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mairen-marionette · 2 years

Note

Random Ranbob headcanon:

His hair is white. Fully white.

It was long, reaching all the way to the lower part of his back, and he loved putting it in fun hairstyles with his brother when they lived together

But after Ran left, and Ranbob practically killed off the rest of Mizu, he cut it all the way to his shoulders, leaving it all tangled and unkept. If it grew long enough, he’d put it in messy braids and messy ponytails

If some of the old tales he heard growing up were true, then it meant that he and his idol had the same hair color, because while Dream was usually depicted as a green-eyed blond, there was also evidence that his hair may've actually been white- old photographs in which Dream's hair is visible in some way or another, descriptions of him in various accounts, etc. In general, it's mostly agreed that Dream's hair was a very light blonde, but him having silvery, moonlight white hair was never truly ruled out as a possibility.

The theory that Dream may've dyed his hair blond for reasons yet undetermined is one that was often seen and brought up from time to time. Any fabled resemblances to a certain deity that the Idols seemed to have worshipped were considered to be coincidental or deliberate on Dream's part- it was even posited that Dream derived his name from that god, possibly in an attempt to pass himself off as it's prophet, or that he was named for said god by his parents in an attempt to gain divine favor for their child. The fact that DreamXD was in fact very real and apparently took his appearance from Dream was never known nor considered a possibility.

the possibility of Dream having looked at least somewhat like him was yet another reason for Ranbob to love his own snowy hair, aside from it being very pretty and fun to play with. It was a small thing, but it was something Ranbob liked a lot. And besides, his hair was very pretty and was one major aspect of his appearance that he took pride in, and just about everyone knew that.

Often times, he wore his hair down or tied back a loose ponytail, but he was also known to wear it in a messy bun or in braids, especially for special events, special occasions- it wasn't often that the citizens of Mizu had reason to celebrate something aside from set holidays and anniversaries, so when the opportunity came, everyone went all out and Ranbob was no exception. While Ran didn't dress up too much but still looked nice, Ranbob was typically one of the most dolled up people there- though he did make sure he didn't outshine whoever was being centered in this celebration, assuming it was something like a wedding.

And if nothing else, he took care of his hair- even if Ranbob was visibly disheveled and sleep deprived from days and occasionally weeks spent in Mizu's archives extensively researching history, his lovely hair was always brushed and clean and gleaming. even if he was badly ill, he'd still make an attempt at keeping his hair somewhat maintained. He was very attached to his hair, and rarely let anyone else touch it.

So when, in the aftermath of that day, people noticed how much of a mess Ranbob's hair was now, well- it may've hit some of them just how badly the ordeal had affected him and caused some of those who had been there to see it to further question, well, everything they had grown up with.

The thing about making an example out of someone is that while the purpose may be to discourage others from following after them, to nip what could possibly be a revolt in the bud, is that it oftentimes instead makes them a martyr- and it certainly brings more attention to the issues at hand, things that may've otherwise gone largely unnoticed by the greater public had they simply been quietly brushed aside and discredited.

Seeing this drastic change in Ranbob's demeanor and appearance, seeing him go from someone vibrant and bright and eager to share everything he'd learned to anyone who would listen, to someone with dulled eyes and messy, dulled hair who was far, far quieter than he ever was before- it shook people, especially those who were young enough to have grown up with him, or even been taught by him. It was a fairly common practice to allow those who had completed their studies to then in turn teach those younger than them, even if only as an aide or tutor or substitute teacher. And the kids Ranbob taught adored him greatly- and were some of the few people he allowed to touch his hair, as long as they didn't mess it up or hurt him.

The fact that Ranbob taught his beliefs to children was one major reason he was punished so harshly and quicky- it's one thing to have discourse about this sort of thing with other adults, other scholars and historians. Had he only shared his discordant beliefs with his peers, he may've been forgiven. It was the fact that he taught the children he was entrusted with those same beliefs in addition to the history he was supposed to teach them that truly condemned him- because corrupting the youth is and always has been considered a dangerous thing, and that simply could not stand- not now, not then, not ever again. Those mistakes had been made before and cannot be allowed to happen again. If one must be sacrificed and hurt to prevent what the council saw as a repeat of past events, so be it.

Anyhow, after all was said and done with and Ranbob was alone in Mizu, he cut his hair short- a new era, a new start, a fresh start, for whatever may come after. He may not have put as much effort into his hair as he did before, but hey, he was still alive, wasn't he? And besides, he still has his idol- and everything was fine when it was just him and Dream. He was alone, but he was free, and he had his idol, and even now, even now, leaving Mizu is unthinkable to him.

...if he occasionally goes up to the surface and looks at the sky, if he ventures out to the shores of the mainland by boat but rarely exits the boat, that doesn't count as leaving- it's a daytrip, not leaving, and he always goes back. The wind in his hair and on his face feels nice though, and the sunshine is warm and the moon is pretty, even if the sight of just so much space out there sent him reeling and near panicking the first time he ventured out there alone. But aside from that, it's nice, getting to go outside.

He did end up growing his hair back out, and still takes the time to brush it out and keep it from tangling- after all, he always did like his hair, and since it's one trait he shares with his idol, he has to at least take good care of it.

#tales from the smp #tftsmp #ranbob #Thanks for the ask!#neon u dumb shxtty child #the c!dream having white hair headcanon is based off that one old skin of cc!dream's #this turned into lore sorry about that #long post

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dorminchu · 3 years

Text

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

“See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

“That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

#no time to die #madeleine swann #lyutsifer safin #several ocs #crime drama #fanfic #fanfiction #multichapter #canon is gonna joss this into the sun probably #haha... unless?#slow build

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scammerwarning · 2 years

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FAQ + vital info

Who are you / what is this blog?

This blog was created as a resource for updates, and to warn people about a serial scammer that has been operating since at least 2020, and keeps remaking fake donations, blogs, deleting as soon as they’re called out, and dodging the tumblr ban. They have accumulated thousands of dollars by scamming. This blog contains info, proof, and resources to help determine if the specific ask you got of someone begging you to reblog their donation post is this one, particular scammer. While the runner of this blog has called out multiple scammers in the past, this blog will contain only resources for one person in particular due to their repeated scamming.

Who is this scammer?

The scammer will be referred to as “Ivysour”, which is one of their usernames and one of the first blogs the mod has called out successfully, as we do not know their real name or gender, and they have repeatedly stole names and identities of other real people, or made fake ones. This scammer was the person behind the famous “Savemysister“ scam, which can be learned more on an archived page of the now-deleted blog donationscamwarning here. This scammer seems to be of Filipino heritage and operating in the Phillipines, as a large majority of their scams have stolen photos and identities from other Filipino people, and they frequently use Phillipine Pesos when asking for donations via paypal, as well as listing a gcash (a Phillipines based site) on multiple occasions, in addition to using Filipino phrases & seemingly using English as a second language. Please do not take this to mean that all Filipino fundraisers are scams, and do not let this discourage you from being generous & sympathetic to those who need help.

Savemysister was a scam started by someone who called themselves “Denneil” while running it, & who claimed their sister “Sharmaine” was deathly ill with Pulmonary Hypertension & needed donations for medical expenses and oxygen tanks, and set up a paypal, gcash, and gofundme. However, people began noticing discrepancies in their evidence provided and story: the full name of their “sister” was found on facebook, and contained photos of a woman who looked nothing like the sick woman in the “proof” photos of the savemysister blog. She also appeared to be healthy (unlike “Sharmaine” in the savemysister photos, who is bedridden in the hospital), and it was not elaborated upon why Sharmaine was not fundraising for herself if she is an adult (claimed age 22), or why the money fundraised was not going to her own account, but instead Denneil’s. Denneil/Ivysour also refused to answer almost any questions regarding the legitimacy of their fundraiser (including ones directly accusing them of being a scammer or simply asking for more proof), and utilized bots (often ones where the letter o’s were replaced with zeros) to send out spam asks to get people to reblog their fundraising post. They repeatedly used the same photos over and over, never provided more proof, and never updated on the situation on the alleged health of Sharmaine for 2 years. After multiple people calling out, with proof, of this being a scam, the official, first savemysister blog deactivated (though there are still some blogs floating around that were run by Denneil/ivysour). The savemysister gofundme has accumulated $14,000+ USD thus far and is still up.

Since savemysister’s deactivation, and since it had become widely known as a scam on tumblr, new blogs started popping up run by the same person, because people had stopped donating to them as often. One of the first of these to be called out was the blog Ivysour (see the original calllout post, with images of the original ivysour blog here). These blogs all claimed to be donating for a friend, a family member, or for someone the fundraiser had an undisclosed relationship with, and oftentimes it was for Pulmonary Hypertension (the same thing savemysister claimed their “Sister” was suffering from), with very similar language and wording as the savemysister blog. Two other such blogs were abbiegails & floresdj, but the paypal name associated with the respective blogs were different. The photos used as “proof” for the abbiegails account were also stolen, and the woman in the photo was suffering from end of life renal disease, not pulmonary hypertension. While the blog Ivysour moved a few times & remade (with some of their blogs still being up), the other two deleted soon after being called out, and more blogs started began popping up suddenly asking for donations. This scammer has increased their tactics and blogs for scamming since then.

How we know all these multiple blogs (& others that will be listed here) were run by the same person is due to behavior, tactics, paypals used, names used, photos/identities & real fundraisers (that were hijacked by the scammer) being found that were proven to be stolen, & behavior at being called out which link up with each other. These blogs have been carefully monitered, thoroughly investigated, and called out both by this blog’s mod, and others over time, with multiple forms of proof accumulated over the years, which will be documented here. This blog will list such tactics, how to spot them, which urls/names/paypals/language/photos have been associated with the scammer, because they’ve used them so often.

Is Ivysour the same person as Laura Deramas?

While Ivysour has been referred to as some and believed to be the same person as another person accused (with proof) of being a scammer, Laura Deramas, this blog does not believe they are the same person, and will operate as such. There is some evidence to suggest they are two seperate people, mainly due to their tactics and way of speaking.

So what can I do to help?

Links/resources:

Here is a list of the urls that have been used by Ivysour for scamming, most of which have been deactivated shortly after being called out. This list is likely not complete of every url that ivysour has used, and there may be others out there.

Here is a list of very common red flags that this scammer frequently has as behaviors when operating their scams, and have been used in the past. If you suspect a blog of being ivysour, they should meet multiple of these red flags. Use this as a helpful checklist to aid you in spotting out a potential scam, but do note that this is an accumulation of documented & observed behaviors over a period of time, an Ivysour has frequently changed up their tactics when being called out in order to avoid detection, and so their tactics may change up more in the future.

Here are common scripts or format that the scammer uses in their scam posts, and phrases they often use when asking for donations

here is a list of paypals & names they have used (some belonging to real people who’s identities they have stolen & have nothing to do with their scams; please respect their privacy) when scamming

Here are frequent ask messages they have sent out via bot spam in order to get people to reblog their scams. You can copy and paste the full ask message into tumblr search, which should give you results of people answering asks with the message you pasted, and often you will find this exact message sent by multiple different blogs (often pretending to be different people fundraising for different things). If you see this, it’s a scam

#links to be updated

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starsbegantofall · 3 years

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events and how they have been... eventing

Something I have been trying to keep in mind since 2021 started and I realized, “we’re not getting out of this pandemic, not truly,” I wanted to live my best life. Obviously my 2020 efforts to make true and lasting change in this country amounted to almost nothing in the end, but hey, I tried my best to help others beyond my career during the pandemic, that must count for something.

This year, I imagined that every 2 weeks is my last 2 weeks to live, that I contracted the deadly variant of coronavirus on top of some other illness, therefore I need to live for myself (living for others did not work out lol) so I can leave this mortal coil with no regrets. I put together a bucket list of the simpler things I felt I could easily accomplish, and used social media to try to keep myself accountable and on track.

If ya really nosy, read below

1. aesthetic design journey - I wanted to spruce up where I live so that I’m happy living and sleeping in it, hence I am making monthly blog posts to help motivate me. Work from home depends on a clean and pleasant environment, very important. Related, I am also reading books on gardening and konmari and attempting a few things. Am I making much progress? No, but at least it was better than the totally ugly mess before.

2. sewing projects - I dug out a gifted notebook from decades ago I never used and listed all of my sewing projects so that if I died, at least that notebook was loved, and I made some progress on my sewing. there’s mending and cosplay and lolita on the list, but I also want to make some normie wearable clothing to give a personal flair to my closet that isn’t from a corporation. Like pajamas and blouses or shorts/skirts.

2a. historical costuming - some lolitas I followed moved onto historical costuming (I guess so they can go to ultra fancy balls that lolitas would not normally go to , pre-pandemic of course), and I wanted to try my hand at one to test my sewing skills. currently working on an 18th century court gown wearable test muslin, not sure if I want to invest in real silk for a final gown until I know I can handle sewing it.

2b. use up fabric and materials that needs using up - as I began reorganizing my old costumes, I decided to do my best to sew up from my fabric stash before moving on and buying more fabric. I already failed at this (twice this year lol) but those are the last two times, I promise!

3. other hobbies - over the years I accumulated a lot of random craft materials that I never really used. no more! I did some cross stitch embroidery, badge rosettes, resin crafting, pressed flowers, and paper clay sculpting this year. Would like to work on painting and calligraphy, markers and multimedia, more clay sculpting, plastic crafts, floral arrangements, book making, leather work, as well as graphic design and programming for my own video games.

4. cooking - a carry over from 2020, trying new recipes regularly, both Asian cuisine and whatever ingredients are in season. This is my favorite past time, even if some of the recipes turn out mediocre, many of them are better (taste and nutrition-wise) than the fast food I would be getting otherwise, and also don’t give me (as much) food poisoning.

5. finishing any of my several unfinished fics that are literally on the last chapter but haven’t been touched in years and ppl keep asking me about them. I think about them constantly but the words do not appear on the document. Every weekend I tell myself I’ll work on them but I don’t. I don’t.

6. rework my website... not sure if I really want to do this at all lol. but I bought the domain, so I really should migrate my blogs over for archival sake.

7. 2 pieces of “finished” art a month, one of them related to videogames so that my yearly art survey won’t have holes in it - I somehow failed to finish 2 this month, but technically I drew more than 2 drawings, just one of them was a comic and not post-worthy. Really, I need to stop procrastinating until the 25th lol

8. learn Chinese and Vietnamese - aka make use of the Rosetta account I paid money for

9. use up the “good stuff” - wear that new nail polish, light those fancy candles you never light, bring out those shoes that are uncomfortable but look awesome, drink that wine or eat that candy, take selfies just because. life is short and miserable.

This is a lot of stuff, but I’ve made a fair amount of progress halfway through 2021. I would say almost every 2 weeks and definitely every month I’ve checked something off my list that I could be proud of should I die from coronavirus complications the next day. And that’s what is important to me.

Whether or not you found this list entertaining, I will try to make wrap-up posts every other month for anyone wanting to go on this journey with me. Otherwise, I hope people at least stay healthy and take care of themselves as best as they can.

#work in progress

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jasonrae117 · 4 years

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Night at the Wayne Casino

PART 6

Here we are, Part 6! Sorry this doesn't have much in the damirae department, but there will be more! I also wanted to see if anyone would be interested in a sort of behind the scenes chapter of the more mature stuff (what happened in Damian's suite) etc. that happens throughout. I'd post it on my ao3 account for those that want to read something ~saucy~ like that. Let me know! 💙💜💚

Damian had dressed himself and wanted to drown himself in his work. His mind was pulled in every direction and he was utterly conflicted. He had stared blankly out the window for an hour trying to process everything that had happened since the party and where it had all gone so wrong. Of course he knew it was his fault that his plan backfired. He had slipped and slept with the demon he was trying to expose.

