#but like the sheer amount of enemies strewn about for no reason

[girlbob-boypants]

Know that I say this as someone who plays and has fun with the game but

Eso is a bad game.

[shroomcult]

@soulxmakaweek

Got a little carried away with this one, so I’m posting it a bit later in the day. If people enjoy it, I’ll likely write a part two for this. I got some ideas rattling around in my head for some fluff to soothe the angst - just want to focus on trying to finish the rest of the prompts first. Anyways, hope yall enjoy!

Day 3: Protect

It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out mission. The Kishin egg that had been terrorizing a small mountain town in Kazakhstan was at a relatively low threat level due to the small number of souls it had consumed. 

It was once known by friends and family by the name of Erasyl when it was a human - a large, mild-mannered and hard-working man who often kept to himself. No one could understand what had caused him to go down the path that he did, but after consuming the souls of six innocent people over the course of a few months, Erasyl no longer resembled anything close to a human. 

One of the creature’s massive arms came swinging at Maka’s unprotected side, flinging her body several feet in the air and smashing through what was left of a window and out into the blustery night air.

She was somewhat relieved to take the battle outside of the cramped quarters of the dilapidated sawmill building they had been fighting in. The lumber yard was something of an obstacle course strewn with old, rusted equipment she’d have to be careful to avoid tripping over, but at least she had more room to move about.

She wasn’t too enthused about the way she had landed jarringly on her left shoulder, though. That was sure to hurt in the morning.

“Dammit, Maka! Don’t stay in swingin’ range of that thing for too long. Strike, and move back!” Soul’s tinny voice vibrated in her hands.

Maybe she had lingered in close quarters of her opponent for a little too long, but she was becoming worn-out from the unexpected length of the battle and a little tired of her partner’s unsolicited coaching. 

“It has four arms for death’s sake! It’s hard to dodge every time, okay?!”

“Just be careful, that’s all I’m sayin’. Your frustration is makin’ you reckless,'' he growled. “Head’s up, Big Ugly is comin’ our way,” he added before she had a chance to continue their banter.

She was back on her feet right as it smashed out the remaining bits of glass from the gaping opening of the window and swiftly climbed over the sill. The hand that had been gripping the side of the building had spread a thick layer of ice across the surface, vapor rising from its fingertips. She took quite a few steps back, bringing herself closer to the tree-line of the woods and putting strategic distance between herself and her enemy.

“Hey, you saw that, right? Didn’t think your average Kishin egg would have elemental manipulation powers. Stinks of magic intervention, I’d say.”  

“Yeah, I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she replied between breaths.

A Kishin egg with such a low kill-count shouldn’t have been this difficult to defeat. It was uncharacteristically cautious and surprisingly nimble for its imposing size. Now with the discovery of its freezing abilities, she was fearing the possibility of witch involvement. They didn’t have the necessary back-up to be in a situation like that. 

She startled at realization that she had no idea what ice powers could do to Soul’s weapon form. It had even attempted to grab him from her multiple times. She would have to be more careful to avoid letting it touch her weapon. 

The troll-like monster only took a few ground-tremoring steps before it halted, still quite a bit of feet away from her. Its eyes were pure white making it impossible to truly identify where its gaze was held, but it craned its neck to the side, ears twitching, searching for something. She got the distinct feeling that it was staring at something out in the dense forest that surrounded them. It was deathly still. What the hell is it doing?

For some inexplicable reason, the temperature sharply dropped and a chill that had nothing to do with the sudden cold ran through her entire body. It was so quiet, even the harsh winds around them had stilled completely. 

“Maka, something is in the woods-”

In the blink of an eye, the beast in front of them lunged forward, dropping to the ground to sprint at her with the use of all of its arms. The air around them began to whip about violently.

She dashed to the left with every ounce of strength she could push into her legs, desperately trying to find some kind of cover - anything to become an obstacle between her and that thing if only for a couple moments. She needed to buy time, think up some kind of advantage that could bring her close enough to it without putting Soul in danger as well.

The sooner they took this bastard down, the sooner they could confront whatever the hell it was that was out there waiting for them.

She dove behind a rusted old flatbed full of lumber, but her enemy was quick on its feet as well and practically materialized in front of her. She swung her scythe in a smooth arc towards its abdomen, causing it to leap to the side reflexively, but not before throwing two of its arms forward.

She ducked down, but soon felt her stomach sink at the realization that it hadn’t been aiming for her at all. 

A chain snapped loudly behind her and all of the thick logs that had been held in place on the truck lurched forward from the force of the strike and began tumbling towards her.

She was agile enough to roll to her side, keeping Soul’s handle tucked against her stomach - but the Kishin egg didn’t allow her the opportunity to properly evade. 

It smacked one of the falling logs with two of its arms, launching it towards the direction she had flung herself in. While she was able to avoid having her head and torso crushed, it had landed on one of her legs that had outstretched in an attempt to give her an extra push away from hazard.

Searing pain immediately shocked her system and a raw shriek ripped from her throat as she was pinned between the log and the front wheel of the truck. 

The beast lurched forward, and she could only watch with wide and teary eyes as she saw a flash of light and the telltale sound of Soul shifting from steel to flesh and bone.

“Soul, don’t!” she cried despite knowing it would fall on deaf ears.

He met the fearsome creature no more than a foot in front of her, blades sprouting forth from all over his body. He had successfully impaled and immobilized the creature’s bottom two arms with the blades poking out of his shoulders, another larger blade sticking from his chest was embedded fatally in its abdomen. His arms were outstretched and grappling with the beast’s two remaining arms, keeping its broad wrists in a vice grip. 

