja princess up there do? What can Kane’s niece have possibly done to get kicked down here with us criminals?”

You stopped walking at the question. It was always going to have been asked eventually, you’d thought you might have had more time but even so you turned to stare evenly at the group of teenagers behind you. It was Clarke who answered the question. She seemed to have a habit of answering questions not meant for her.

“She killed someone. Murdered her mother”

“What?!” Monty squeaked out now looking terrified.

You simply smiled at them all, turning to keep walking. Octavia running to catch up with you despite Jasper trying to grab her. “Sawyer tell them the truth” she urged.

“Why?” you kept moving helping Octavia over a broken tree. “I did kill her”

“You know that’s not true”

“O listen to me” you looked straight at her. “It’s as much of the truth as any of them need to know” you framed her face with your hands smiling at her “it’s cute that you want to protect me but trust me, I don’t need it”

It was Finn who approached the two of you later on, eyes flicking between the two girls.

“Kane teach you anything about these?” he held out a simple knife.

“Where’d you get that space walker?” he chose not to answer as you took the knife off of him. “Sure you want to risk giving the sharp and pointy weapon to a killer?”

Octavia smacked your arm “Don’t be an ass Sawyer. He’s helping”

Finn continued to stare at you evenly “I don’t think you’re going to hurt us if that’s what you’re implying”

You spun the knife round a few times, easily letting it rotate around your fingers “Not right now I’m not”

Laughing at the confused look on his face you continued onwards. The group straggling out into a vague line as you eventually hit a massive lake. Clarke coming up to you.

“This shouldn’t be here”

“Yet it is”

Clarke glared at you “Sawyer. If you can’t help…”

“Watch it Blondie. I’m here aren’t I? Didn’t even get angry when you announced to the group that I’m a murderer. So choose your words very carefully Griffin before I start to become actually unhelpful”

“You did kill her” she muttered stubbornly.

“And If I can kill my own mother, just think about what I could do to girls with too loose tongues”

You smiled nastily as Clarke’s eyes widened in sudden panic. Before you could say anything else though Jasper whispered from behind you “I fucking love earth”

You turned just in time to see a half clothed Octavia jump into the water, surfacing with a smile as she dripped water over her skin, clothes sticking to her body.

“O, get out” you snapped coming closer to the shore line.

“Come on Sawyer, live a little” she splashed water over at you making you jump away again.

“Yeah come on ninja girl, take your damn clothes off and get in” Jasper was rushing forward when suddenly he froze, voice changing to terrified. “Fuck! Octavia get out of the water”

“What?”

You’d seen it now as well and it was big, swimming straight for Octavia. “Octavia NOW” you were halfway to the edge when with a scream Octavia had been pulled under the water.

“Octavia” without thinking you started pulling clothes off. “Distract it” you ordered Clarke. “Get its attention away from O”

Clarke ran with Finn to start throwing anything they could find into the water. While you waded into a river that had a killer snake in it.

Shit it was cold, you had the knife in your hand that Finn had given you only moments before. Who knew that would be coming in handy so soon afterwards.

“O! OCTAVIA?”

Her head surfaced for a moment and you changed direction as with a shriek the thing seemed to let go of her, Clarke was throwing who knew what into the water and you could see its outline chasing towards the splashing further up the river.

You had a limited amount of time to get Octavia out of the water. Grabbing her shaking arm you pulled her into your body where she clung. Teeth chattering.

“Come on O, move it” you commanded starting back out of the pool of water.

“SAWYER IT’S COMING BACK!” Finn screamed running for the two of you.  

Pushing Octavia as fast as you were able you got her to the shore line and stumbling into Finn’s arms. Dropping down on the stone yourself as the blurry outline of the sea snake vanished once more, denied its meal.

You were breathing hard as Finn having passed Octavia to an incredibly thankful Jasper leant over you.

“You ok?”

“Peachy”

He smiled offering you his hand, clasping his wrist you allowed him to pull you up to your feet. Handing you your still dry clothes. “That was an incredibly brave thing to do for someone you met this morning”

“Who said I met Octavia this morning?” you pulled you shirt back on, shivering from the cold of the water. “And not brave… stupid”

“The girl under the floor… she’s been in the skybox for 2 years. How do you know her?”

“Don’t call her that” you snapped instantly. Eyes clashing with Finn’s. “She has a name”

Finn held his hands up in peace. “How did you meet Octavia?”

You looked carefully at Finn. He seemed genuinely curious and not just trying to get information for bartering purposes.

“Solitary. I met O in solitary. Ironic really, but even the Ark couldn’t keep us alone 24 hours a day. She had the cell next to mine. I looked after her… I look after her”

“Sawyer?” Octavia appeared stepping into your body wrapping her arms around your waist and letting her head lay on your shoulder. You let one hand rest on the back of her head maintaining eye contact with Finn who was watching the pair of you carefully.

“You’re no killer” he mouthed silently before turning back to the others. Unfortunately he had no idea just how wrong he was, just how much of a killer you actually were. None of them did even Octavia.

 ********

“We’ve talked about this all night, someone just needs to hurry up and go first” you snatched the vine off of Finn who had been hesitating for what seemed like forever.

“No, wait…” it was Jasper and you looked at him impatiently. He reached out a hand unsteadily “let me?”

“Fine, go” you handed it over and watched as he took your place at the front.

Finn whispered something to him slapping him on the shoulder once. Jasper nodded and changing his grip once more screamed out “See you on the other side bitches” and took off, the vine held and in what seemed no time he was stood on the other side of the river, jumping about and waving his hands in the air.

You joined the others in celebrating, arm punching the sky as you smiled and threw an arm around Octavia’s shoulders as you waved at Jasper.

“Let’s go Princess your up” Finn shoved the rope at Clarke, who was on the edge of the cliff when something flew past your heads.

You all watched, unable to do anything as a wooden spear lodged itself in Jaspers chest, right under his sternum, he was thrown backwards with the force of the blow, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth. Octavia screamed in your ear as your grip on her tightened.

“JASPER!” Clarke was pulling at the hold Finn had on her as he pushed her to the floor.

“It came from behind us” you whispered to Finn putting Octavia behind you as you glanced back into the forest. “We’re not alone here”