It was strange, he felt less motivated to bring her down, and the thoughts that occupied his mind when he recalled their… encounter, were about how badly he wanted to fix things, not about figuring out her next move as it should have been.

He had forgone his morning workout, seeing as though he and Raven took care of that some hours before and he had slept in late. He figured he may as well head in early to work because he desperately wanted the distraction.

He was almost in the clear to the security office when a large figure accompanied by a smiling face intercepted him.

“Jon, now is not the time.” Damian tried to brush past him, but Jon was quick and kept his pace and swung an arm around his shoulders.

“There’s always time for your best friend, especially when you need to tell him all the details from last night.” He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and Damian scoffed at him.

“Grow up Kent. I don’t have to tell you anything. It wasn’t official business, therefore I have no need to brief you on what happened. Not that anything did.” He was quick to throw in the last part to avoid any misunderstandings of his words.

“Aw, c’mon Dami, this isn’t work. I wanna know as one of the guys, as your best friend. That’s got to give me some clearance to what’s going on in there.” Jon used the arm around his shoulders to pull him down and ruffle his hair.

Damian grunted and forced himself out of Jon’s grip. He straightened his collar and ran a hand through his now unkempt hair. “Being an asshole won’t get you anything. Besides there’s nothing to tell. I observed her and besides countless men hitting on her, there unfortunately wasn’t anything suspicious. Now would you leave me alone.”

“And how exactly would you know that I’m lying?” Damian had stopped his movements and his voice was low. almost threateningly so.

“Damian,” he whined. “You can trust me. I know when you’re lying… well sorta, but the point is I know you’re not telling the truth.” He crossed his arm over his chest and looked down at him.

A nervous laughter escaped Jon and he sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Well...you see I kinda sorta was monitoring people coming and going from the elevator on that floor. It was a slow night and Dick had everything under control.”

“What exactly do you think you saw?”

“I saw you show up and a few hours later I spotted Raven. Then I saw you both enter the elevator together and uh...get close. Then you both left pretty excitedly, and well...one can only assume.” He trailed off.

“Well your assumption is incorrect.” Damian growled out. Internally Damian was panicking, he didn’t want to lie to Jon, but it was his only chance to get out of this mess unscathed.

“Damian,” Jon almost sounded disappointed, “I tried to give you the chance to tell me on your own but you’ve given me no choice.”

“What are you-”

“Raven told me everything. Well everything from her perspective. And I gotta admit bud, you don’t look too good.” Jon shrugged dismissively and began to walk away. Damian, however, was stunned. She had gone to his best friend to get her story in first so it would be harder to prove ill intentions, that sneaky witch.

“Whatever she said is probably a lie. Some fantastical story she made up to make me look bad.”

“As much as I want to believe you, and truly I do...I can’t help but feel that her story sounded fairly accurate. Given how well I know you.”

“What the hell does that mean? Tell me what she told you!”

“I have no obligation to brief you on what she said, best friend or not.” Great Jon was being cheeky. What the hell was with people finding a way to use his own words against him?

“Jon, you tell me now or so help me.” Damian snatched his by the front of his shirt, not caring that it would leave it a wrinkly mess.

“Fine, fine, relax. We’ll talk in the security office.” Jon frowned at his wrinkled shirt but reluctantly followed Damian to their shared office.

This one was slightly different from the room Tim used. It had two desks each with a state of the art computer that also had access to the security camera feed. Behind each desk were large cabinets of files from all cases they’ve had throughout the years. Tim’s had more of the recent and ongoing hardcopies, but they were shared electronically, this office was more of an archive section. It also doubled as a semi-interrogation room.

Damian took his seat behind the desk and folded his hands together as if preparing to listen to a business report. Jon on the other hand was pacing until he settled for leaning against his own desk. Damian looked at him expectantly and stayed silent waiting for Jon to begin.

“So..uh, Raven said that she showed up to the party late because she was trying to get ready but was interrupted by her boss. When she got there, all sorts of guys were approaching her which was starting to get on her nerves until you popped up.” Damian leaned forward gaining interest. “She was surprised to see you there and not on duty. She mentioned that you were handsome and charming by the way.” A heat rose to his ears. “Then she said after a drink and some flirting you invited her back to your suite. She was pretty excited when she was telling me this. She told me that she thought you were hot when she ran into you that first night...so uh there’s that. Now where was I?”

“Raven was excited that I invited her to my suite.” Saying it outloud made it too real and his blush deepened as he cleared his throat. He held a hand up gesturing for Jon to continue.

“Get on with it Kent.” This was absolutely humiliating, having their night together thrown back in his face by his friend.

“Oh right, well then she said you made the first move, kissing her and adamantly trying to remove her clothes. Apparently you ripped her dress?” Damian glanced away and tugged at his collar. He remembered being so impatient with the material, he wasn’t sure how to properly take it off, he just knew it needed to come off. “So that’s a yes. Anyway, then after hours of screwing her, of which I must commend you, she said you were quite formidable and were very attentive, you both were tuckered out and fell asleep. She said she asked if you wanted her to go, but you ignored her and cuddled...Who knew Damian Wayne cuddled?”

“Geez alright. Well then she gets up in the morning to take a shower and clean up and when she comes out you are right outside the door completely shocked. At first she thought you had been drunk and forgot what had happened but it turns out that you were aware and had completely dismissed what had happened between you two.”

“I wouldn’t say I dismissed it-”

“You said it was a misstep.”

“I-”

“Did you not?”

“I mean I did, but I was being honest!” Damian rose to his feet.

“You weren’t being honest, you were being an asshole. Then you get mad at her for using your computer! Like what the actual hell?”

“She wasn’t supposed to use it, and now she had access to the security footage and who knows what she did with that access.” His eyes went wide as he took in Jon’s face. Jon’s eyebrows were furrowed and his head tilted while he was processing what Damian had just revealed. I guess she didn’t tell him why I was pissed that she used my computer. He had just told Jon on his own.

“Why do you have the feed transmitting to your personal computer?” Jon pushed off against the desk and was now standing, only a desk separating the two.

“I like to know what’s going on around the casino.” He shrugged.

“Damian, this is serious. That is totally not acceptable. It certainly isn’t protocol, and it breaks at least a dozen policies. Do you think I can’t do my job well enough without you?”

“Jon, it isn't about that. I just like doing my job. My computer software is encrypted so nobody can access it or see it unless I want them to.”

“Nobody except Raven.”

“That was an accident. I didn’t lock the program. It won’t happen again.”

“Damian, it shouldn’t have happened at all! You’re supposed to be the leader. You sure as hell have given the rest of us enough lectures about what’s acceptable and what’s not. And then you have been doing this the whole time? Do I even want to know what other shit you might be doing off the clock?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“You need help Damian, that or a stable relationship.”

“Would you stop!”

“You need to make this right.”

“I can’t get rid of the software Jon. You’ll never know how helpful it has been in keeping this casino safe.”

“Yeah, but it’s not right. Think about if it got out! Huh? We could be in so much trouble and in lawsuits up to our eyeballs.”

Damian hadn’t thought too much on the matter, he always assumed he would never be caught. The failures kept piling on.

“And that’s not the only thing I’m talking about fixing.” Jon sighed. Damian just shot him a quizzical look. “I’m talking about Raven. It’s clear you’re attracted to her and she is to you. You’re letting your stupid overanalytical brain mess up something potentially good for you.”

“She’s not ‘good’ for me, I hardly know her.”

“You seem to have gotten to know her fairly well last night.” Damian glared at him. “In any case, you can’t leave it like this. You were wrong about her and treated her like an ass. You need to apologize.”

“She’ll be gone in two days, what do I care how she feels about me or if she’s upset? This is her first time and probably last time in Vegas. I’ll never see her again.” The prospect of that statement made something inside twinge strangely.

“You could try to see her again. You know, long distance relationships. Who knows she may live somewhere close.”

“She lives in Seattle.” Jon looked at him surprised. “What? She was a suspect and I needed more background on her.”

“Hmm...funny, you said she was a suspect. Are you finally relinquishing that crazy theory?” He now smiled broadly, seeing that Damian was finally coming around.

“I suppose she has shown no more clear signs of being a threat.”

“Great! So will you go apologize to her now?” The peppy and energetic Jon had returned much to his dismay.

“I’m not using company time for personal matters.” He spoke flatly.

“Well then, I guess it’s a good thing that you’re not on the clock for another hour and a half. Now go, before I force you, and that will just be more embarrassing for you.”

“Please Kent, you can’t force me to do anything. But I suppose that I can’t leave an unhappy guest if it’s my doing.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever gets you to do it.”

Damian dragged his hand over his face and groaned. He hated apologizing, he hadn’t had much experience since he rarely found times that he was wrong and the situation actually called for it. He moved to the door to begin his quest.

“Oh, and we’ll have a discussion about the use of company software on personal devices later.” Jon had called after him.

The door shut behind his and his shoulder slumped. He could feel a headache coming on. Well, I better get this over with so I can get on with my life and get to work. He guessed that she would still be in her room avoiding the risk of running into him so soon after their fight. He stopped by the cafe and picked up an order of tea and a chocolate croissant as a peace offering and then made his way to her room.

Suddenly he was right in front of her door and he realized that he hadn’t even thought about what he was going to say. His throat felt dry and he seemed to be too warm. This is a bad idea, she doesn't want to see me. She probably doesn't even care. What if she isn’t even in her room? He paced outside for a few minutes before he heard a muffled voice coming from the inside of her room. He felt only slightly creepy as he pressed his ear to the door to listen to what was being said. It was definitely her voice and an indistinct voice on the phone.

“Yes, I’ve gotten quite a bit of research done, but it’s not quite going the way I wanted.” The other person sounded irritated by the inflection of the muffled sounds. “The participants gave me some information, but none of it is really useful for us. Perhaps we should look elsewhere….I don’t know maybe another casino? Look, it’s your job to find someplace we can actually work with. It’s my job to survey and collect data and tell you if it's worth the investment or not.” The voice grew louder and he heard a loud exhale from the woman. “I’m telling you that I don’t see a good outcome of working at this casino, and that’s my professional opinion. Have I ever let you down?” She was clearly agitated. “Great, I’ll be coming home Tuesday and I’ll wrap up my report by the weekend.”

The creak of the bed signaled that she was done with the conversation and had sat on the bed most likely out of annoyance and irritation. Was it really the best time now? Now or never he supposed. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A moment passed before the door finally swung open revealing a tired looking Raven. Her hair was thrown up into a messy bun and there was a small smudge of mascara under her eyes. Most intriguing to him, however, was the navy silk robe she was wearing. You’re not here for that. She cocked her hip and raised her eyebrow in question.

“Damian.” She said curtly.

“Miss Roth. I came to..uh..apologize.” He held out the now barely warm tea and croissant. Her face lit up with surprise taking the items into her own hands. She still eyed him skeptically, but took a step back gesturing with her hand that held the croissant for him to enter.

“Sorry for the mess, I’m between packing up for my return trip and figuring out what to wear tonight.”

“I’m sorry for my intrusion to your plans, maybe I should come back-”

“No.” She commanded. “You came here for a reason, and so you should see that through. I’m intrigued.” She took a sip of the tea and scrunched her nose a bit before hastily putting it down onto the nightstand. She proceeded to sit on the bed criss crossing her legs, allowing the robe to split open revealing lacy underwear. Damian quickly averted his eyes to her smirking face and his throat suddenly felt tight and his face felt hot.

He cleared his throat and began pacing, keeping his attention away from her alluring body.

"The way I proceeded with our engagement earlier was unjustified and I regret that I upset you. As a guest of our resort, it is my priority to make sure you are happy and content with your stay here." He chanced a glance at her face and was surprised to see it held astonishment and something close to disgust.

"You've got to be fucking joking." Damian blinked dumbly at her not understanding. "You're not...wow. Ok, try doing this," she spun her finger around indicating his speech, "again, but this time be a fucking man and talk to me like Damian. Not the head of security or son of the CEO. Otherwise get the fuck out."

Her face turned red with fury and she stood. Her arm shot out pointing to the door. "Get the fuck out now!"

Damian swallowed, he hated this. He hated that Jon convinced him to do this. "Fine, I'm sorry that I fucked you." The words had left his mouth in a rush and he even shocked himself at how it came out. He spun to her hoping he didn't just royaly fuck up this apology. Jon is going to kill me.

"Wait no. Raven, listen."

"You're not listening. I said get out, or do I have to call your friend to get you out. How dare you come here and say that to me."

"Would you stop. That's not how I meant it. I don't regret doing it, I regret how it came about."

She looked bewildered. "What do you mean how it came about?"

Shit, this is why he meant to come prepared. Well no use in hiding it now. "I wished it had happened naturally, like you and Tim." The words were bitter in his mouth and she licked her lips looking off to the side. "I...I was following a lead that you were a suspect in conning our casino."

Raven's head snapped to look at him, mouth open slightly. She shook her head and rubbed at her temples. "You're telling me that all of our encounters haven't been accidental and you've been stalking me because you think I was going to pull a fast one over your casino?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Who was in on this?"

"Tim actually logged it first when you had been winning probably more times than usual. But he quickly dismissed you, particularly when he found out you were single. The others in security knew about you because they were doing their jobs, but they didn't believe it to be true. And the girls at the spa knew after when I discussed it with them. Admittedly I was the last one unconvinced." He cast his stare at the floor finally feeling guilty at his stubbornness. Saying it out loud, he could hear how foolish he had been.

She released a humorless laugh. "Wow. I...I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. I am sorry for how I behaved. I see the errors of my ways. I convinced myself you were still a suspect so that I had an excuse to learn more about you and get closer to you."

"If I wasn't so pissed off right now I'd say that's kinda romantic in a stalkerish kind of way." A ghost of a smile graced her lips.

"I know you're scheduled to leave Tuesday, but would you consider accepting a free four night stay? We'd even reimburse your plane ticket. Though we may have to upgrade your room if there's a reservation on it."

"Excuse me?"

"We'll the girls want you to join them for their plans on Friday. And it's the least we can to make up for the time you wasted being bothered by all of us. Namely me." He didn't know what made him offer her these things. He had never done such a thing for any other guest and it was actually a rather expensive apology.

Raven pursed her lips trying to weigh her options. "I suppose it would be foolish not to accept. But is your father alright with comping this?"

"I rarely care what my father is alright with. I'll see to it myself that it is all taken care of." He shuffled around a bit before nodding in her direction and making his way toward the door.

"Damian wait!" He stopped and watched her jog a few steps, closing their distance.

She fiddled with her hands as if trying to decide whether to use them or not. Damian quirked an eyebrow at this and just watched with anticipation. "I accept your apology." Her eyes were still on the floor.

"Thank you, I suppose I should leave you alone now." Raven's hands on his chest halted his exit.

He looked down into her mesmerizing indigo eyes and saw how they gleamed with mischief. She bit her lower lip and turned her gaze to her hands running smoothly over the plane of his chest sending a trickle of electricity through his body.

"What if I don't want you to leave me alone? I can think of another way you can make sure I hear your apology." Her eyes looked up at him through her dark lashes with a coy smile on her lips.

Damian smirked in response and pulled her in, relishing the way her body feels against his. He leaned in keeping a fraction of space between their lips. He could feel her chest rise and fall with heavy and excited breaths.

"Where do I begin?"

#raven #teen titans #damian wayne #damirae #demonbirds #robrae #night at the wayne casino #casino au #jon kent

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skvaderarts · 3 years

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Hiraeth Chapter 44: Archival

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Forty-Four: Archival

Notes: Hey everyone, sorry I had to push back the last chapter on such short notice! I just honestly forgot how many days it was until my mom’s birthday and I wanted to give her all of my attention! Thanks for all the birthday wishes! She loved them!