Maka took this time to brace herself with elbows digging into the ground as she used a free arm and leg to attempt to roll the log off of her. Thankfully, the log’s state of decay made it somewhat lighter and easier to move, but the blinding pain of it rolling over her already broken shin and off her foot was almost unbearable, causing her to bite down on a scream. She grabbed onto the wheel of the truck for support and made to stand, but the moment her punished leg made slight contact with the ground, she was down on one knee and holding back a sob. 

She couldn’t even stand and walk, what could she even do to help him? 

He was visibly shaking with the tremendous effort it took to hold the giant brute at bay, and one of its hands was getting dangerously close to his throat. Smokey frost was budding from it’s open palm.

 His heels were dug firmly in the dirt, but it pushed him back until he was nearly bumping up against the log she had just pushed herself out from.

It took a considerable amount of energy for him to even maintain this many external blades at a time, but somehow he pushed himself to manifest two more scythes from his trembling arms that sliced through the Kishin egg’s remaining appendages. 

The large hand that had been desperately grasping for his throat had icicles hanging off of it, and the blood that had been leaking from its wounds had begun to freeze in place. 

Its left arm was dematerializing, breaking down into ribbons of black matter that shortly vanished into air. It was dying, but so slowly. 

At this realization, the beast seemed to gain a final burst of energy from its rage. Its jaw unhinged and it let loose a bellowing roar, saliva flinging in all directions. Soul responded with a rasping animalistic shout that likely scraped his throat raw as he bared fangs of his own.

It suddenly jolted against him, sending him backwards in surprise. He bent his knees slightly to avoid tripping over the log behind him and his back slammed into the front cabin of the truck, denting it with the sheer force. 

Only the one arm fully remained, but it strained against him, outstretched razor-sharp claws finally making contact with the vulnerable skin of his throat, digging in. 

Soul howled in pain, planting both of his hands against its chest and shoving with all the strength he could muster to send the beast stumbling backwards. 

Its jaws were gaping open, eyes bulging out of its swollen head, but no sound came out. It dissolved into fleeting inky blackness and vanished before it even had the chance to hit the ground. The glowing red, scaly orb of its soul remained suspended in the air.

Soul only stood there swaying slightly, gulping in breath after shuddering breath before falling to his knees with a thud that brought a cloud of dust from the ground.

“Soul!” she screeched, ignoring the agony that lit up every nerve in her leg as she dragged herself towards his limp body. She caught the back of his head with her hands the moment he collapsed onto his back. The gashes in his throat were brutally deep and blood was welling up, trickling down his neck and soaking his shirt at an alarming speed. 

His breathing sounded wet and labored, and his mouth opened and closed a few times before he weakly croaked out her name.

She was removing both of her gloves, placing them against the wound and pressing down in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. One hand held the quickly reddening cloth against his neck while the other stroked his face.

“Don’t say anything else, Soul. Please , please stay with me - you’re going to be okay. W-we’re going to get help, just don’t leave me,” she pleaded, choking on a sob.

He kept his mouth shut, jaw trembling from involuntarily clenching it too hard. His pale brows knit together and his eyes were shining with an emotion that he didn’t have the ability to vocalize. He brought a shaking hand towards her face, so gentle as he tried to brush the tears from hers eyes to no avail as new ones only took their place. 

He offered her a tight, apologetic smile. He was blinking sluggishly, the erratic puffs of breath coming from his nose were slowing down, evening out. His hand fell from her face to rest at his side. His eyes finally closed.

Maka’s breathing became frantic and a low wail squeezed out of her tightly clenched throat. The blood had already soaked through both of her gloves and she hastily ripped her coat off to help press against the wounds. 

She hadn’t even registered that the winds had stopped again. The air was frigid and her breath formed in thick white puffs in front of her.

She hadn’t dared remove her hands from Soul’s wound, refusing to give up on providing him medical aid. She kept her body close to her weapon, but she looked up when she sensed the presence of another soul emerging from the darkness of the forest. A powerful soul - a witch.

She’d obviously been using soul protect; playing spectator to their battle - but she was done hiding now.

In short time, the witch stepped out from the cover of shadows that the trees once provided her. Barefoot and clad only in a simple white gown, she took silent steps closer and closer to Maka. Frost covered the ground wherever her feet met it. 

Her eyes, much like the beast, were entirely white and she had no eyelids to cover them. She was a tall, gaunt woman with a wild mane of black hair that seemed to float eerily behind her. Despite the freezing temperatures surrounding her, fireflies flew around her head like a glowing crown. 

“Get the fuck away from him,” Maka snarled like a cornered animal, clutching Soul close to her chest. 

The strange witch stopped short only a foot away from her. Something was so unsettling, so otherworldly about her presence. 

When she spoke, her voice was ethereal like it was no more than a wisp of wind, so soft yet carrying itself in all directions. She spoke a language that Maka couldn’t understand.

“Please,” Maka whimpered, “Please, do whatever you want with me. Just, let me get him help. Let my Soul live - take me and let him live, I’m begging you.”

The witch regarded her with that same unreadable expression. There was no malice that could be found in her face, but she hadn’t felt kindness present either.

She crouched down to level herself with Maka, and spoke again, but this time in words that she could understand. “You have taken my protector from me. Now, your protector is being taken from you. If the universe wills it, you shall be alone - as I am now alone. We are sisters in this same loss.”

The witch’s gentle words chilled her to her core. She looked up pleadingly into the milky voids of her eyes.

“No - he doesn’t have to be taken from me. He could still live, he’s still breathing. Please.”

The witch nodded once, “Perhaps so. If he does not die today, he shall die another. As it is your nature to seek out battles, it is his nature to protect you from them. His death will not be a peaceful one - this I can promise you. It is not in my hands.”

His pulse was weak, and she could barely feel any air coming from his nose anymore. Time was being wasted on this conversation.

Maka shakily pulled out their portable mirror from Soul’s front pocket, breathing against the glass and smudging the proper number to contact Kid. A trauma team could still be sent in time. She didn’t have to lose Soul despite any cryptic bullshit this woman was espousing. 

“Maka? Is your mission completed?” Kid’s voice rang out from the mirror, but she didn’t bother looking at him - or the witch. She kept her eyes on Soul’s face, fingers buried in his hair and stroking his cheek with her thumb. 

“I need a trauma team sent out to my location immediately. Soul’s been wounded, and he’s lost a lot of blood. Please hurry,” she mumbled numbly, still refusing to look away from her weapon.

“What?! What’s happened-” he was cut off when she snapped the portable mirror shut. 

She leaned down to kiss his forehead, letting her lips linger there.

“You hear that, Soul? We’re getting out of here. I’m not losing you tonight, so don’t you dare let go before they get here,” she whispered against his skin, fresh tears beginning to roll down her cheek.

When she finally looked up, the witch was gone along with the corrupted soul. 

 The wind was blowing again.

[mythriteshah]

The Sultan’s Dream

“Nyra… Glacius…  It has been a journey of ten-thousand malms since we stepped foot upon Eorzea.  I was but a simple lordling that wanted to make a name for himself, with nothing but my two greatest companions – my best friends – by my side.  You two were always there.  Through my triumphs and my failures, you were all I had to depend on.

Yes, I have my Angels to watch over and safeguard myself and the Regalia, but even they are not always around – unlike you two. ‘Tis not often I am given an opportunity to simply enjoy the scenery and share my thoughts; there are few whom I trust enough to divulge my deepest secrets.  And to tell you the greatest truth of all, Nyra & Glacius… I’m tired. My time spent in Eorzea was one filled with so much turmoil that I would not even wish such a life on my worst enemies. And although I’ve brought the Regalia to a shining age of prosperity, I had still suffered a great deal since I first became an adventurer.

All this conflict is for the cloudkin.  I’ve already cavorted with enough primals to live three full lives.  And the repeated incursions of the Garlean Empire are evolving into quite the proverbial broken record.  There are numerous other adventurers and ‘heroes’ strewn about the realm to make an army; what’s one merchant-lord in the grand scheme of things?

We’ve played our part on this grand stage of imbeciles, Glacius.  Nyra. But now it is time for the curtains to descend.  I am done fighting and tempting fate – I’ll grow old doing this for so long. ‘Tis time we returned back home to where we belong.”

Thiji reflected back on his speech he gave to his two most trusted companions some summers ago.  While he has gained and lost much throughout his time as an adventurer, he was tolerant of the outcomes and made peace with them.  Of course, there are certain moments in time he wish would have changed for the better.

His confrontation with the Harriers and their leader in the heart of Snowcloak, though successful in its objective, costed Thiji the life of the only Angel who ever loved him – Mamai Mai, who was given the title of “Lady” posthumously.  She insisted on accompanying the then Mythrite Prince and his comrades-in-arms in his assault, offering her pugilistic skills to the table. Unfortunately, she was waylaid unexpectantly by what may as well have been a sub-zero blast of cold by the Lady of Frost.  Thiji may have withstood the brunt of it, but Mamai was not so prepared, and she fell as a result.  This was the beginning of a martial awakening within Thiji, for this event catalyzed his ascent – or descent, to some – into the path of the Dark Knight.  This would later be realized in its fullest when he battled against the fourfold master of the blade in His home turf: Ravana, Lord of the Hive.

“Martial perfection”, the Amalj’aa called it.  The apex of one’s skill for which all Amalj’aa seek to strive.  This concept stuck close to Thiji as he eventually took up the sword and shield, continuing his adventures as a Paladin during the campaign to liberate Ala Mhigo.  When he had faced off against the Lady of Bliss, whose Qalyana dreamers were coaxed into summoning their false deity due to threats from the Garlean Empire, he had received word from Nyra, who bore a message from one of his Angels informing him that his then-Sultana, Nanago Nago - whom was with child and under the care of Sarielle - had succumbed to her own avarice, consuming gratuitous amounts of aether from his weapons collected throughout his journeys during the Dragonsong War.  The resulting effulgence – combined with her own innate powers as an Astrologian – caused her and their unborn child to perish in a stellar explosion, effectively removing them from existence.  Another crushing loss – greater, even, than the one incurred from losing Mamai. Thanks to the laws of time and space, no one but he and his Angels know of this event.  Once more unhinged, Thiji found new strength in not only his martial, but his magical prowess, effectively dispatching of the Lady of Bliss, though at the cost of his own blade and board… and his soul crystal, which he casted away with his armor following the battle.