(-~-)

The next day…

Honestly, the youngest living descendant of the Dark Knight Sparda couldn’t remember the last time that he’d seen snow outside of the Lamina mountain range. It had truly been a sight to see when they had arrived just a few hours ago at the crack of dawn, long before the majority of the townspeople had crawled out of their beds and made their way into the streets. They would be in for a rude awakening, much as poor Kyrie had been when he’d accidentally woken her up so early.

When the van had pulled up in front of the house, he had been surprised to see Kyrie standing in the doorway less than a minute later, clearly barely awake and not fully registering just how cold it was outside. The poor young woman had her robe halfway on, the cool night air kissing her exposed skin. To say that she was not thermally prepared for a light blizzard would be a bit of an understatement.

She’d nearly tripped down the stairs as she met Nero halfway, nearly leaping on him in excitement as she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. No one needed to ask if she had missed him during his time away or if the young songstress had been worried about him. It was clear for anyone to see that she had nothing but love in her heart for Nero.

Kyrie had greeted V warmly as well, noting that it had been some time since she’d seen him, and that she hoped that things had been well for him in the interim. The young summoner had decided against mentioning his new ailment to her, preferring to not give her something else to worry about. Literally everything and everyone else was enough already. Instead, he simply reassured her that he was more or less content, something that wasn’t a lie. Curse or otherwise, he was at peace for perhaps the first time in his entire life. He would relish that.

After wishing her well, he, Nico, and Flora boarded the van again and headed back to the mainland, stating that they needed to do something with the scroll that Magnolia’s sister had gifted V after they dropped Dante off at his office. He had been asleep the entire time in the back of the van, and considering the circumstances, they had collectively chosen not to awaken him. Nero and Kryie wished them a safe trip and told them that they would contact the rest of the group if they happened to hear from Vergil, and then they went inside, eager to spend some quality time with one another for at least a few hours. That was the most that they were going to get with three kids in the house.

But now hours later, he was headed towards the last place that he wanted to set foot in again in order to complete an errand that V had requested of him. And he would have company. Apparently, there was still some work to be done at Fortuna castle, this time on behalf of the Ludwig family. It seemed that both they and V were keen to preserve as many of the books in the private library as possible. Admirable enough on paper, but still a miserable trek through the snow either way.

Just as he approached the ruined front gate to the castle’s bridge, a familiar face emerged from the frosty fog a few yards ahead of him, seemingly unperturbed by the extreme circumstances. It was Sirrus, here at the behest of both parties involved to help him do… something. Nero wasn’t sure he really truly understood, but he was certain that the adjudicator probably did and that he could fill him in while they headed towards the library. He wasn’t even going to ask how he beat him there. He’d been at the Ludwig estate long enough to know the answer to that question.

“Well, aren’t we a sight for sore eyes? It’s good to see you again so soon, Nero.” “I hope you’ll pardon my temporary departure. I had to go speak with my superiors. They summoned me, so there was no avoiding it, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, Sirrus. So that’s where you went right before we left, hu? Makes sense, I guess. How did it go, then?” Nero had had the feeling when they’d told him he’d be working with one of them again soon that it would be the powerful redhead with the dry humor, and it turned out he had been correct. Score one for Nero.

“Oh, I’d say it did. They don’t trust me as far as they can throw me, but that just comes with the territory, I’m afraid. But we can talk about it in more detail once we’re inside. This frigid wind isn’t exactly unfamiliar, but it’s still a bit much. I’m not keen on staying exposed to the elements for any longer than I have to be.”

Nero nodded. Now that was something that they could agree on. He just hoped that the swarm of cutlass that had been here last time had taken up residence somewhere else, or at least retreated back into the depths of Agnus’s laboratory. He didn’t feel like shooting every demon in this damn castle again. He had things to do today.

(-~-)

In truth, the marking made no sense to him.

Whatever Sirrus was doing seemed completely foreign and mystical to him, probably because it involved the use of some more arcane knowledge that he hadn’t the slightest idea about. He’d never even known that something like this existed until just recently, so seeing someone actually perform it was entirely new. In truth, he’d seen evidence of its presence in action before in this very castle when one took into account the many elaborate puzzles and traps that seemed to utilize an unknown source of power, but he hadn’t really put much thought into it at the time.

But now? Well, he couldn’t help but wonder who had put them in place. Surely someone from the Order, but that didn’t mean much in regards to figuring out who actually did it. He didn’t know most of the people in the higher echelons of the ill-fated Order of the Sword. That was by design. And as for what they were capable of and where some of them had disappeared to after things had gone down the way that they had? He was none the wiser. But he wished that he knew. He had some choice words for them. And probably a few bullets.

“So… how does this work? I mean, if you can do that, then why not just go back and forth to wherever you want to go like this?” Nero watched curiously as Sirrus fiddled with some sort of book, marking out a circle with several symbols upon it on the floor. A triangle overlapped it, forming a curious visual that he couldn’t say he’d seen before. The Adjudicator glanced up at him for a moment, seemingly acknowledging that he was benign spoken to but unable to maintain eye contact.

“As much as I’d love to, that’s not how this works. Only inanimate objects can pass through a portal such as this, and it requires two people in two different locations to just to be opened in the first place and to remain stable” Sirrus shrugged nonchalantly, working on some sort of symbol that he was marking out on the floor with white chalk. Nero had no idea what it meant, but he knew that it had to be magic in some way, shape, or form. “Your father’s blade is undeniably unique. It honestly fascinates me. I’d ask him to take a look, but I worry based on his rather unique answering conventions that he might literally give me exactly what I’m asking for.”

He went quiet for a short while at the mention of Vergil. It hadn’t really occurred to him until then that he actually missed his somewhat short-tempered and unpredictable father. None of them had yet to hear anything back from Vergil, and that fact alone was cause for concern. It wasn’t so much that he was the sort to check-in and ask for permission to complete a task. Far from it. But at least they normally knew where he was headed.

“You're probably in the clear. He only stabs people he’s related to these days. Well mostly. I even saw him spare someone once who helped kidnap V. Couldn’t tell you what was going through his head at the time, but he’s okay some of the time.” Nero allowed his mind to wander for a moment, pondering his wayward father’s current location. He couldn’t imagine that he was in danger. After all, he had been through worse before, and this time he at least had Yamato. Surely he would return soon.

And yet…

“Do you think I should be worried that he’s not back yet?”

“Sighing softly, Sirrus took a moment to consider his question before shaking his head. “If he indeed went to where you think he might have, then I suspect not. Time works differently across the Trinity of Realities, and I suspect that very little time has passed wherever he is, if any at all. There are rare places where time simply doesn’t seem to pass at all.”

“No shit, really? I heard something like that but… ” He stopped. Not really sure what else to say. They nodded to one another and then returned to sorting out the book in the room. It was best that they keep their minds busy.

Adding additional food for thought, Sirrus spoke again. “And unlike my father, yours seems to possess the capacity to actually care about another living being. He seems to find it trying a considerable majority of the time, but he possesses the desire to love and be loved nonetheless. There is hope yet for him. I think you’re in a good place. I like to hope that whatever tension there is between you can be worked out in the end.”

“I hope you're right. Any chance of working it out with yours?”

A humorless look crossed his face. As he looked through the younger devil hunter instead of at him, seeing him but at the same time, not seeing him at all. It was as if his eyes and his brain were not fully communicating. He fell quiet for a moment, fidgeting slightly. “... I’m afraid not. Any hope of that outcome dissolved after what happened between him and Aluta.”

Nero knew enough to not press the issue any further, even if he was somewhat quiet. After close to a minute of silence, Sirrus glanced at him momentarily before speaking again, not keen on keeping whatever was on his mind buried there any longer.

“Generally speaking, it’s in poor taste to date someone younger than your own children. If nothing else, it causes a fair bit of tension.”

Taking a moment to register that statement, Nero continued to try and organize the books, eager to not spend the entire day in this library. As much as he knew that V would disagree with his sentiments, he had to admit that he was glad that most of the books were old and damaged in this part of the library. There were at least a dozen extra-large moving boxes filled with books, each one weighing about a hundred pounds.

Oh, how Nero hoped that his brother wouldn’t find a way to hurt himself by moving them around his house. But deep down, he knew that he would. It wasn’t so much that V was clumsy as it was that he was simply unfortunate, and if his little move had gone the way that it had, he was sure that this would go much the same. Or perhaps he would learn from his previous mistakes and opt into a much more cautious approach this time around? Who was to say? He was smart, after all, and Flora was there to assist him. He could only imagine that, given the size of V’s house, that they would be taking the majority of the books. That was probably for the best, all things considered. V would get nothing done with that many books in his house.

Nero then paused for a moment, his brow furrowing as something occurred to him that hadn’t until just then. He turned and looked over at Sirrus, registering the fact that he was quickly sorting through an entire bookshelf and stacking the books into two different boxes. Nero had been doing the same, but at a much slower rate. It turned out that it was difficult to categorize and sort books that you couldn’t fucking read. Big surprise there.

“Hold on a second… Did you just say…”

“That I am older than Aluta? Yes. Yes, I did. Because I am.” Sirrus chuckled slightly, continuing to pick up books, gently flip through them, and then place them into their requisite boxes. He seemed to find something enormously entertaining about Nero’s flabbergasted demeanor, carefully concealing his amusement so as to not come off as a smug jerk. Well, at least not more than he was sure he already did most of the time. He silently hoped that he wasn’t actually as insufferable as he assumed that he was. He just lacked social skills.

Leaning over to take a closer look at the smarmy redhead, the youngest Descendant of Sparda made no effort to conceal his deep-seated confusion at this revelation. How could that be possible? Sirrus looked the same age that he and V looked, and while Aluta didn’t look particularly old herself, he knew that she had to be at least old enough to be his mother due to the singular fact Vergil had known her as a teen when he himself had been one at the same time, albeit slightly older than her. For him to be even a year older than her implied that he aged even better than Vergil, and that didn’t seem physically possible for a normal human being.

Oh, that was right. Sirrus had stated before that he wasn’t human, hadn’t he? Back on Vie De Marli What had his words been back then? “I am not what you are” or something like that? He’d implied early into their working relationship that he wasn’t even remotely human, so that made the possibility of him being something capable of living longer and aging slower logical. But then that once again raised the question as to what he actually was. Nero couldn’t think of any other beings in their world that looked so… human. If he wasn’t technically a demon and he wasn’t at all human, then what the hell was he? What else was there?

Clearly noticing that Nero was staring him up and down like he’d grown a second head, Sirrus laughed in earnest. It wasn’t every day that he got to see someone look at him like that. Most of the people that he spent time around didn’t know enough about him to even inquire into things like his age. At most, he was occasionally asked about his accent if he allowed it to slip, but aside from that, people didn’t really give a damn about his personal life. Or him, for that matter. Adjudicators worked solo on most endeavors. They had no reason to get to know one another.

“You seem shocked to have learned this, Nero. Do I look a bit young for my age?”

Giving him a sideways look, Nero looked down at the floor for a moment before shaking his head and sighing, returning to stacking books. This had been a weird few weeks. No doubt about it. Ever since the Redgrave Incident, he’d had a very hard time understanding what was going on. So much had been thrown at him all at once, and he was still grappling with a good deal of it.

“Poor V,” He thought to himself. “I’ve got it pretty rough, but he was just minding his own business walking around, and then he just woke up in the middle of this nightmare. He had to do whatever he could just to stay alive, and then to find out that he wasn’t even totally human and then die and come back just for this stupid demon prince bastard to come after him? He doesn’t deserve any of this. Neither of us does.”

But they were going to work it out. Of that, he was sure. And this somehow would assist in that endeavor. When V had told the Ludwigs about these books, they had seemed very interested, and he genuinely hoped that they did find something interesting or useful about their opponent in these volumes. At the very least, relocating them somewhere more secure so that they were out of the hands of undesirables forever was a good place to start. All they would do is sit here and rot if anyone worth their salt in Fortuna had anything to say about it.

“Smartass,” Nero said with a genuine laugh, admittedly somewhat amused by Sirrus’s extremely sarcastic and rhetorical question. Slowly but surely he was starting to understand his dry sense of humor. Or, at least, he was starting to understand why V understood it so well. The two of them seemed to get along pretty well. Nero was glad that his slightly older sibling seemed to have made something close to a friend. He could be so unintentionally antisocial at times despite the fact that he knew deep down that V didn’t want to be and probably just wanted companionship. Poor guy.

“What can I say, you're not wrong,” Sirrus said with a soft laugh, smiling gently but with a slight tinge of something else. Was that sadness? It was difficult to say. Despite his normally straightforward demeanor, he was hard to read. “Let’s finish up here and head back to the mainland. I have something that I think might help lift you and your brother’s spirits a bit. We could all use a distraction from time to time. What do you say?”

Nero shrugged, more or less fine with that option. He could always double back with Nico once they were finished. They couldn’t really do much more until they found out where his father had disappeared to, anyway. Right now, everything hinged on his return. None of them were going to formulate a plan that he wasn’t included in. He and V knew the most about their opponent. For now, they would bide their time and try to remain reasonably calm.

“You know what? Fine by me. Let’s go. V needs to get out of the house and go do something. I think he’s starting to develop a phobia of stores or something.”

(-~-)

Wow, this one was on time for some reason. I don’t understand what happened. By the way, for those of you who read Saudade, this is the night where they go to the furniture store and Sirrus covertly buys V all that furniture. I figured that some of you might be wondering that. What’s that? None of you were? Oh. Well, anyway-

Happy Wednesday or whatever! Hope you’ve had a good week so far. I’ve been trying to branch out into freelance writing because I live in a conservative anti-vax hellhole where people protest the administration of a vaccine at all, refused to wear masks despite being one of the highest case areas in the entire country, and I refuse to work another low paying retail or fast food job and put my fragile lungs in harm's way only to still not be able to afford my rent.

I’ll keep you all posted on that in case it means I have to shift the upload schedule. It probably won’t, but I just thought I’d let you know. Let me know if any of you have any pointers or advice in regards to working in that field. Oh, and don’t worry, the books are still happening. I’m just building the ordering system. See you in the comments!