It always seemed passing strange that the Dunesfolk nobleman from the Near East would gain new strength and prowess by leaps and bounds at the expense of some tragedy – this only further added to his eccentricity.  He was a calm individual, but was incredibly vindictive – especially if one ever crossed his Angels, whom he cared for so dearly.  Others may not have picked up on the cause of these… awakenings, but Thiji was more than aware of it.  Some days following the Largesse, when he was alone in his Aldenard Branch office, he gazed upon a glistening blue greatsword of exquisite make.  It was made by a Dragoon friend of his who had a fascination for all things Allagan, and upon the length of the blade was an engraved sentence:

“As long as you make it out of a battle alive, you're one step closer to fulfilling your dream.”

More than just pretty words to the Mythrite Sultan.  He had experienced many battles and came out of each intact.  Even now, as the kingpin of the Higuri Regalia, Thiji had even conquered a battlefield which extended beyond the physical: the realm of high fashion. He toiled for many winters to get to where he is now; to be the titan of aesthetic and philanthropy which has earned the respect of many (and, for some reason, the ire of some).  Yet therein lies the problem:

What dream remained?

Sure, Thiji Higuri was a man of ambition and intellect.  But he had not enjoyed the pursuit of a dream since the assault on Djanan Qhat.  Ever since he was a child, he was spellbound by a particular play, and never missed a single showing.  Thiji had experienced it so many times that he could (and probably still) recite the entire script verbatim.  It was a tale of romance and tragedy; of a powerful sorceress with a good heart who stood up for a broken country’s people, and the solitary man who rose up to defend her:  the Sorceress’s Knight.

A dream he may have fulfilled after the Dragonsong War, but was snatched away prior to Ala Mhigo’s freedom. It was a sensitive topic, and seldom brought up in the Mythrite Sultan’s presence, lest an Angel earns his anger. Why keep the claymore, then, if he had no dream to pursue?  What other meaning could the decorative sword have to Thiji if he is a man bereft of that driving force?

The evening following the Largesse, the Mythrite Sultan was no longer present at the Aldenard Branch. He had begun making for the Main Branch for reasons as of yet unknown – probably to oversee the release of the Blessed Wardrobe’s second clothing line.  As usual, his Advisor, Veeveena Veena, was present in his chambers, enjoying some Winter Lassi as she gazed upon the moon with that lovely smile on her face.  It was yet another peaceful night in Radz-at-Han, and though she has seen the view many times, it was no less breathtaking to behold for the Near Eastern flower.

Veeveena took a few sips of her drink as the winds suddenly began to rise.  The trees amidst the emergent layer of the jungle which could be seen from the city began to sway and billow, and would eventually cause a whisper or three to blow through the balcony.  The sudden shift in temperature caught her off guard as the Dunesfolk woman let out a soft gasp, stumbling somewhat, but maintained her posture as the numerous jewels and decorations on her sampot clinked like wind chimes against her body.

“This breeze…” she whispered to herself.  “Could it be the North Wind?  Has he arrived in Radz-at-Han?”  The sheer thought of meeting the elusive debonair was too enticing to resist, and Veeveena would quickly down the last of the lassi, enduring the brain freeze that would follow.  As swiftly as she could, she doffed her garb to put on some evening attire before making her flight from the Main Branch Headquarters.  Forgoing the usual method of taking the bridge out from the city, she utilized her fans to conjure wind-aspected aether to propel herself upward, gliding down gracefully toward the canopy.

Meanwhile, as Veeveena made her way to the rivulet, a lone figure was seen dancing about.  It was shrouded entirely thanks to the shadows cast by the dense canopy beneath Menphina’s light.  The figure’s movements were seamless, effortlessly transitioning into fouettes, sliding along the waters from one side to the other as they froze over, striping the rivulet with bands of ice.  All throughout was the sound of steel ringing through the night air, and that same icy wind began picking up once more as the figure gathered aetherial energy for a brief moment before soaring from one end of the river to the other in a twirling flourish.   Upon reaching the apex of the jump, it performed a flawless jete, the silvery moon cloaking the figure all the while as if the spectacle was taken straight out from a painting. The concealed terpsichorean was releasing the stored energy as it did its finish, resulting in an arch of slick ice to form over the rivulet.  Sticking the landing with one final twirl into a plie, it detected movement within the trees.  It did not bother to take the time to discern the incoming presence, and instead fled the scene with a blinding dash into the forest floor.

When Veeveena had finally emerged, the figure she believed to be the North Wind was nowhere to be found. All that she beheld was the stark scenery of a partly-frozen rivulet, the banks dotted with shards of frost, and an arch spanning its breadth.  “This is beautiful… but the North Wind could not do this,” she thought, as she felt the scintillant snow particles kissing her face.  While she was awestruck at the sight, Veeveena had to report this occurrence to her peers.  Without wasting another moment, she contacted the Angels at the Main Branch, who would then arrive within the bell.

The “S” Trio (Sena, Sona, Suna) and the “L” Trio (Lena, Luma, Lina) were investigating the area as Veeveena brought them up to speed on what happened to the best of her ability. Sosona was easily able to deduce that the lingering aether was not the result of a primal’s thanks to her aetherometer obtained by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn (who, when asked about how she acquired them, stated that they didn’t seem to be using them anymore anyway);  Lelena and Lilina, with their own unique abilities, further deduced that the culprit was not using the ambient aether or the influence of a construct; Luluma and Susuna had also come to the conclusion that the focus area was away from any wildlife or beastmen, so none were harmed from the result of this… phenomenon.

What really stood out, however, was Sesena’s observation after gazing upon the frozen arch for several minutes:

“Hey, Angels… do any of you feel… different?” she asked them.  “Miss Veeveena?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I thought I was the only one who felt such… emotion from this scene, so I did not address it.”

“Miss Veeveena’s right… I don’t feel all that chipper,” Lilina commented, holding a hand to her heart. “It’s not… aether sickness, but when I gaze upon this scene, I’m seemingly overcome with… sorrow.  But it’s a sort of… beautiful sorrow – like a dying maiden being held in her lover’s arms before the last flames of life fade from her eyes…”

The other Angels absorbed Lilina’s words, taking in the scenery, watching the snow particles dance in the air.  The longer they remained, the more these senses seemed more profound.  They may have been involved in many conflicts both small and large, but the Angels were no strangers to emotion – especially ones as palpable as what they were experiencing.  They felt tranquility… yet sadness; bliss… yet loss.  It was as if they were traversing a thin line between positive and negative emotion.

“I’ve heard tales of his prowess, Angels, but I don’t think even the North Wind is capable of something like this,” Sesena commented.

“Whomever it is,” Sosona began, “they’re damn good at expressing themselves.”  The Angels remained for a while longer, until the icy spectacle would be whisked away by an errant gust of wind, freeing the rivulet from its frozen state in a cloud of diamond dust.

From atop the city in the Main Branch Headquarters, a Lalafell woman veiled in mythril blue and silver watched silently from her vantage point.  Lady Mimizo, the Valide Sultan, was surprisingly awake during this bell, her face obscured by one of her fans.  But for what reason was she spying on the Angels?

As Nyra flew to her side, Mimizo looked over her shoulder to find a slumbering Thiji, who seemed to be well into his sleep, a rare smile of content made visible on his face.  His mother would grin in kind as she gave a kiss to the owl’s cheek.

“[I am indebted to you, Nyra.  Thank you for keeping this secret for so long.  But soon, the Angels will have to know. Until then, pray hold your tongue a while longer],” Mimizo whispered to Nyra in their native tongue.  She would bow her head before taking wing, flying off into the night sky.  Mimizo gazed upon the vestiges of the ice particles swirling into the heavens, enjoying the sight for a moment before quietly leaving her son’s bed chambers.  She would return to accompany her husband before the Angels would make their way back to report this event to the other branches.

“May your dreams bring you the bliss you so rightfully deserve, my beloved son…”

[thewhiterabbit42]

Wicked Games

Pairing: Gabriel x reader

Series Summary:  When a trickster seeks revenge on Gabriel, he traps the archangel in a sex dungeon with the person he despises the most: you.  

Word Count:  3432

Chapter tags/warnings: swearing, people being dicks

Series tags/warnings (as it stands): dark fic, medium burn, kidnapping, sex dungeon, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, violence, graphic depictions of horror, dub con, non con, oral sex, it’s a sex dungeon so likely all the sex, confessed feelings, bondage, more tba

A/N: This is a dark fic.  Please read all tags/warnings carefully.  Big thanks to my beta and @starchaser-the-prophet for taking a peek at this!

Based off the following request by @inuhimesblog

Part 2

“Seriously?  You’re going to leave me with her?”  Gabriel’s disdain is palpable, overflowing from his features and spiraling out into the space surrounding him.  

You try not to take it personally.  You’d hate feeling leashed too, if you were an ancient being whose entire existence consisted of being top of the food chain, and you imagine it especially hits a nerve given how he’s spent the last seven years.  

“If you didn’t want a chaperone, then maybe you should have stayed put for the five minutes we told you to, instead of inviting a bunch of your old friends over for tea and almost getting us all killed!”  Dean insists.

“How was I supposed to know they were on Loki’s side?”  Gabriel demands.

You can see the way betrayal sparks bright behind gold, another heavy blow to an ego that, by all accounts, should be shredded beyond recognition.  Maybe it is, but even you have difficulty discerning when he insists on being such an ass about everything.

"Because all gods are a bunch of backstabbing assholes?" Dean guesses.  He’s just as sardonic and pissy as the archangel is these days, so much so, you can’t stand being in the same room with them.

"They're not gods," Gabriel says flatly.  "They're maenads."  

"I don’t really care what they are," Dean retorts, gesturing to dismembered corpses strewn along the floor.  "Demi-God, god, trickster, whatever.  The name changes, the song stays the same.    You can't trust any of them!"

If eye rolling were an Olympic event, the archangel would take home the gold.  He folds his arms over his chest, his entire upper body getting into the movement.  His head drops back and the look on his face suggests even Heaven can’t help him as his weight shifts between feet.

You can't blame him.  The entire situation screams power move by Dean.  As much as you don’t agree with it, you’re not really in a position to either challenge or refuse him, and you suspect the current predicament is as much a means to keep you in line as it is Gabriel.

"Look," Sam steps into the fray, trying to be the voice of reason in this whole mess.  "We need you, and, like it or not, you need us."

Short, sweet, to the point, and more importantly, accurate.

"And if there are more of these things out there," he looks down at the bodies at his feet.  "Then it sounds like you could use someone to help watch your back."

Gabriel's glare swings toward him, skepticism bubbling through the surface of his anger.

“And I don’t know what you’re complaining about, because she’s the one that dropped those things, not us,” Sam adds, a touch of attitude broaching his tone to drive his point home.  

While you appreciate the reminder, it’s not as if the archangel wasn’t there, moving perfectly in tandem with you.  Somehow, you make a great team, despite how roughly things go when there isn’t a common enemy you want to murder instead of each other.  