#Hiraeth #Nero #Sirrus #My Post Devil May Cry 5 AU #Devil May Cry FanFic

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ozarkhealingtraditions · 4 years

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From the Archives: Christmas Eve Lore

Here are a few quotes about Christmas from Vance Randolph’s Ozark Magic and Folklore: “Some people think that the weather on December 25 is somehow correlated with the rainfall and temperature of the following summer. A mild Christmas, according to many Ozark farmers, always means a heavy harvest. A good season for the crops is supposed to be bad for human life, however, hence the old saying that ‘a green Christmas makes a fat graveyard.’ Still other hillfolk believe that it is Old Christmas (January 6) and the eleven days which follow Old Christmas which really determine the weather for the year.” “In some sections of Arkansas there are people who bury the entrails of a black hen under the hearth on ‘Old Christmas.’ This is said to protect the house against destruction by lightning or fire…I know that some ‘peckerwood families’ did bury chicken guts under their hearths as recently as 1935, not far from the enlightened metropolis of Hot Springs.” “It is very bad luck to bring cedar boughs or mistletoe into the house, except during the Christmas season. Mrs. Isabel Spradley, Van Buren, Arkansas, says that every bit of green stuff must be out of the house before midnight on January 5, or some unspeakable calamity will overtake the whole family. Many old people feel that it is better not to have mistletoe in the house at all.” “In some settlements this notion about the cattle kneeling has shifted from Old Christmas to New Year’s. Mr. Elbert Short, of Crane, Missouri, told me that his sister slipped out to the barn one New Year’s Eve ‘to see the critters kneel down and talk.’ At exactly twelve o’clock one old cow fell on her knees and let out two or three low moans. A moment later another animal knelt but with this the girl suddenly became frightened and ran back to the house. Another funny thing, says Mr. Short, is that if you go out before midnight on New Year’s Eve and cut an elderbush off flush with the ground, by sunrise it will have ‘pooched up’ at least two inches.” “One often hears that mistletoe, known as witches’ broom, is used in casting magic spells and the like. Some farmers hang a bunch of mistletoe in the smokehouse, “to keep witches off’n the meat.” About Christmas time the country boys make a little money by gathering mistletoe and sending it to the city markets. These fellows all say that mistletoe doesn’t come from seeds but grows spontaneously out of bird manure.” And here are some folk beliefs about Christmas coming from the Appalachians, this is from the blog Roadside Theater: Children born on January 6 are special and often develop powers for healing the sick. Animals kneel at midnight on Christmas Eve as they did by the manger when Christ was born. They also talk during this time. However, it is bad luck to catch them speaking. Water turns to wine at midnight on Christmas Eve. It is bad luck to taste it. Trees and plants bloom on Christmas Eve. (This legend is probably derived from the English legend of the Glastonbury Thorn, a thorn bush grown from the staff of Joseph of Armethea who fled to England after Christ’s crucifixion.) If you sit under a pine tree on Christmas Day you can hear angels sing. But, beware! If you hear them, you’ll be on your way to heaven before next Christmas. Breads and cakes baked on Christmas Day have special healing virtues. Some folks preserved them for use in curing illness during the coming year. Christmas Day visits to neighbors’ houses require eating a piece of stack cake or mince pie to insure good luck. Visits from twelve neighbors insure good luck for the whole year – and certainly bring a lot of people closer together. It is bad luck for a cat to meow on Christmas Day. If it does, evil spirits will visit every day during the coming year. Coals and ashes from the Christmas fire should never be thrown out that day, and no coal of fire or light should be given away. (The Druids believed that each individual coal represented the spirit of a dearly departed kinsman and that they protected the home during the Yule season.) A crowing cock on Christmas Eve scares away evil spirits. Shooting off guns and fireworks also works. Angels are so busy celebrating the birth of Christ that one hour before Christmas the gates of heaven are left unattended. Anyone passing over at this hour has a good chance of sneaking into heaven without having to give account. To hear the chirp of a cricket on the hearth is a good luck omen for the coming year. Eating an apple as the clock strikes midnight brings good health. Single girls who visit the hog pen at midnight on Christmas Eve can find out the kind of man they’ll marry. If an old hog grunts first, she will marry an old man. If a shoat grunts first, her husband will be young and handsome. Christmas Day dawns an hour earlier than normal causing elder, poke, and other plants to bud and sprout. Then, the earth is again plunged into darkness and the plants wilt until spring. Bees hum from dusk until dawn on Old Christmas (January 6). Some say they sing the hundredth Psalm, come out of the hive at midnight, and swarm as they do in summer. Christmas Day weather forecasts the kind of weather we’ll have for the rest of the year: a warm Christmas foretells a cold Easter; a green Christmas, a white Easter; a windy Christmas means a good corn crop. Christmas trees must never be removed before January 2; they must be down before January 6 or bad luck will follow. (Probably a result of past conflicts between Old and New Christmas.)

#ozarks #Ozark Folklore #folk magic #traditional witchcraft #ozark folk medicine #ozark folk magic #ozark folkways #folklore #traditional medicine #traditional healing #christmas eve #ozark healing traditions

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saikagerights · 4 years

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A New Possession One Shot- Christmas Date

Hello Saiino nation, long time no see. It’s been about a week since my last entry and a lot has happened. An update on me is that unfortunately the anti-depressant I started taking caused my ill-feeling these past couple of days. I was luckily able to get some time off of work to recover, but it’s a holiday weekend over here in the U.S. so my personal situation will probably be ongoing into this week.

But enough about me! We finally have the Christmas chapter, or should I say, one shot. I decided to post this as an extra one shot to better lure people from Archive onto my journal. But it’s also because this is the first narrative piece written in over a year. This time with actual dialogue. I realized from my previous entries that I am capable of writing like this, and I did enjoy writing like this. I do plan on writing more narrative tie-ins to the journal, so you can expect to see more. However, this particular story line I had a bit of trouble, since I know in the timeline it’s still a bit too early for Sai and Ino to get together. I decided to take inspiration from multiple fics in order to get a coherent idea. I particularly took a running theme in omegafire17′s classic fic Art Date.

I also want to once again shout out my bf for listening to my dribble and helping me edit this. He wants to complain, but I know he enjoys doing this.

This was my first true hurdle since beginning this project, so I am excited to finally overcome it so I can continue on with the story proper, I hope you also enjoy it. I also hope you enjoy angst, because this has got plenty of it.

Also on AO3

“Are you doing anything Christmas Eve?”

Ino froze at Sai’s words, trying to process them. Of all the things she expected to come out of Sai’s mouth, which was quite a list mind you, she had never expected him to ask about Christmas. She had her back turned to him as she had assumed he was only visiting to ask more overly-complicated questions about the journal she gave him.

But Sai of all people asking her about plans on Christmas Eve?

If she were still 16, the idea of being asked out on Christmas Eve would’ve given her enough joy to last her a lifetime. But she was now 19, and this was Sai.

Perhaps he’s been sent to inform her of a group gathering. She turned around, applying a small smile as an attempt to enforce a casual atmosphere.

“Nothing in particular. I will be working here a bit, but we’re closing early. Is there something going on?”

His expression then grew pensive, as if he had realized that he once again slipped into his mask. He was truly a challenge for a highly skilled interrogator like her to read, but the more she spoke with him, the more she could pinpoint the cracks in his false demeanor. With this, she could tell that he was having a bit of difficulty with communicating his words.

“Well, I was thinking about inviting you over to celebrate with me.”

Ok so the group gathering was out the window and now her mind was taking a slow but steady nose dive into panic. Sai asking her out on Christmas Eve of all times seemed too unbelievable to be true.

Don’t get her wrong, she still found the young man incredibly attractive. She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge the finer points in his appearance. Like his face, or his hair, or his body...

“Uh-” she stammered before he continued.

“I figured since you have given me so much during the span of our friendship, that I could perhaps repay you. Christmas just seemed to be good timing.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, reflecting the utter innocence in his request. Ino inwardly sighed, relieved at his clarification.

More like bad timing… Of course it would be as pure intentioned as him.

It’s not as if she would’ve rejected his advances if it were a date. In fact, she’s been wanting to pull back more of the layers and dig into that inner psyche of his since they met, but that was before she realized how delicate his situation truly was.

The mission to the Land of Silence proved to her that the only way she could truly connect to Sai is if he’d let her in. His trauma ran deep. Deep enough to cover up his true smile and emotional responses.

Seeing his smile in the depths of his subconscious made her heart weep and flutter all at once.

She truly wanted to get to know him better, but he had to get to know himself first. This was her intention when she gave him that journal to write in, and based on his accounts it seemed like it was doing the trick. It also helped that they had engaged in more small talk when he visited the shop.

But now a true opportunity has presented itself to Ino to finally delve into that mysterious aura that had once allured her.

Okay, maybe it’s still a bit alluring now.

As she relaxed, her nervous grin fell into a soft smile.

“So tell me more about this gift of yours…”

________________________________________________________________

Ino followed Sai as he led her through the village, absorbing the environment around her. Christmas Eve in Konoha had always been nothing short of festive; Strung up lights floated above the heads of those walking along the snow ridden paths. Gazing at the ground before her, she couldn’t help being overcome by memories of her childhood perched atop her father’s shoulders as their family strolled through those very same sights. Christmas hasn’t been the same without him. Nothing was the same without him if she were honest. Especially to her poor mother, who had insisted she depart with Sai while she finished closing up for the night.

She glanced at her companion walking beside her. Sai’s expression was unreadable as ever, but she couldn’t help but be transfixed by his cold and focused eyes staring forward towards their destination. She quickly turned her head away as his gaze moved towards her, face growing warm and ponytail whipping behind her. She had tied it up for this outing in order to restrain her hair from being harassed by the winter wind.

Why am I like this? I know this is only him being friendly.

But she couldn’t help him being so beautiful.

Hoping he had shifted his focus back to the road, she turned her head once more in his direction, only to find him still staring down at her.

His expression softened in moderate confusion. “Is there something wrong?”

“No!” She tried to clarify through frivolous waves of the hand. “I was just remembering something…” Ino trailed off for a moment, trying to assess the interaction before deciding on a new route. “Do you spend every Christmas with girls?” She resorted to her typical method of teasing in hopes to take some of the heat off. That may be difficult with what she was working with. He probably couldn’t even understand the nature of her words.

As expected, his confusion was still as strong as ever. He lifted his gaze back to the road.

“The few times I’ve experienced this holiday have been at the gatherings that Naruto puts together. You’ve attended a few of them yourself…” Sai paused in his speech before returning his dark stare down to her. “Were you so inebriated that you have forgotten?”

She found herself flushed once more, covering her face with both hands. She wanted to scream, or at the least groan in frustration, but didn’t want to discourage him. Ino needed to be patient with him. She took a deep breath before throwing her hands down to her sides accompanied by an audible exhale.

“I remember Sai, I was just poking fun. You have to know what teasing is, right?”

The curt nod he gave her had enough force to shake the dark bangs that covered his eyes. “Of course. Teasing is an act intended to provoke someone in playfulness. It is still a little hard for me to identify a teasing remark, however.”

As he looked away, his frown deepened, giving her the impression that he was disheartened by that fact. To prevent him from caving in on himself, she lightly placed her hand on his bicep in encouragement. He shivered, eyes wide and pale skin looking even paler as she quickly pulled away. She tried to keep her tone as gentle as she could muster so as to not startle him further.

“It’s okay. I’m sure you will someday.”

Sai only hummed in acknowledgement, peering at her from the corner of his eye. His body was still tense, reeling from the contact.

Mission failed. I just want him to be able to trust me.

Just as the awkward silence dropped on them like a weight, they had arrived at their destination. The silence continued until they entered his small apartment. The flat wasn’t very homey, but it seemed to have suited Sai. The bare necessities with his supplies littered around the room. An easel accompanied by a short stool sat in the center of the floor. Another stool was placed across from it.

She watched as Sai hastily padded around the space, grabbing small things here and there in preparation for the painting.

Ino had been surprised when Sai proposed the idea of painting her given how naturally intimate the process seeme. He would be giving her his undivided attention, something she had always yearned for, and creating something entirely out of her image. It was a fairly high ranking gesture on the romance meter if you asked her.

“Ino?”

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized that he had already taken a seat and was gazing at her expectantly. Shaking her head clear of thoughts once more, Ino slowly made her way towards the stool that awaited her across from him.

She readily noticed the artist’s calculating eyes upon her when she took her seat. His head was slightly tilted, a pale hand covering his mouth.

“Is there anything in particular you wish for me to do?”

He said nothing for a few moments, still processing his vision she presumed. She watched intently as his hand slipped down to uncover his mouth, focusing only on the movement of his lips.

“I planned on having you pose yourself, but I would personally prefer your hair down for this.”

She felt warmth rise into her face, averting her eyes from his gaze once more as she brought her hands up to remove the tie from her hair. Her fingers combed at her golden locks that cascaded down her back.

“Is that better?”

She returned her eyes to him to find that his expression had remained static.

So much for looking seductive

She let out a frustrated sigh and relented to placing her hands into her lap.

She still found his face unchanged. He almost looked troubled. Regarding her for a moment more, he rose from his stool and stepped over to her, grabbing her face without hesitation and positioning it slightly to the right.

“Apologies, this seemed much easier than directing you.” Once seated, he peered at her from the side of the easel, a grin stretched across his face

“But to answer your previous question, yes.”

Ino’s hands reflexively lifted from her lap to wipe at her face in aggravation.

Sai’s face reappeared from the side of his canvas, this time sporting a look that was far less amused than before.

“It would be better if you tried not to move or speak during this process.”

Silence suddenly blanketed the room. A common theme with him. She could tell he had started his work because she could only hear the sounds of his pencil scratching the canvas. Outlining, she assumed. Ino had also noticed how often he peeked from behind his canvas to look at her. It was quite amusing to watch his ever-changing glare from her perspective. His thin eyes narrowed, growing even thinner. Sometimes she would be graced by the twisting of his lips, exposing dimples she never would’ve guessed he had in the first place. She especially couldn’t help but notice the way his brow lifted along with one corner of his mouth, almost as if some part of her was particularly interesting to him.

But what was so interesting? She could easily find out if she put her mind to it. Perhaps all Sai needed was some careful instruction and physical persuasion to bring out those feelings she knew he had. He would probably be eager to learn if she truly insisted. Tonight could present itself with a teaching opportunity if she looked hard enough. He’d probably be up for it, maybe his invitation meant something more.

What am I thinking?! Of course it didn’t!

Ino left her mind to wander into dangerous territory and she had finally become aware. Her resolve was crumbling more and more by the minute and they had only just begun. She wasn’t sure what was worse, the concentrated silence that enveloped him, or that strange lift in his voice. The one that otherwise betrayed the more dreary expression that usually occupied his face.

He’s just trying to be friends! And yet-

Ino shot up from the stool, stiff as a board. She caught a glimpse of Sai from behind his canvas before he noticed, a serene smile adorning his face.

He was really enjoying himself. And she was about to ruin that…

“What’s wrong?”

Genuine bewilderment had spread across his expression.

“Sai, I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”

Sai sat rooted in his seat, pupils shaking as his mind was incapable of processing the situation

“I-I don’t understand. Wh-what do you mean?”

Ino wanted to explain, but the thoughts couldn’t form. She didn’t quite understand what was going on with her either. She picked up her discarded jacket and made a move to leave, but was impeded by Sai’s hand tightly gripping hers.

“Please, at least explain what I did wrong. I thought this was what friends do.” His eyes pleaded with her. Pulling away from his grasp was what finally uprooted him, but he stood frozen in place as she fled towards the door.Her eyes watered as she looked back at his still form and dejected expression. She was really going to break his healing heart, and it killed her.

Ino’s control had vanished, leaving her vulnerable to her oncoming feelings. She needed time to think about the door she was about to enter, and getting worked up over it now would only make it worse.

What could’ve happened if her thoughts strayed any further?

Would she have acted upon her deep-rooted desires?

It doesn’t matter what I want. Sai just doesn’t need that...

“It’s not you, I promise. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all me. I’m sorry-”

The door slammed shut behind her before he even had a chance to think over it.

And that makes this one shot complete. Angsty as hell. I hope that I did Ino justice with this one. I didn’t want to break Sai’s heart, but it had to be done for the sake of forwarding the plot

Also to properly convey, Christmas Eve is a romantic holiday where couples go out and spend time with one another, similarly to the western Valentine’s day. Not yet sure when the next entry will be posted, but it is coming. I do have multiple ideas for how the story develops after this occurrence. Hopefully I’ll have enough content to get through until the next milestone, the Sakura Hiden.

Thanks for sticking with me during what is considered a difficult time for me. And until the next one,

-Saikage

#Sai Journal #saiino #sai yamanaka #Ino Yamanaka #si fanfic #sj oneshot

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duhragonball · 4 years

Text

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (122/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[29 May, 233 Before Age. Yetitan.]

Wampaaan'riix was tired. He had spent much of the day on the windswept pastures of his ancestral farm, clearing brush and counting livestock. For a man of his extraordinary strength, this was physically simple, but the tedium of it had a way of wearing him out. He had gone straight to bed upon returning home, barely making time to say good night to his wives and children.

When the communications terminal alerted him to a priority subspace call, he expected the worst. When he saw it was from Luffa's star-yacht, only for Dr. Topsas to appear on the viewer instead, he was even more concerned. He knew Luffa's Federation alliance was at war, with Saiyans battling on both sides.

"She is recovering in a stasis tank," Topsas explained. "I expect she will be completely healed in two months' time."