As Gabriel’s scathing stare slides in your direction, you feel another layer of your patience peel away.  You’re not thrilled with the situation anymore than he is, but then again, when has he ever been thrilled to see you?

That’s not entirely true.  There was a time he was playful and cheeky, where he used to call you endearing nicknames that drove Dean insane.  Even if they weren’t really for your benefit, it had been nice to pretend someone might want to call you those things.

Now, he calls you the littlest Winchester, despite the fact you are not related to the infamous brothers, and he treats you no differently than if you were one of them, which most days means you catch a whole lot of flak for things you’ve never done.  

You recognize it’s a defense mechanism.  He’s been through so much between his family, Loki, and Asmodeus, though it’s hard to remember that when you’re dragged into the latest pissing match, and he acts like the whole thing is your idea.

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly my idea of a good time either,” you mutter, your irritation getting the better of you.  

You miss the way something shifts in his features, eating away at the hardness around the edge of gold as you glance back to the brothers and add, “And if I’m delegated to playing nursemaid to that one,” you jam your thumb toward the surly archangel, “Then you two are on cleanup duty.”

Dean makes a face, looking down at the collection of limbs on the floor.  Surprisingly, he doesn't argue.  "Sam, get some trash bags from the trunk.  The industrial ones."  

As if he has to specify you need the body-sized ones.  

“And my bag please,” you ask.  

Sam nods, slipping out the door without another word.  

There’s an extra tension in the room whenever it’s just the three of you.  You used to be the one to manage it, the one who could smooth things over whenever the two of them locked horns, but now you’re just as at odds with them as they are with each other.

It doesn’t feel right.  None of it does.  The bitterness.  The constant fighting.  Only you don’t know what to do about it anymore.  

"C'mon, grumbles, let's get your mess cleaned up,” Dean orders, toeing what might be part of an arm with the edge of his boot.

Gabriel is not pleased to be on the receiving end of a nickname, face pulling into a sardonic smile that borders on murder. Before he can zing anything back in the hunter’s direction, the door swings back open and Sam walks in, supplies (which wisely includes a tarp and some heavy duty rubber gloves) in hand.  

"Notice I said you two."  You gesture between the brothers, murmuring a thanks to Sam as he hands you your bag.  

"What do you plan to do?  Supervise?"  Dean’s in rare form, and there’s a thinly veiled accusation simmering beneath green that you can’t touch right now.  

“You think those claw marks are going to stitch themselves?”  You question, gesturing toward the Gabriel’s shredded leg.  From the amount of blood and nearly black stain on his pants, you’re certain he’s only alive because he can’t technically die from bleeding out.  

You reach into your satchel and pull out your modified first aid kit.  It has the basic supplies, the biggest difference being the amount of gauze and bandaging included (for those archangel sized wounds) and some herbal components that stimulate grace regeneration.    

You move a chair next to the dresser in front of what might be the only clean section of carpet left.    

"Drop the jeans,” you order, patting the back of the chair with invitation as you begin to lay out what you’ll need.  

There's a brief moment where the Gabriel you knew flits to the surface.  "Here?  In front of everyone?  Kinky."

You almost smile.  Almost.  Because one light moment isn't even close to being a bandaid on your relationship.  No matter how much you'd like it to be.  

Especially when he follows it up with another blow.

"But I think I'll pass on being the guinea pig to your Dr. Doolittle and take care of myself, thanks."  He holds out his hand expectantly, and it takes a concerted effort not to smack him upside the head with the supplies.  

You settle for shoving them directly at his chest.

“Well if nobody needs me, I need some air.”

“They need you,” Dean gestures to the body’s on the floor.  “Us, right here?”  He swings his finger between himself and Sam.  “We need you,” he says pointedly as you pass right by him.  “Hey!”

Your instincts flare as he moves toward you, and there’s a visceral jolt through your chest that prepares you to react.  Sam intervenes before you get the chance, tall frame stepping between you as he puts a hand on his brother’s chest.  

“Dean.”  

You don’t care what look is burning into your back right now.  You’ve spent the last two days trapped in a car with a volatile version of Dean who reminds you of something you spend most of your time desperately trying to forget ever existed.  

“Let her go.”  

Dean doesn’t fight him, and the slam of the door is your final contribution to the conversation before you take off across the parking lot.

***

You should have kept walking.  Doubled back to the highway.  Hitched a ride in any direction, so long as it was away from there.  Away from him.

Gabriel’s camped out on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed.  Instead of watching TV or playing on his phone like any normal being would, he’s bouncing a baseball against the wall with a persistent ker-thunk.  

It’s the same motion over and over: off the thin carpet, against the same dingy spot parallel to the dresser, pausing just long enough to make you wonder if he’s finally done, before starting all over again.  

Good god it’s annoying.  How did you ever put up with him?

Only you know how.  

Before, he was smooth.  He knew how to lay on the charm and flatter his way into good graces.  He used to be like Cas; beneath that outer surface lay something soft and warm, though instead of a rough veneer, it was the guise of detached hedonism.  

But now he’s all pointed barbs and caustic sarcasm, and it rubs you so raw that you have little patience left to weather the truly obnoxious moments anymore.

“Drama queen, much?”  You finally snap.  You’re young, but the reference isn’t lost on you, and as much as he wants to act like he’s imprisoned, he has far more ways to escape this hole in the wall than you ever will.  

Ker-thunk.  “Better than being a lap dog.”  

He doesn’t miss a beat, and this remark hits harder than you expect.  You’re not certain if it’s the connotation or the sheer acidity behind it, but he’s never this mean-spirited with you.

You breath in.  

Ker-thunk.  

Then out.  

Ker-thunk.

And in.

Ker-thunk.

Reminding yourself - ker-thunk - of all - ker-thunk - the horrible things - ker-thunk - he’s been through - ker-thunk - and how they - ker-thunk - change a person - ker-thunk.

Ker-thunk.

Ker-thunk.

Ker-  

You grip the edges of your lorebook so hard you’re convinced you’re fingerprints are going to sear straight into the leather binding.  

“Just because you’ve been dealt a shitty hand doesn’t give you the right to be a dick to the rest of us.”  

Not exactly where you’d hoped to land, but between him and Dean, the well you maintain to stay diplomatic in these situations has run so dry it’s going to take some biblical sized relationship repairs raining down on you to fill that sucker back up.  

Silence falls and you’re given a moment of reprieve.

Literally, one.  

“I’m the dick in this situation?”  His head whips around so fast it reminds you of the movie The Exorcist.  “Tell me, which one of us is on a leash right now, and which one is holding it?”

Right.  Because it’s your fault he goes into situations half-cocked, low on energy, without any backup, nearly gets himself killed, and pisses off the only allies he may have left.  

“Door’s open, don’t let it hit your ass on the way out.”

There’s a window in the bathroom you’re happy to shove him out of as well, but you decide to keep that suggestion to yourself in an attempt to keep things marginally civil.  

You get up from your chair and toss your book aside, in need of another way to decompress.  Despite the fact it’s not even noon, you head toward the mini-fridge, which is stock full of your maladaptive coping mechanism of choice.  

The moment Gabriel sees you pull out a beer, he lets out a scornful snort.  "Have another one, Winchester."

His insult hits a target dead center, though it’s not the one he’s aiming for.  Instead of slamming your integrity or moral turpitude, or whatever the shit he thinks he’s poking at, you feel cut off at the knees.

You’re not a Winchester, and it’s not that you want to be one so much as know you never can that makes this a particularly sore spot for you.

The reminder is draining, because it’s always there, hanging over your head, and you’re as sick of it as being caught in a game of Tug of War between two equally stubborn individuals.

“Can we do something other than argue for once?”  Exasperation softens the sharpness in your tone as you sit on the edge of the dresser.  

You hold the beer in your hands, focusing on the cold against your palms and the dampness that forms against the warmth of your skin.

He considers your question, absent-mindedly tossing the ball up in his hand.  “We could always play a game.”  

For a moment, he almost looks like himself again, mischief sparking, shaking off the varnish within gold.  His lips twitch as if attempting to smile, but they're heavy, immobile, and another indication of just how much has changed.

Part of you wants to humor him for the sake of keeping this tenuous break, but the rest of you is pretty god damn tired of being someone else’s punching bag.

“I have a novel idea,” you begin, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your legs.  

He deflates, dour demeanor returning.  “Oh, this should be good…”

You regret saying anything, but as with most things in your life, it’s too late to go back.  You run your thumb along the condensation of the bottle, tongue darting out across your lips as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next.  

“Why don’t we do something productive like, I dunno, talk about the group of deities out for your blood?”  You’re careful not to sound too concerned.  Doing so gets you batted at faster than a feral cat who’s cornered.  

“Yeah.  Real fun topic to be revisiting.”  

It’s still the least combative response you’ve received recently, and it gives you some hope you might be able to reason with him.

“Gabriel, if I’m going to be sitting next to someone with a giant target on their back, I’d like to know what it is my enemy might be firing so I can do something about it.”  

That, and you’d really like to avoid becoming a smear on the wall.  

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, there’s nothing coming but a whole lotta blanks.”

You’re not sure what rankles you more: the insincere and wholly mocking term of endearment he throws at you that used to mean something, or how dismissive he is of the danger you’re both in.

“Why won’t you let anyone help you?”  

In the few moments he isn’t forcing you to see a spectrum of red that exists only in his presence, there are startling shades of deep blue that squeeze around your heart because you already know why.

Some part of that must show, his mood worsening exponentially.  "Maybe because I don’t need anyone’s help?  Especially yours."

And back to square one you go.

"You are the most frustrating man I've ever met," you mutter, slamming the top of your beer down on the edge of the dresser and popping the cap off.  You bring the bottle to your lips and the bulk of the drink bypasses your tastebuds, pouring straight down your throat.

“Seems unlikely, given your Winchester worshipping status, but you’re no walk in the park either, toots.”

You glare at him, wondering just how much trouble you’ll be in with said Winchesters if you decide to paint a banishing sigil on the other side of the bathroom door and blast the archangel’s insufferable ass into the next state.  

As if sensing the brewing mutiny, both your phones buzz, Dean’s contact flashing across both screens.  

Meet me at this address.  Important.  

Thank God, or the gods, or whatever was out there for small favors.  You need something to do other than go another ten rounds with each other.

“C’mon," you tell him, hopping back to your feet without a second thought.

“Really?”

Here it comes.  

You down the rest of your drink as he readies his next jab.

“What's up between you and the lumberjack?”

You’d ask which one, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t do anything except blink. “Excuse me?”

Is he implying… what the hell is he implying?

“Every time he says jump you ask how high without a second thought, but here you are, all up on my lamp post about not knowing what you’re walking into.”