Wampaaan'riix stroked the long white hair that hung from his chin. There was long white hair covering the rest of his body as well, but the chin was the part he always reached for when he contemplated grim tidings. "In warfare, two months is an eternity, doctor" he said. "I'm surprised you were able to talk her into it."

"I suspect her injuries were more persuasive than anything I might have said," Topsas replied. "Individually, these enemy Saiyans are no match for her, but she has had to fight groups of them, on planet after planet, with little respite. I think she understood that if she didn't take this opportunity to heal, there might not be another chance later on."

"Is there something I can do to help?" Wampaaan'riix asked. "I've all but retired from fighting, but I owe her my life, after all."

"No, nothing like that," Topsas said. "I simply needed some... advice."

"Advice." he repeated.

"I spoke with one of my sons a few days ago. He wasn't very happy about my presence in Federation space during wartime," Topsas said. "He practically begged for me to come home. He arranged a transport ship to arrive at Woshad in four days."

"Then I think you should take it," Wampaaan'riix said. He first met Luffa and Topsas in a Deathmatch tournament on Plutark VII. He had been so certain of his fighting skills, and she had defeated him with ease, then she toyed with him to test her abilities. Then she accidentally read his mind, and after seeing his regret for walking out on his family, she decided to spare him. "I'm positive that she would understand if you left the war to go back to your loved ones."

"I don't know that I can do that," Topsas said.

"Doctor, you just told me that Luffa will be in a stasis chamber for the next several weeks," Wampaaan'riix said. "I've seen how those things work during my time in the Yetitan military. They're very low-maintenance. Now that you've set it up, you could probably show Zatte how to handle the day-to-day operations. And there's no shortage of doctors in the Federation who could take over for you."

"I'm not so sure..." Topsas said. "The statis chamber is one thing, of course. Plenty of others could handle it."

"Well, what else is there?" Wampaaan'riix asked. It was difficult for him to keep his patience. Bad enough that he had been woken from his sleep, that he was sitting at his desk instead of the warm rugs of his den. But Topsas was never very forthcoming about his feelings. Always masking everything with dry humor and sarcasm. He had never known the arachnoid to ask for help like this, and now he was beginning to understand why. It wasn't stubborn pride so much as the doctor just couldn't quite spit out what the problem was.

And when Topsas finally answered, he only said: "Mycotherapy."

Which told Wampaaan'riix absolutely nothing. "What?" he asked.

"There is a particular species of fungus," Topsas explained. "In the wild, it has the ability to alter its DNA to mimic plant or animal tissue. This allows it to graft itself onto a host while avoiding any immune response. Three years ago, a team of researchers found a way to modify the fungus for medical applications. Genetic engineering, you know. A few fungal cells are applied to the site of the injury, and cultivated to replicate. If managed properly, they'll form a structure to fill in the wounded tissue. Then the fungal mass can be made to transform itself into part of the patient's own body."

"That sounds unbelievable."

"It's a rather new form of medicine," Topsas said. "I only learned of it myself very recently, while I was researching possible treatments for Luffa. I... began casting about for more... radical ideas."

"Radical," Wampaaan'riix said. "As in 'dangerous'?

"The graft has to be carefully monitored. Left unchecked, it could grow out of control, and consume the patient. And it hasn't been tested on many species. Until... recently, there's been no testing on any mammalian species at all."

"If you don't know what it could do to Saiyan biology, then why risk it?"

"Because I do know how it will interact with Saiyan biology. I... performed my own tests, using tissue samples from Luffa herself. I only did it to set my mind at ease-- to prove that it would never work, so that I could stop second-guessing myself. But, the results turned out to be more promising than I expected. There's a very strong chance that I could heal her wounds in a fraction of the time it would take for conventional stasis chamber therapy to work."

"Why haven't you told her about this?"

"I only obtained the results a few days ago, right before she went into the chamber. Before that, it was only an experiment. Besides, there would still be an immense risk. I would need to apply multiple grafts to her body and monitor them all simultaneously. No one has ever attempted this before, on any species. No one would."

"Then why consider it at all?"

"Because when I look at the work that would be involved, I cannot help but think I might be able to carry it off. It's not a certainty, but I've carried out delicate operations that humanoid physicians wouldn't dare attempt. The researchers who devised mycotherapy techniques were all vertebrate doctors. Greater minds than I, but even so, I believe I have abilities they did not. And while I lack experience in this specific therapy, I dare say I know Saiyan physiology better than anyone. If it can be done at all, then I believe it must be I."

Wampaaan'riix stroked his chin again. "And if you try this, you definitely won't make the transport your son sent you. But that's not what's bothering you. Otherwise you would just take the transport and let Luffa heal for two months under someone else's care. That would be the best thing for everyone, right? So why are you even considering this fungus of yours?"

He didn't answer right away, and Wampaaan'riix wasn't terribly surprised. He hadn't called from so far away for idle chit-chat.

"I became a doctor because I wanted to help people," Topsas finally said. "In my religion, it is said that my people were blessed with eight eyes so we may always see when others are in need, and eight limbs so that we may always have one ready to lend aid. I was fascinated with vertebrate anatomy, and I thought becoming a doctor would enable me to see more, to help more. Do you remember when we met?"

"On Plutark. You were patching up the competitors in the Deathmatch tournaments. I never did understand how you ended up there."

The tournament organizers paid handsomely for my assistance," Topsas said. "And my practice needed the funding. Besides, I felt that if I could at least tend to your injuries, then I could know that the competitors received as much genuine care as possible before most of them met their end. Another doctor might not bother, since he would expect most of you to die by the end of the day anyway. But I could hold myself accountable at least."

"But Luffa changed all of that."

"She spared you, and in the process, she defied the tournament organizers, and ended up shutting down their entire operation, thereby saving the lives of the other fighters who still had matches that evening. To say nothing of the fighters who might have participated in future matches that will no longer occur. Before, I had written you and Luffa off as little more than brutes. Yet you returned to your homeworld, to your family. You've raised your son into a fine man, from what I can tell. I trust the rest of your offspring have been just as fortunate."

Wampaaan'riix was honored by the compliment, but he was also wearied by the late hour. "What are you getting at, doctor?" he asked with a loud yawn.

"For a time, I saw my work in those dreadful tournaments as an unpleasant chore. I was less a doctor and more of a priest, administering last rites for the condemned. Oh, one fortunate soul would live to see the next day, but I always knew that survivor would die in some other battle, thinking his victory made him invincible. But Luffa was special, and in discovering that, I realized that I had been remiss in my duties, both medical and spiritual. That was why I came to her aid on the Tikosi Hiveworld. It was the right thing to do, of course, but I wonder if any other doctor would have felt such an obligation. You owed her your life, Wampaaan'riix, but I owed her my soul.

"And now, it seems that she blames me for her overzealous crusade to defend the Federation. I comforted her in her hour of need, you see. I held her hand and calmed her down after the battle with the Tikosi, after she killed her own father. She reminded me so much of my daughter. Nwitt died of a terminal illness. In the final stages, it affected her brain, made her a danger to herself and others. In the end, she was so terrified, and all I could do was euthanize her. I couldn't hold my own daughter's hand in her final moments. She had to be restrained, you see. When Luffa first transformed, it seem as though she might explode at any moment. I thought that if this were to be the end, then comforting her in her final moments would be a fitting way to die. Instead, she lived, and she apparently has taken my gesture as an example of courage.

"I never considered the things my patients might do after they leave my care," he said. "Their lives are their own business, of course. I was content to help them with what I had. But there is a ripple effect to it, isn't there? The person I mend one day may help someone else another day. And another. Perhaps someone down the chain actually manages to save someone's life. It's a frightening thing to consider. And Luffa is no mere pebble tossed into a pond. With her power, she's more like a meteor crashing into the ocean. I cannot bring myself to think of hers as a single life. There are so many other lives that she has influenced and may still influence in the future. A week or two months might mean the difference between life and death for countless people. And I can choose. A week or two months. I can play it safe, or I can dare to perform a challenging procedure that might kill or cripple my patient."

"Cripple?"

"One of the potential side effects of mycotherapy," he explained. "Even if the fungal growth is kept under control, the drugs used to maintain that control can affect the patient's senses. Her sight or sense of smell might be permanently damaged."

Wampaaan'riix leaned back in his chair. "High stakes," he said. "Knowing Luffa, she would probably just as soon fight blind, and she might even win, powerful as she is. But her enemies would just injure her again, and worse than before."

"I trust you see my dilemma," Topsas said. "I asked Ms. Dotz for advice. The woman is a fortuneteller, but she has a psychic blindspot where Luffa's fate is concerned, and she seems to have no idea how many people will live or die as a result of my actions. It serves me right for trying to peek ahead a few pages in my own life. She told me that I would certainly do the right thing, but it isn't that simple. I... I don't know what the right thing is."

"And that's why you contacted me," Wampaaan'riix surmised.

"There was no one else to ask. I wanted an objective opinion from someone who knows her," Topsas said.

Wampaaan'riix sighed and considered the matter carefully. "Doctor," he finally asked, "what do you think Luffa would say to all of this?"

"I haven't discussed it with her yet," Topsas replied. "Knowing her, she would probably insist on taking this gamble. Which is precisely why I am so reluctant to suggest it. For me it's an ethical problem, but for her! As far as she's concerned, even a disabled Super Saiyan would be better than an injured one. All she cares about now is time. The young always worry about running out of something they have in abundance."

"No, that's not what I'm asking," Wampaaan'riix said. "Suppose Luffa were in your position. How do you think she would approach this dilemma?"

"I don't understand... you mean, if she were a doctor treating a patient?" he asked.

"Yes. What would she do?"

His fuzzy pedipalps twitched as he wrestled with this scenario. Wampaaan'riix never quite learned to read Topsas's alien body language, so he watched uncertainly as the doctor thought it over. He was mildly concerned that he might drift off to sleep while he waited for Topsas to respond.

"I suspect," Topsas finally said, "that she would find a way to push herself to her limits. The difficulty of the procedure would only be a challenge for her. She would rise to meet it, unless she were absolutely certain that it was beyond her ability."

"Very good," Wampaan'riix said. "Spoken like a true warrior. I think that is the way you should decide. If you truly believed this plan of yours is unsound, then you would have abandoned it a long time ago. Instead, you've slowly talked yourself into it, until now, you stand at the threshold, but you aren't sure you're ready to commit. You're asking the rest of us for permission to try, but this is your battlefield, doctor, and yours alone."

"I will... consider what you have said," Topsas said after a long pause. "Though, to be honest, this was not quite the advice I was hoping for."

"We have a saying on Yetitan," Wampaaan'riix said. "'Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer, but wish we didn't.' I don't know Dotz, but she sounds like a wise woman. So I agree that you will do the right thing, whatever you ultimately decide. Good luck to you, doctor."

They exchanged a few pleasantries before terminating the connection, leaving Wampaan'riix sitting alone in the darkened room. He thought about returning to his den, but somehow he doubted he would get much sleep, knowing what he knew of Luffa's condition.

*******

[30 May, 233 Before Age. Pillimede Asteroid Belt.]

Topsas did not decide right away. He resolved instead to wait another twenty-four hours and see how Luffa was responding to conventional treatment. The results he obtained from the sensor scans was less than encouraging.

"This isn't working," he said as he read the results. Luffa could not hear him. She floated in a suspension of medicated statis fluid, kept in an induced state of unconsciousness. Nor was there anyone else in the sickbay of the Emerald Eye to hear him. He continued speaking anyway.

"Your injuries are responding to the treatment, but not nearly at the rate I had hoped for. My own fault for being overly optimistic. I expected you to produce another miracle. Somehow your Saiyan biology would repair itself even more quickly, and you would break out of this tank in a mere ten days.

"But no. The inflammation in your feet has barely changed. Your cracked ribs have only just begun to knit. What is wrong with you, Little mammal? Are you so determined to keep fighting that you defy medical attention, even when you're unconscious?"

He had originally projected her full recovery would take at least two months. Based on the data he now had, that estimate would have to be revised upward. Three months, maybe even four. The bio-regenerative gel was working. He had used it on her in the past, after all. But it wasn't fast enough. Something about her condition was slowing down the whole process.

"My apologies. It is a poor physician who blames his patient. And yet, I cannot fathom what is going on in those cells of yours. Is your body focusing itself on increasing your power? The 'zenkai' as your people call it. Am I seeing a physical manifestation of that right now? Ninth Eye, are you so starved for combat that your body would fight itself? Half of you is trying to use this treatment to repair itself, and the other half is working on making you stronger."

He had prided himself on his expertise in Saiyan biology, but that honor was mostly by default. He was the only doctor who had spent this much time on a Saiyan patient, but there was still much that he didn't understand about how their bodies worked. The light of the full moon could make Luffa grow into a gargantuan ape-creature... unless her tail happened to be injured or amputated. It sounded like pure fantasy, but it was well-documented fact. They were so unlike other vertebrates, and Luffa was unique, even among her own kind. She never spoke of it, at least not to him, but he often imagined that being the Super Saiyan made her very lonely.

"I pray that I am wrong," he said. "Perhaps your body simply doesn't have the necessary compatibility with the medication. It can't be that your power is resisting the healing effects. It would be dreadful to be so devoid of peace. I think you crave peace as much as the rest of us do. Perhaps you only want it as a respite between battles, a good night's sleep, a quiet evening with your wife. I wish I could give these to you. As it is, I cannot even give you a swift recovery."

He stooped down in front of the chamber and looked at her through the transparent surface.

"I am not as oblivious as you might think," he said. "I know how important it is that you return to the front lines. Even now, I feel like your expression is daring me to do better. I don't know that I can. Is it worth the risk? Is it worth your life?"

He had gone over the mycotherapy procedure several times after speaking with Wampaaan'riix. He thought he could do it. What troubled him was that it had never been done quite the way he had in mind. As he regarded Luffa's face, he thought of his son, Turner, begging him to take the transport he had arranged to get him out of the warzone. He thought of his daughter, Nwitt, desperate for help, when the only thing he could offer was a painless death.

Then he put his hand on the control panel of the chamber, and activated the program to revive the occupant.

"I'll need to interrupt your sleep," he said. "I have something to discuss with you, and you may want to talk it over with your spouse."

*******

[31 May, 233 Before Age. Pillimede Asteroid Belt.]

They said yes. Of course they did. Topsas never doubted it. Luffa was a warrior anxious to return to her war, and Zatte was... well, she was something of a fanatic where Luffa was concerned. She insisted on performing some Dorlun ritual to honor Topsas before he began his work. It involved some sort of liturgy, and burning bits of her own hair in candle flames. Zatte could be very strange at times. But Luffa was the one that made him the most nervous. When he had explained the risks and difficulties of his proposed mycotherapy treatment, she simply grinned at him with that savage smile of hers, and shook his hand.

"I can tell how fired up you are about this, Doc," she had said before being sedated. "This should be fun."

It was as if she couldn't tell excitement from apprehension. But something about the conviction in her voice made him wonder if maybe she knew his feelings better than he did. Perhaps he was the one who had been mistaking enthusiasm for fear. Luffa had a peculiar talent of making him question himself.

And so far, it was working. Dr. Topsas wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. An early failure at this stage would at least put the matter to rest. He could say he tried, and move on. But it was working, at least for now, which mean that he had to keep going, and brave the potential failures that might still lie ahead.

He had never used seven hands at once. Not for surgery, not for anything, until today. Now, he rested his cephalothoarx on a barstool he had borrowed from a lounge on the ship, and used only one of his limbs to steady himself on that perch. The other seven limbs loomed over the stasis chamber, operating controls, dispensing drugs, and occasionally probing surgical incisions. His eight eyes observed all of this: his own movements, computer monitors, vital sign readouts, and more.

His two greatest points of concern were a hole in Luffa's left foot, and a damaged section of her right kidney. The foot had the largest injury, which required the largest fungal graft. If any of the grafts were to grow out of control, that was the most likely to do so. The kidney, on the other hand, was the most vital organ he had grafted. The graft was small, but if anything went wrong there, it could lead to more serious complications.

There were fifteen other sites to consider as well. Tendon damage in the right tricep. Puncture wound in the right foot. Left ring finger fracture. Three cracked ribs. Anterior cruciate ligament tear on right knee. Six lacerations in the abdomen, all damaging the large intestine. Large contusion on left thigh. Tendon damage on right shoulder. But he was certain that if the left foot and kidney could be made to recover, the others could be made to recover as well.

The first seventy-two hours were the most intensive. Normally, a team of doctors would carefully monitor the patient's progress and make adjustments as needed. He would need to do this alone, continuously. And he would probably have to be more nimble, since there would probably be unforeseen complications. He could slow down and take a little more time, but this carried a risk. If Luffa's organs rejected the fungal grafts, or vice-versa, he would need to take quick action, or risk undoing his progress. Better to exhaust himself across three days than to pace himself across four or five.

An alert from one of the monitors warned him of an acceleration in growth on one of Luffa's ribs. He applied a dilute solution of R-gel to slow it down. Beside Luffa was a tray of solutions he had prepared at various concentrations before beginning the procedure. Normally, a doctor administering mycotherapy would simply use one of the stronger concentrations. At worst, the entire graft might die, and he would have to apply a new one. Topsas didn't want to wait that long, and so he added his own variation to the procedure. He had to slow any runaway fungal growth, but he would try to use dilute R-gel first, so as not to risk destroying his progress on that front.

It was all experimental and unprecedented. The technique was sound, and he was sure of his abilities, but it had never been done quite like this, with so many simultaneous grafts. He didn't care for blazing new trails. Being the first was a scary proposition. But the situation had forced his hand. How could he turn away from this? He had too many hands, and too many eyes not to try.

Luffa's metabolic readouts were fluctuating, and so he had to divide his attention to modifying her nutrient intake. This, in turn, shifted the delicate balance of the grafts. He was losing one of them, the one on her arm.

No. He refused to surrender. It would be all too easy to sacrifice a few of the mycotheraputic sites and start over on a second session. Easier, safer, and more time-consuming. How many people could Luffa help during that lost time? Was he willing to doom them just to make things easier for himself?

He looked down at Luffa's face. Even unconscious, there was something aggressive in her expression, like she was aware of the struggle he was going through.

He had never completely understood his late daughter. Even before her illness, Nwitt's manic passions seemed alien to him, and to everyone he knew. He had seen some of Nwitt in Luffa, and pitied her for it. But over time, he came to see the Saiyan heart as something more than an engine of war. Luffa had shown him a fiery passion that could do more than kill. She could laugh, cry, love, and draw strength from those intense emotions. And as Topsas came to admire Luffa, he began to appreciate Nwitt all the more. For the first time in decades, Topsas saw his daughter as something other than a tragedy to be mourned. Her short life, and the wild emotions that fueled it, were something to be celebrated and cherished. Even the fear that came at the end, well that had its own meaning, in its own way.

He prayed for some of that energy now. If his skill and steady hands should falter, there was still his pride as a healer to drive him. There was still the thrill of the challenge, the fear of failure. His daughter was dead, but if he could save this little mammal in her honor, then maybe it would give some purpose to her loss.

"I won't lose," he said aloud. Whether he was speaking to himself or to his patient, or to Nwitt's spirit, he did not know. As he worked, he soon forgot all thoughts of the risks of this task. He ignored the fatigue that began to weather his stamina. He simply ignored all other courses, save the one he was on.

Zatte--bless her soul--believed Luffa to be an instrument of God's will. While Topsas respected this viewpoint, he disagreed. He had seen Luffa on the day she had first transformed. He had seen how violent and terrified she was. He had held her hand to calm her down. He still remembered the feel of Tikosi blood on her fingers, the whimpers she made as she fought to regain control of her own body. Perhaps this was the way divine instruments were chosen, but Topsas had trouble believing it. There was nothing glorious or honorable about it. She was compelled to follow an unknown path that was fraught with danger. And Luffa had faced that fate with courage on that day.

He swore to do no less on this day.

*******

[1 June, 233 Before Age. Pillimede Asteroid Belt.]

And the next day.

*******

[2 June, 233 Before Age. Pillimede Asteroid Belt.]

And the next...

*******

[3 June, 233 Before Age. Pillimede Asteroid Belt.]

He didn't sleep in the way that vertebrates did. When he was tired, Topsas simply ceased moving, and remained still for a time, though he remained fully aware of his surroundings. He was long overdue for this type of rest, but he couldn't stop for long. Having completed his work on Luffa, he was anxious to drain the chamber and revive her, so that he could conduct a more thorough examination, and make sure there were no lasting side-effects. The entire process took forty-five minutes. While mechanical pumps removed the medicated fluid, a tube attached to a face mask removed the fluid from her lungs, gradually reacquainting her respiratory system with air. The mask also delivered a sedative, and when he was ready, he reduced the dosage, opened the lid of the chamber and waited.

She regained consciousness almost immediately, barely giving him time to prepare the med scanner. "Where...? Oh. Right, the stasis chamber," she said, as she came to her senses. "How did it go?"

"Better... better than expected," Topsas said, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. "I... yes, better than expected. I'll leave it at that."

"Where's Zatte?"

"Oh, I... er, neglected to call her. I imagine she would be on the bridge. I've lost track of the time."

"How long was I out?"

"Three days." Tired as he was, he could not easily forget this, as he hadn't rested in all of that time.

"Three? You said it would take a week."

"Ah, yes, I did. It seems that your body was much more agreeable to the mycotherapy than I anticipated. I still want you to rest, but I don't know that we'll need the chamber for that. How are you feeling?"

Luffa paused for a moment, as though searching herself for an answer. "Sore," she said. Holding her hands in front of her face. "Not as bad as before, but... my vision's all... blurry."

Relief washed over him. Blurry vision, he could deal with. He had worried that she wouldn't be able to see at all, or something worse. He passed the med-scanner over her face anyway, to verify what she had said, but now he could feel more confident about it.

"A side effect of the fungal grafts," Topsas explained. "Your eyesight will return to normal eventually, though I shall have to monitor it carefully before we repeat the process."

"Repeat it?" Luffa asked.

"I think... yes, I think I've learned enough from this first attempt to feel confident about trying again," Topsas said. "The benefits seem to outweigh the risks at this point."

Luffa tried to sit up, and Topsas reached out to hold her back and guide her upright.

"Hold on," she said. "You're telling me that you managed to heal me up from all of that, in three days' time? And you can do it again? Whenever you want?"

"Not 'whenever'," he said with a sigh. "As I just said, I need to monitor your vision first. If we proceed too quickly, use the fungal graft too often, we run the risk of permanently damaging your senses."

"Yeah, but still..." She held up her left hand and looked at it. "It's not too blurry. Not sure why I see this blue tint on my skin..."

"That is the stasis fluid, little mammal," he said. One of his hands was already reaching up with a towel to wipe it off.

"Doc, are you okay?"

"Why would I not be?"

"You just sound tired somehow. It's hard to tell with you."

"I... may have overexerted a little," he admitted.

"You should rest," Luffa said. She planted her hands on the side of the chamber and began to pull herself out. "I can the service droid to bring us some dinner--"

He grabbed her by the shoulder to stop her from going any further.

"You are going to stay put until I am satisfied that your condition is stable," he said, noticing a faltering in his voice. "I just put you back together, and I want at least a little time to savor the victory before you rush off to undo all of my hard work."

"Sure, Doc, whatever you say," Luffa assured him. He turned to fetch something from one of the benchtops, and then he noticed her smiling at him.

"Does something amuse you?" he asked.

"You turned a corner, didn't you?" Luffa asked. "I'm a little out of it, but I can tell that much."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You weren't too thrilled about trying something like this, but now that it's over, you're practically champing at the bit to do it again."

"Oh yes, because I always look forward to seeing you return to this ship, bloodied and battered. Truly the highlight of my day."

"You remind me of when I was a kid, after I did my first Gallick Gun," Luffa said.

He said nothing, and pretended to be preoccupied with his scans.

"It might be a while before you get to do it again," she said. "Now that I'm healed up, it'll take a lot more to wear me down again. Those Jindan-using bastards won't have it so easy next time. Don't get too eager. You might get bored waiting for me to get hurt."

"I shall believe that when I see it," Topsas said.

She kept on gloating, as Saiyans so often do, about how she would destroy her enemies and reign supreme on the battlefield. Topsas simply carried on with his work, and when he was satisfied that there was nothing left for him to do for the time being, he called Zatte, then went to Luffa's bedside, and held her hand.

NEXT: To the future...

#dragon ball #fanfiction #super saiyan #lssjluffafic #luffa #dr topsas #wampaaan'riix #yetitan

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raybyanothername · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: RWBY Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Winter Schnee Characters: Raven Branwen, Qrow Branwen, Winter Schnee Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Canon, Domestic, POV Outsider, Ship Wrecked Fanzine 2020 Summary:

Dove Branwen is dominating the illegal fighting rings of Mantle with a bird grim mask and hair the color of snow. Raven gave zero cares about her hair or her mask.… Raven cared that someone was using her name. Someone - probably Qrow - had a lot to answer for.

Written for the Ship Wrecked Fanzine, a multi-ship Qrow fanzine. @shipwreckedfanzine

This is also the perfect time to announce that I got a ko-fi account: https://ko-fi.com/raybyanothername ! So if you like this fic, feel free to buy my a coffee!

The Bird of Peace

The fighting rings of Mantle were renovated industrial complexes. The term 'renovated' being used very generously.

Raven sipped her drink, swirled the red liquid in her glass. She stood, sword at her hip, on a rusted loft space that served as something of a VIP area. Her eyes watched the ring on the floor below as two supposed fighters beat and grapple until the man beside her laughed. As the sound echoed off the metal walls a knife was thrown into the ring and soon the fight was over.

"I must say," Raven turned to look at her benefactor - the great organizer himself, Cellus - with narrowed eyes, "This is far less exciting than you had led me to believe."

"Just the pre-show," Cellus grinned. A scar on his cheek pulled and twisted as his lips spread wide. "The final event is just beginning."

The ring was cleared and a man in an obnoxious and ill-fitting suit stepped to the center. "And now!" The man's voice boomed. "For the fight we've all been waiting for!"

The crowds on the floor below began to cheer. The noise rose to deafening heights. If she didn't know the authorities had been paid off, Raven might be a tad worried about having to skip out early.

"The challenger - the dastardly devil himself - Deven the Guard!" The room filled with boos as a man with an Atlesian uniform stepped into the ring. The helmet hid his face, but the man was otherwise far too large for the garments. They were ripped, torn, and stained. She had no doubts to how he had acquired the items.

Deven played his part. He saluted Cellus and wagged his finger at the crowd. It earned him laughs, but not cheers.

"And the champion!" The crowd was already roaring. "The fallen huntress herself!" Raven's ears perked up. She straightened slightly, her eyes focusing on the spotlight where the fighter would appear. "Do-ove Bra-anwen!"

Raven tensed as the snow white figure stepped into the spotlight. The yellow glow gave her color, but she was dressed in white from the grimm mask - a Nevermore - to the boots on her feet. Silver war scythes hung on either side of her hips and Raven counted three silver rings on her right hand and one on her left. Even her damn hair was white.

"Ah," Cellus stepped up beside her. His hand ghosted over her lower back, "Now you see why I invited you."

"And I thought it was just your desire to expand into Mistral," Raven looked over her shoulder at him, baring her teeth. He stepped away, hands raised.

Cellus chuckled, "Who says a man can't have multiple reasons for inviting a beautiful and deadly woman into his home?" He swept his arms down. He smiled again, scar twisting. Raven's lips twitched.

"Well, I'm certainly curious."

-.-.-

Dove 'Branwen' won her fight, quick and bloody. Her challenger would live, but he certainly wouldn't be fighting anytime soon.

The woman was precise in her every move. Her weapons worked in tandem with her graceful movements to make Dove seem like a whirlwind of blades and aura.

"At least she's not sullying the name as well as stealing it." Raven twirled a knife in her hand as she walked through her camp. The tents were far from quiet. She'd taken three men with her to Mantle and the story had spread like wildfire when they'd returned.

A scythe-wielding Branwen who fought like a demon and looked like an angel. It was the stuff fairytales were based on.

"I hate fairytales." Raven fisted her hand around the hilt of the blade. She sliced down through the space beside her. A portal split open. "But I know which bird does."

-.-.-

Raven found her brother exactly where she expected to find him: asleep, probably hungover, and sprawled out on a bed. By the noise outside his door, he'd paid for a room at a tavern. The accents told her Vacuo. That explained the dust and the taste of sand in her mouth.

"Whaddya want Rae?" Qrow croaked. He didn't open his eyes as Raven took three steps closer to his bed.

"Someone in Mantle is using our last name." Raven began to walk at the foot of the bed, back and forth, three steps each way. She took them slowly, back straight, and chin high, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you?"

Qrow's lips twitched before he rolled onto his side, "Nah." Raven narrowed her eyes. "Poor bastard must be unlucky, for you to stumble upon him all the way in Mantle."

"Her." Raven bit out. Qrow's shoulder tensed for a brief second before he caught himself. Raven leaned over him, fisting a hand in Qrow's shirt, "You know her."

"I don't, I -" Qrow glowered before Raven cut him off with a shake.

"It wasn't a question." Raven seethed through her teeth.

Qrow's face was stone. He clamped his mouth shut and kept it shut, no matter how hard she shook him. If she weren't so…weak…Raven would kill him for his lies, but baby brothers are like lice - they infested your heart and killing them meant subjecting yourself to a great deal of discomfort or pain.

It was his eyes that she had a hard time with - they were the only eyes that had never looked at her in fear and that, unfortunately, meant something to her.

That was how she figured it out though. His eyes. They shook.

"Tell me, Qrow…" Raven leaned closer. Her nose nearly touching his. "Does she have a right to use our name?" His face stayed stiff, but his eyes shifted. "Or, more specifically, your name?"

This time, he flinched. Raven stepped back, smirking. Qrow groaned, "Leave her be, Rae. Please?"

"Of course." Raven shrugged. Her eyes locked on Qrow, "After I meet her." Qrow's jaw clicked as he clenched it tight. "I have to make sure she's good enough for you, after all."

Raven sliced through the air again. She stepped through, laughter on her lips as Qrow lunged after her. One hand reflexively reached for Harbinger as he jumped from the bed. That was lucky.

Qrow disliked traveling through Raven's portals. There was a gooey sensation at the point of entry and he had a hard time keeping his balance on the way out. He stumbled over his own feet as he came through this time.

"Still clumsy I see," Raven caught him by the shoulder. She'd stopped laughing. Qrow looked around at the glistening streets of Atlas and then back at her now scowling face. "Who, exactly, is this woman again?"

Qrow huffed, "That's none of your business." He hooked Harbinger over his back and crossed his arms.

Raven turned on the balls of her feet, scanning the block. It was apartment buildings and little shopettes that only someone with more money than sense would shop in. It was night, so all of those people were asleep right now.

"Why don't you just head back to Mistral?" Qrow snarked. There was a hint of a growl in his voice. "Ya know, where you actually want to be." There was no reason for her to respond, so Raven started walking. Towards the nearest apartment building. Qrow followed close at her heels.

"She's here then," Raven smirked as she yanked open the door. There was a lobby, but no concierge. "A woman who appreciates privacy." She kept walking.

Raven judged her steps by Qrow's reaction to them. Forward when he stepped closer, back when he gave her more breathing room. He was nervous, on edge. It made him easy to read. His fingers kept twitching towards his flask.

"Go ahead, drink," Raven shrugged as she started climbing stairs. "It's impossible for me to think any less of you anyway."

Qrow's hands fisted. Then he forced them open, shaking them out. "I don't drink anymore."

"Oh." Raven stopped and turned around. Qrow stood three steps below her. "Well then. I suppose now I could think less of you."

"Did you just… compliment me?" Qrow narrowed his eyes, chuckling. Raven scoffed and turned back around to keep climbing. The higher they climbed the more ansty Qrow grew. He hadn't yet tried to stop her though, and Raven knew he would if he were actually concerned.

"She's a decent fighter." Raven ventured. "Your girl. This Dove." Qrow grinned behind her, snickered. "What?"

"Decent, Rae? Come on." Qrow chuckled, arms crossed behind his head, "She's one of the best damn huntresses I've ever fought, you included."

Raven rolled her shoulders back, "The announcer called her a 'fallen huntress?'" She looked over her shoulder at Qrow. He bit his lip, arms falling back to his sides.

"She was only a huntress for a year." Qrow slipped his hands into his pocket. "She was a specialist before that." Raven froze. Her lips pursed. Qrow grabbed her arms. "Don't hold it against her. I gave her enough hell for it back in the day."

"As you wish." Raven shrugged his hand away and stomped the last few steps to the highest floor. Qrow slipped past her with a few long strides and a fancy spin that Tai had taught him back at Beacon.

Qrow stood in front of the door, arms crossed and eyes narrow, "I mean it, Rae. You wanna meet her, fine, but I won't let you hurt her."

The door behind him swung open, "I can take care of myself just fine, Qrow." Raven blinked at the woman standing behind her brother, a sly grin decorating her porcelain face. White hair was loose about her face, light waves curling around her jaw until they stopped abruptly at her shoulder. Eyes the color of ice, and just as hard, stared back at Raven.

"You married a damn Schnee!" Raven shoved Qrow's shoulder with a growl. "Are you kidding me?!"

"Technically, we're not married." Winter shrugged, tilting her head to the side with a smile. Qrow snorted, hands falling down to his sides, and Raven scowled. Winter's eyes did not waver from Raven's.

For all that she looked of porcelain, Raven had seen Winter fight, she knew the woman was more steel and iron. Though… given the stories that had circulated about the Schnee sisters, maybe it was bone, made strong from so many breaks. Raven could respect that.

"Alright then,," Raven raised her chin, eyes narrow, "Let's get to know each other." She took another step up the stairs towards Winter. The only thing separating the two women now was Qrow.

A moment passed, Qrow fidgeting as Winter and Raven stared each other down. And then.… Winter smiled and nodded. "Come inside, Raven, have some tea."

Raven blinked. She looked at Qrow, who shrugged and followed his not-wife as she left the stairwell. Raven did the same. The hallway was clean and carpeted, but not overly luxurious. Seven white doors with tarnished gold letters were all squeezed onto the same floor.

"Not the penthouse I would expect of a Schnee." Raven watched Qrow's shoulders tense, but he remained silent.

Winter clenched her hands together, "It would be best if you not use that name where people could hear." She looked over her shoulder at Raven, eyes hard, "My sister is trying to fix the damage my father has done, but it will be some time before the name will be safe to hold anywhere in Remnant."

"You're afraid?" Raven scoffed as Winter paused in front of the last door. She froze with her hand on the knob.

"Not for me." Winter spoke softly before pushing open the door. Qrow was the first one through and the chirpy squeal that followed told Raven all she needed to know before she even crossed the threshold.

Winter closed the door behind herself. She and Raven stood shoulder to shoulder as Qrow scooped up a small boy in red pajamas who had run headfirst into his chest. A small, stuffed black bird was clutched tightly in one hand even as he wrapped his arms around Qrow's neck. Red eyes shimmered with joy and mischief.

"His name is Wren." Winter spoke, hands clasped behind her back. Raven turned her head. Winter's lips were quirked up, but it was her eyes that Raven found herself staring at. Icy blue, as hard as they had been looking at Raven was how soft they were watching Qrow ruffle dark locks and kiss the ruddy cheeks of his son.

"Mama! Daddy's home!" Wren giggled at Winter as he hooked his chin on Qrow's shoulder. He glanced curiously at Raven, waved with his free hand. Raven’s jaw clenched tight.

"I see that!" Winter's smile widened as she moved to kiss his forehead. Wren squealed again, little arms flailing. Qrow laughed, deep and hearty.

Raven watched the scene before her. A weight settled low in her gut. Wren was a stark reminder of the past. Of several pasts. And watching Qrow and Winter’s heads lean close together, whispering words she could have easily heard if she wanted to… Raven felt like an invader.

Turning her head to looks elsewhere, the rest of the apartment came into focus. The pale blue walls and the comfy couch, the wood tone cabinets in the kitchen along the back wall. Photos and drawings littered the walls. Wren it seemed was both artistic and photogenic.

Or perhaps Winter was just sentimental.

Raven stepped towards a shelf, nestled between two doors. Light snores drifted from one, and the other stood wide open to reveal a small bed covered in more stuffed animals than any child could ever hold at one time. Raven kept her eyes on the shelf.

A picture stuck out to her, tucked into the frame of a larger family portrait. It was a snapshot of Qrow – dark circles, bruises on his neck – holding a bundle of red. Tiny fingers reached upwards. Next to Qrow, leaning on his shoulder, was a sleeping Winter. Her white locks stuck to her forehead with sweat.

The bottom of the photo held a short message: You’ve never looked happier Uncle Qrow! – Y

It was true. Despite the bruises, the blood, and the exhaustion. Qrow’s smile was bigger than Raven had ever seen.

"I'm gonna put him back to bed," Qrow leaned over to kiss Winter's cheek and Raven turned back to face her the little family. Qrow walked past her into the room with the overabundance of stuffed things and closed the door.

"So tell me, Raven," Winter stepped forward, arms tense at her side, "What would you like to know?" Raven raised an eyebrow. The sound of Qrow reading a story, funny voices included, floated in from a bedroom door on their left.

Winter didn't budge and Raven recognized her footing from when the woman had fought in the ring. Raven chuckled, "Nice to know my reputation precedes me." She side stepped Winter and sunk into the couch in the living room.

"I've met your daughter," Winter followed her across the apartment, but she stayed on her feet. She stopped in the kitchen, pulling a kettle from the stove just as it began to whistle. "And I know better than to underestimate a Branwen."

Raven did not flinch at the mention of Yang, but her lips pressed firmly together. She leaned her head into her hand, propping her arm up on the couch. "Qrow said you were a huntress before?" Winter set two cups of tea on the coffee table.

"After leaving the military, yes. A friend of Qrow's, Robyn, she offered me a spot on her team. They're in Vacuo right now, still dealing with the fallout from Salem's attack." Winter’s tone was neutral, but forced.

"Vacuo is where I found Qrow." Raven arched an eyebrow.

Winter shrugged, "I retired. He didn't. I fight for Cellus now, it's decent pay and he's…"

"A complete buffoon." Raven finished Winter's thought. "Especially if you've got a nice figure." She eyed up Winter, even in a breezy robe and slippers the curves the woman had were evident. "Which you've got."

"…oblivious to my true identity." Winter continued without acknowledging Raven's words. "Wren needs stability, as does my brother." The last words came out sharply and Raven swallowed back a growl. Winter finally sat, picking a chair directly opposite Raven's position on the couch. Her posture was perfect.

Qrow returned to the living room to find the two women staring at each other, intensely. Without blinking. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Winter sipped her tea. He sighed.

"Ya know, just once it'd be nice to have a little family unity," Qrow gestured with his hands and Raven snorted. The corner of Winter’s lips twitched. Qrow sat on the arm of Winter's chair. He leaned back, body curling over the back of the chair.

The sight was… disorientating. Qrow, literally wrapped around the stiff and proper figure of Winter Schnee. Even worse was Winter herself. Her posture slackened and she leaned backwards into Qrow’s waiting chest. Her hand moved to his knee as his found her shoulder. The forced neutrality of Winter’s face bled into a peaceful smile.

Raven had never seen her brother so comfortable around another individual. Even around her, he'd always been a little tense, a little skittish. She'd blamed it on his semblance, but here he was - same semblance - lounging like a cat, muscles draped as if his very bones had softened along with Winter’s expression.

"Well, Schnee," Raven sighed, stood, and stretched. Her hands fell to her waist and she watched Winter track her movements with her eyes. "I deem you worthy of my last name, so long as you don't lose any fights."

Winter smirked, "Of course." She bowed her head slightly, little more than a nod. Raven recognized the gesture, the respect. She nodded in kin.

"Do see about making it official," Raven joked as she twirled her dagger out from its hiding space. She slashed through the air, "A proper lady deserves a proper wedding." The portal opened as Winter laughed. "And a bedding." Raven stepped through just as Qrow jolted up from his position, squawking.

The bandits who stopped as Raven walked through the camp didn't ask her where she had been. They did not stop her or comment as she ignored their presence. She simply walked into her tent and slipped a photo from her belt.

In a chest, below piles of clothes and blankets and armor, was a small wooden box. Inside was a dinged up shuriken blade and tattered scraps of paper. Nothing of import or interest. Raven slipped the snapshot she’d swiped from Qrow’s home beneath them all, right over the photo of a purple eyed blonde and her stuffed kitty cat.

-.-.-

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#ray writes #snowbird #rwby #qrow branwen #winter schnee #fanfiction #rwby fanfiction #raven branwen #qrow/winter #qrowin #shipwreckedfanzine

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eryiss · 4 years

Text

Request: Portrait of a Lightning God

Summary: With a crappy job and no financial support, Laxus needs money. On Bickslow and Evergreen's advice, he goes for an audition to model for the reclusive painter Freed Justine. A man he knows nothing about, but finds himself enthralled by. [Fraxus One Shot]

This was part of a prompt based request thing I'm doing, based off of a request where Freed is a painter and Laxus is a model. It was made by Tumblr user: @alex-is-wily. I hope you all enjoy and if you have a request please leave a comment or maybe go to the ask box.

You can read this on FanFiction, Archive of our Own, or under the cut. Hope you enjoy it ^.^

Portrait of a Lightning God

Laxus couldn't quite believe he had resorted to this.

He was standing in an art studio, with another man looking him up and down. This was a situation unfamiliar to Laxus, and one far from his comfort zone. The man inspecting him didn't seem to be at all bothered by Laxus' discomfort, either because he had been in this situation before and was used to it, or simply because he was the type of man who didn't take other people's feelings into account. Laxus hoped it wasn't the latter; if this went well, the two men would be spending a lot of time together.

That was the nature of being a painter's model.

The whole thing was Bickslow and Evergreen's idea. Since leaving college, Laxus had been unemployed and using his family's money to get by. Apparently Makarov had gotten sick of that and cut him off. The only job Laxus had managed to get hadn't paid well, just enough to keep him in his apartment and eating. But it was unstable. His friends' solution was to pick up some extra money by modelling.

He had immediately discounted the idea, but they had been prepared; very prepared. They'd found an ad online from a painter needing a model for an upcoming painting. They had done a background check on him; the artist was respected, and previous models had only good things to say. They'd even gone so far as to contact him so they could get a better understanding of what Laxus would actually need to do. Apparently it should take four sessions, it would happen in the countryside, and would involve no nudity; Evergreen apparently knew that would have been one of Laxus' first questions.

There was no reason to say no. Annoyingly.

So now he stood in the painter's studio, allowing the man to inspect him. Laxus wasn't entirely sure what the inspection was for, as he had already sent the man pictures of himself and had been accepted for the job. Based on the multiple poses Laxus had been told to make – all just different ways of standing – he assumed this was a brainstorming session.

"Cross your hands in front of you and look down," The painter instructed, and Laxus complied.

He had looked into who the man was. His name was Freed Justine, he was a growing name in the art world (if the articles about him were to be believed) and apparently favoured landscapes to anything with an actual person in it; there was obvious exceptions, but not many. His private life was something of a mystery, apparently, and he had gained the reputation of a recluse.

Laxus hadn't accepted that and had also gotten in contact with one of Freed's previous models; a woman named Mirajane. She spoke highly of him, both as a painter and as a person, and had encouraged Laxus to try it out. From their conversation, Laxus surmised he was a good man, but could be standoffish. He was certainly seeing that.

A small hum broke Laxus' thoughts.

"I think that might be it," Freed said, apparently to himself. "You can relax now."

Laxus did so and looked behind him towards the painter. He had walked to a drafting table and sketched a quick figure in the same pose that Laxus had just taken. It only took a few moments and was nothing more than a series of lines and ovals, but it was certainly Laxus; the blonde couldn't help but be impressed.

"You said that you're free on Wednesdays and the weekends, correct?" He asked, looking towards Laxus.

"Yeah," Laxus nodded. "The other days I start at eight and finish at five."

"Okay. I'll email you the time and places ill require you, and I'm sure we can discuss our meetings further that way," He stood up and reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. Laxus frowned as he picked out a selection of notes and offered them to him; it was around a hundred dollars altogether.

"I didn't think I was getting paid for today?" Laxus asked; not yet taking the money.

"I need you in certain clothing; a black exercise shirt and black jeans. I could attempt you guess your sizes, but this seems easier," He offered the money again. "Make sure its high-quality fabrics, and if this isn't enough tell me and I'll reimburse you for what I owe."

"And if it comes under?"

"Consider it a bonus," Freed shrugged. "I'd appreciate it if you got them quickly, though. Ideally I'd like to start on Saturday."

"Sure," Laxus nodded. "There anything else you need from me?"

"Not today. As I said, I can email you with the details of where you'll need to be and when," Freed placed his pencil down and looked Laxus in the eye for the first time. He was smiling a little. "I look forward to working with you, Mr Dreyar."

"Err, you too," Laxus muttered awkwardly.

Freed didn't walk Laxus to the door, but the blonde didn't care. As he walked, he played with the money in his pocket absently; this was the most disposably income he'd had since being cut off. And definitely too much for what Freed had wanted him to buy. He decided that he would buy the clothes immediately; he'd use some of the remaining money on getting a pizza or something for his dinner. It would be great not eating something not from a microwave.

After leaving the studio, he thought about Freed. Mirajane had been right; he could be blunt and seemingly uncaring, but he wasn't exactly rude. And logic dictated the more time they spent together, the less awkward it would be. It wouldn't be nearly as bad as Laxus had expected it to be.

The guy had a nice smile, too.

-~---~-

If it hadn't been obvious from his studio, Freed had an incredibly keen creative eye.

This was the only conclusion Laxus had made when he first saw where he would be modelling. He had managed to find a small, private lake outside of the city. It had an old wooden dock on it which, which looked at from a certain angle, stood directly in front of a large mountain. He had managed to find this location, and gotten permission to use it, within three days. It was… incredibly impressive to do so.

After Freed had explained what he wanted Laxus to do – stand on the edge of the dock in the same pose he had done in the studio – the blonde had asked why he hadn't organised a location beforehand. Apparently he had, and the original idea had been to paint him on the top of a city rooftop, but Laxus was better suited to a more natural environment, as he was a more earthy figure. Laxus didn't know if this was a compliment, an insult or just an observation, so he decided just to ignore the comment and do what the painter wanted.

That had been over an hour ago, they hadn't spoken since.

Laxus hadn't known any creative people in his life, so didn't know what exactly to do. He had decided that he would remain quiet, staying in the pose, as this was safe. Freed seemed level headed, but artists could be volatile and Laxus didn't want to risk angering the man. His work has staff rescheduling and Laxus knew he was at risk, so money was tighter than normal.

It was boring, but not difficult work. The post wasn't taxing on his body, and Freed had allowed him a single earphone so he could at least listen to music. It was essentially as expected. He was standing still; Freed was painting him.

"I should apologise," Freed spoke suddenly, and Laxus almost broke the pose.

"Why?" He asked after a few seconds to think.

"I was not welcoming when you came to my studio," Freed explained, and Laxus glanced at him. he was still painting. "When your friends contacted me, they explained this wasn't something you've done before, and you might not be comfortable. I didn't take that into account, that wasn't fair of me."

"You don't need to worry about that," Laxus placated.

"Perhaps," Freed agreed, and Laxus frowned a little. "But still, I apologise. I've been stressed for the last few months and I haven't been the most respectful person."

"Well, don't beat yourself up over it," Laxus assured him. He waited a moment before speaking again. "What's got you stressed out?"

"I have an exhibition in a month, it's in the biggest gallery in town. Well, other than museums, but they hardly count if you're an artist with an actual pulse," Freed explained, and Laxus chuckled. "But it's high profile, and I have to please them to keep in good faith. They want twenty exhibits altogether, and I'm not as prepared as I would like to be."

"You far behind?"

"I've finished sixteen of the twenty so far."

"That ain't too bad," Laxus said, glancing up at Freed again. He still hasn't stopped painting despite their conversation, so it wasn't too much of a distraction. "When did you start?"

"Eight months ago," Freed sighed, and Laxus winced a little. That meant about an average of two paintings a month, and now he had a month to do four.

"That could be worse," Laxus attempted to assure him, and Freed stopped painting to look at him with a slight raised eyebrow. His tone must not have been convincing. "Do you think you can make it."

"I'm sure I can," Freed sounded resigned. "I just don't want to sacrifice quality."

"Well, I'm sure whatever you do, you'll manage to make it good," Laxus was surer of his words now. "From what I've seen of your stuff, you're pretty good. And the critics seem to like you, especially that Jason guy. He just couldn't stop talking about how great you are."

"He' an enthusiastic man," Freed chuckled. "But still, this exhibition is like a test. Artists who had better respect than me tried filling that hall. If it doesn't work, they were classed as over-hyped and forgotten by the end of the month. I'd rather than not happen with me."

"Well, good luck I guess," Laxus didn't know what else to say. But the quiet was deafening. "And you really don't need to worry about upsetting me; I can take a bit of rudeness. I was a pretty big asshole as a teenager, it'd be hypocritical if I was sensitive about it."

"I suppose it would," Freed nodded, before smirking a little over his canvas. "Well, I'll be sure to treat you like dirt then, if that's what you want."

"Can't picture that," Laxus challenged, glancing up again. "I mean you felt so guilty about making me uncomfortable. I mean you must have been worrying about it the moment I left the door, ya might have even lost sleep. But sure, if you wanna upset me, you try your best."

"Don't misinterpret my politeness as being passive. It will not end well for you," Freed warned, and Laxus let out a single laugh. "Unrelatedly, that pose isn't working. You seem to be healthy enough unless your muscles are simply for vanity. Perform a handstand, quick as you can. I'm sure a man like you can sustain it for a few hours."

Laxus laughed, waited a few seconds and glanced at Freed. The artist was looking at him expectantly, no sign of a joke on his features. Laxus broke the pose, a little disbelieving.

"You're serious?" His voice was a little panicked.

A moment passed before Freed smirked again and looked down to his canvas. Laxus let out a little breath of relief before laughing and getting back into the pose. He was smiling this time and hoped that it wouldn't ruin the painting in anyway, because he couldn't seem to fight it. At least he felt a lot more comfortable now.

"Asshole," He laughed.

"I suppose," Freed agreed, and that made Laxus smile wider. "But if you doubt me again, I can assure you I'll follow through with any threats I make. You'll find my desire to be spiteful supersedes my desire to be successful."

"I don't doubt it," Laxus laughed again.

He smiled for the rest of the session.

-~---~-

The more Laxus got to know Freed, the more he liked him.

Over the weeks they had been meeting up for the modelling sessions, they had spoken a lot. Sometimes about Freed, sometimes about Laxus, and sometimes about whatever came to mind. The sessions had lasted hours, so it was hard to remember what exactly all their conversations had been about, but Laxus enjoyed them all. Freed made him laugh, made him feel comfortable, and made him look forward to their sessions together. He loved being around the other man.

He didn't need to go to every session anymore, but he still did. Apparneltly Freed had drawn him first and had planned to do the background after; his usual way of painting models. But Laxus insisted that he be there just in case he needed to make an adjustment and needed him there. It was an excuse, Laxus just enjoyed Freed's company.

Maybe Freed knew this. Laxus didn't mind if he did.

Laxus had grown attracted to Freed and thought perhaps Freed felt the same way. He hadn't spoken about it; he wasn't the type to let his feelings be known. Certainly not when there was a risk of fucking things up between the two of them. Being friends was better than nothing.

But still, the blonde couldn't help but think that maybe something was happening between them. Freed hadn't once questioned why Laxus wanted to be there when he didn't need to be and seemed to welcome the company. They'd gone to coffee a few times, once after a session and once just because Freed had offered. Even as he watched Freed paint, it didn't exactly feel platonic. Though the wine the two were drinking might have contributed to that.

God, were they having a picnic weren't they? This was close to being a date. That was too much to think about.

A he glanced to Freed, he frowned a little. He had noticed that the conversation was somewhat one sided. He had put it down to Freed being engrossed in his work, it had happened from time to time. But previously, Freed hadn't worn the worried expression on his face. His hands hadn't been tensed. And he hadn't drunk three glasses of wine within a two-hour period.

"Okay," Laxus sighed after a while, taking the paintbrush out of Freed's hand. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Freed said immediately.

"Fucking lie to me again, Justine. See what happens?" It was perhaps a little confrontational. But Freed could be a closed book when he wanted to be, and Laxus was slightly buzzed from the wine. It seemed to work, as Freed's facial expressions went from challenging to resigned.

"It's just… I haven't had this much trouble painting something in a while. It's bothering me," Freed sighed, looking at his painting.

Laxus couldn't agree with Freed, the painting looked great. Only half of the background was completed, but it was done very well. And the figure that he had been modelling for looked great as well. Perhaps he was just the type of person who was overly critical of their work, although that didn't seem consistent with what he knew about the man. Freed had a lot of confidence in himself and wasn't the type to shy away from his own pride.

"What can I do to help?" He asked; he was better at solutions than sympathy. "I can get back up there and see if that helps."

"Perhaps. Thank you."

Laxus nodded and walked to the small wooden dock. He got back into his pose and didn't speak for a while, knowing that it would help Freed get back into a creative mindset. Glancing up without moving his head, he saw that Freed was painting again, so decided that remaining quiet would be for the best. Freed's deadline from the gallery was getting closer, and it was only fair he did what he could to help him out.

He looked down again and allowed Freed to paint. This continued for a little while – around ten minutes, if Laxus was guessing correctly – until Laxus heard a small scuffling sound. He frowned and looked up. As he did so, Freed shouted.

"Fuck!" His voice echoed as he stepped over his upturned easel.

Freed hadn't sword often, and the visceral tone in which he had said it shocked Laxus. He left the dock immediately and walked to Freed, who had chosen to pace around the small clearing of dirt that he and Laxus had been sitting on. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes unblinking, and breath slightly audible. He was clearly incredibly stressed out.

"Woah," Laxus said, grabbing Freed by the shoulders and stopping him. "What happened?"

"It's wrong," Freed snapped. "When I started it, I thought I had the idea down. But I don't, and I've been painting it wrong basically since we began. This was meant to be the focus point of the exhibit, and it's a conventional piece of bullshit. A child could have done this."

Laxus would disagree, but Freed didn't need that. "Can you fix it?"

"Not without starting over," Freed sighed.

"Well, what exactly would you do differently, what's wrong with it?" Laxus asked. Maybe if Freed explained why he didn't like it; he would figure a way to fix it.

"There's no personality in it. No honesty. There's none of-" Freed cut himself off, before thinking a moment. "There's none of you in it. not really."

"What d'you mean."

"I mean… I decided to stage it here because I thought nature reflected who you were, do you remember that?" Laxus nodded. "Well, look at it. You can't see your face, you're in a pose I chose before I knew anything about you, you're in clothes that I chose for you. It doesn't reflect who you are even slightly. You're supposed to be the focus of the exhibition and I've made it so you could be replaced by basically any man in the country."

That was… a lot. Laxus hadn't known he was important in Freed's exhibition; he really had just thought that he was just the model for one of the paintings. Obviously Freed had thought otherwise, and just hadn't mentioned it.

"Okay," Laxus said after a moment. "We've got a week left. That enough time to start again with a new idea?"

"Don't be-"

"Is it enough time?" Laxus asked again.

"It's…" Freed sighed, thinking. "I could paint something in a week, and it could be good. But I'd have to work almost constantly, and you've actually got a job so… It just wouldn't be feasible."

"I'll quit," Laxus shrugged, and Freed's head snapped towards him. "I'll quit, then I can be here as much as you need me."

"What?" Freed asked, apparently blind sighted.

"The boss says three people are getting laid off at the end of the month anyway. He hates me and I'm not great at what I do, so I'm basically gone already," Laxus shrugged. "Why give them any more of my time, right?"

"And if you're wrong."

"Hate working for the place anyway. This would've been the kick I needed to get out and move on."

Freed waited for a moment, thinking. "Are you sure?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't," Laxus assured, and the tone he spoke left no room for argument.

"Thank you," Freed smiled, and Laxus' stomach flipped.

He would do perhaps anything for that smile.

-~---~-

The difference between Freed when he had his freak out and how he was after he restarted his picture was like night and day. It was almost jarring, but Laxus was loving it. To see him so content, wrapped up in his creativity, was a sight to behold.

Laxus would stay here forever if he could.

There was a clear difference between the first painting and this, particularly in how Laxus was posing. Freed had insisted he wear his favourite outfit, and Laxus had complied. He was dressed in tattered combat boots; the same black jeans he had brought with Freed's money (they'd quickly grown to be his favourite); a purple shirt he'd owned for a while; and his long fur lined coat. Bickslow had seen him before he left that day, and claimed the outfit was quintessential Laxus.

Freed seemed pleased with Laxus' choice and smiled when he first saw him. The only adjustments he had made was requesting Laxus unbutton his shirt, so his stomach and chest were visible, apparently making Laxus seem more in tandem with nature. Laxus had done so without argument.

It was funny. If he had been told that would be his outfit when he met Freed, he would have turned down the job offer without hesitance.

His pose was different too. No longer was he looked down with his hands crossed. Instead his right arm was raised straight into the air and his fist was clenched, and he was looking directly at Freed; he compared it to looking down the lens of a camera. He was no longer standing on the dock anymore, instead he was on the shore of the lake, the water reaching to the middle of his shins. The tail of his coat pooled around him, and the chill was obvious, but he didn't care.

The speed in which Freed was painting was faster than he had in all of their time in the first version of the scene. And all throughout, Freed had been talking and smiling. Laxus hadn't realised that the longer they had worked on the first painting, the more subdued Freed had become. Now, he seemed more alive again.

Laxus was relishing in it.

"So," Laxus asked, keeping the smirk on his face as he spoke. Freed had requested the expression as well. "You gonna let me see anything today?"

They had been doing this for days, but Freed hadn't once shown Laxus what he had painted. With the first version he hadn't been shy of showing Laxus, but apparently this was different. When he had asked Freed why this was, he had been told that this was an honest reflection of how Freed saw Laxus, and that Laxus could see it only when it was complete. Laxus understood why this was but found himself craving an insight as to how Freed saw him.

"Potentially," Freed said, and Laxus' heart quickened. When he had asked before, the answer had been a flat no.

"Really, you're close to being finished?"

"I think so. Close enough that I might show you, at least," Freed smiled a little, and Laxus felt a thrill go through him. "We'll probably have to come back here tomorrow though, to finish on the finer details. So don't expect a day off."

"You're harsher than my old boss, y'know that?" Laxus laughed.

"I take it as a compliment."

Again, Laxus laughed before setting his face into the expression that Freed wanted from him. Even with the arm raised into the air, he hadn't had any trouble holding the pose; although his workouts had suffered slightly on his arm. Perhaps he was being sentimental, but he thought that maybe this was because he was looking directly at Freed's face, and watching the artist's content expression as he worked was hypnotic. The first day he had been posing for hours – with breaks, Freed wasn't so cruel as to keep him still constantly – and it had gone by in the blink of an eye.

That was an issue that plagued them both again, as time seemed to be rushing by. The two kept talking as Freed worked, and Laxus was in a constant battle to keep a smile from beating out his smirk. It was almost therapeutic; a sensation helped by the slight movement of water and the ambience of the nearby insects.

This relaxation broke at the sound of thunder.

Both Freed and Laxus perked at the sudden rumbling, and Laxus looked behind him. Clouds had formed above them, and it looked as though it was going to start raining. Laxus frowned a little at that.

"You think we should call it a day?"

"Probably safest," Freed said, already standing up and removing the painting from the easel.

They were quick to get back to the car, as they felt the first drops of light rain hit their skin. It wasn't heavy yet – not nearly heavy enough to damage the painting – but they both wanted to be sure. Laxus was quick to put the easel and paints that he was carrying into the trunk, securing them so that they wouldn't move around and be damaged as Freed drove. They had done this before, and had it down to a fine art.

But as the rain got heavier, their routine was disrupted slightly. Freed handed Laxus the painting without a word, and Laxus took it without thinking. It took him a moment to realise that, with Freed giving it him, it was also giving him permission to see it. he held it out under the protection of the trunk's door, and his breath hitched.

It was fantastic.

In his hands, Laxus held the only piece of art he truly cared for. He was at a loss for words as he looked at the detailed mixture of colours and inks and paints, all stemming from Freed's talent.

The painting focused on him. He was standing in the lake, arm raised to the sky, surrounded by nature. But it wasn't just a recreation of what Freed had seen. Thunderous clouds had been painted in the sky, almost swirling despite being still. A beam of erratic, powerful looking lightning slammed from the sky, hitting Laxus' raised fist and stammering down his arms. Flicker of lightning danced across any exposed part of Laxus' skin that could be seen and reflected off the lake. The colours around him were somewhat subdued and natural, but he seemed vivid and bright. His eye practically shone on the page.

"What do you think?" Freed asked, and he almost sounded nervous.

"It's fucking…" The words wouldn't come to Laxus. "It's amazing. You erm- You said you wanted to reflect more of me in this one, right?"

"I did," Freed nodded, voice still a little nervous. But he was calm. "When I look at you, Laxus, I see lightning. I- if I'm honest with myself, I see someone sharp, fast, exhilarating, powerful. You overwhelm me, Laxus. You are electrifying in a way that I can't quite put into words. I hope my art can make up for that."

Laxus still held the painting, looking at it with wide eyes. The rain beat down on his back, but he paid no mind to it. Freed thought he was overwhelming. Ironic, considering that was exactly how Laxus felt.

"Does it have a name?" Laxus asked, voice a little hoarse.

"I wish to call it 'The Lightning God.'"

That was the final straw for Laxus. He placed the painting in the trunk of Freed's car, stalked towards the artist and wrapped his arms around him. One snaked around Freed's waist, the other placed on the back of the man's head. He pushed their bodies together and pressed his lips against Freed's into a soft, passionate kiss. The rain beat down on the two men as Freed also moved, leaning into Laxus and kissing back.

That moment was timeless, and Laxus' senses were on fire. He could feel exactly what Freed had described. Everything was sharp and exhilarating and overwhelming and electric. Laxus couldn't have hoped for more.

As they kissed, thunder roaring around them and crackled of electricity lighting up the sky, Laxus saw the accuracy of the painting's title. If Freed thought that Laxus was the lightning in the painting, then Laxus deemed Freed the God. He was the creator, the man who had brought beauty to the world in his actions. What better god could there be?

And, as the painting had clearly proven, beautiful things happened when you mixed lightning and a god.

#fraxus #freed justine #Laxus Dreyar #request #freed x laxus #fanfic #fairy tail #writing

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