There are differences between him and Dean.  Big ones.  Ones he should be able to grasp, but you don’t trust him to, and if there’s anything you’ve learned with either of them it’s that sometimes it’s just easier to deal with things on your own.

"There's nothing going on."

Your quick dismissal only has the archangel's stare narrowing.

"Does he have something on you?"

“Jesus christ, Gabriel, can we argue about this in the car?”   You’d prefer not to argue at all, but getting him out the door is now your number one priority, and you have a feeling this is going to be worse than the time Dean left you with that toddler from Hell.  Literally, a demon hiding in a three year old’s body that knew how to push every one of your buttons so you’d overlook the fact it couldn’t cross the line of salt in the doorway, rather than wouldn’t.  

“I’m being serious,” he says grabbing you by the arm as you try to pass.  The contact startles you, as does the admission that follows.  “I know I've been kind of an douche lately --”

“Kind of?”  

He ignores your knee-jerk response.  “The point is, you can talk to me."

That might be the funniest thing he’s said all day.  

You snort.  "Good one."

“I’m serious.”  He pins you beneath a sober stare, one noticeably lacking a scathing edge.

You’re not certain what to do with that.  

“He doesn’t have anything on me, alright?” You sigh.  “Now can we please go?”

He eyes you even more intently before his features abruptly harden again.  “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him.”

You decide not to justify that with a response.  Not a verbal one anyway.  You hope the middle finger you raise in his direction as you try to head to the door is a clear enough indication of where you stand on the matter.  

As usual, the idiot-savant in him has already made up his mind on the matter.  

“Oh for shit’s sake, you are.”  He grabs you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, and you’re too busy trying not to scream to notice the myriad of emotions that flash through his gaze.  “Seriously?  Since when did you become deaf, blind, and dumb?”

He's so far from the truth it should be laughable.  Except it isn’t, because it’s him, and you’re over this conversation.

“Since when did it become any of your business who the fuck I’m interested in?”  You yank out of his grip, shoving him out of your space.  “Don't act like you care about me or anything other than playing Uma Thurman in your little Kill Bill revenge fantasy."  

Gabriel freezes, surprised by the sudden burst of hostility from you.  

"Now you can either get in the car, stay here, or fuck off to Fiji for all I care, but I am leaving," you snarl before storming out of the room.

You didn't sign up for this.  He and Dean can sort it out between themselves if they're going to insist on being self-centered pricks the entire time.  You just want to wake up one morning and feel like you’re worth something again, something no one else seems inclined to let you do.

Before you even make it to the vehicle, Gabriel’s there, waiting for you in the passenger seat.  You’re relieved and annoyed.  You need a break, but despite that, you know this is far, far better than facing an irate Dean.  

Mostly.  It really depends on how much trouble either of your mouths can get into.

The answer is potentially plenty once you plug the address into your phone’s GPS and realize you have a forty-five minute drive into the middle of nowhere ahead of you.  

You take a deep breath, managing not to wrench open the car door.  There are far worse things you’ve endured.  How bad could one car ride turn out?

Part 2 >>

ALL the tags

@girl-next-door-writes @blondecoffeecake @room-with-a-cat @nobodys-baby-now @lucifer-in-leather @crashdevlin @idabbleincrazy @lovelyhexbag @megasimpleplan4ever @brokencasbutt67-writer @mrswhozeewhatsis @ourloveisforthelovely @copperseraphim @ladyofletters67 @azlinh @authoressskr @bofa-deans-nuts @phantomwarrior12 @karichanarts @archangelgabriellives @mizzezm @curious-trickster @tardis-is-mine @archangelashiah @katekvnes @datajana @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @marichromatic​ @falcatrecon​ @flufy07​ @alisoncdariel @angelofwinchester17 @feelmyroarrrr​

Gabe Squad (Gabriel)  

@disneymarina​ @starchaser-the-prophet​ @bloodstained-porcelain-doll​ @the-kryomancer​ @supernaturalways​ @erisunderthemoon​ @hankypranky​ @fruitypieq​ @missihart23​ @a-wing-and-a-pen​ @waywardspringchild​ @luciferseclipse​ @greeneyedtrickster​ @fand0maniac​ @gabegirrl86​

[iwritethat]

Tim Drake: Puppy

A/N: Doggy Plan 4/?, Tim struck me as a Sheep Dog person but this is the DC universe and Krypton exists... :)

Warnings: Mentions of undergarments? *GIFs do not belong to me.*

>>>>——————————>

Look after one of Krypto's Pups they said.

"It'll be fun." Kon said.

"Only for a month or two." Kara has added on.

Tim had his own apartment after moving from the Manor, minding a puppy wasn't too much of a chore for him at the moment especially if it was a favour for one of his best friends. Alas, he was grateful they didn't give him the whole litter as that might've been too much to handle alongside vigilantism but a month or two with one companion wouldn't be so bad.

How wrong he was.

The experience had its ups and downs, yet he'd grown somewhat attached to the creature and his little quirks. The pup had a mischievous streak no doubt about it, often enjoying plays of tug of war and stealing things littered about the apartment were only part of it. However, when he awoke one morning, Tim strolled into his kitchen to find the nameless white, half alien, pup proudly seated outside his bedroom with his treasure strewn before him. Hesitantly, the vigilante stepped forward, analysing his recent discovery before he became instantly flushed and embarrassed.

A Batman Thong.

He wasn't sure what to do with them, figuring his pup had brought them as some form of play but alas he had his suspicions of exactly who they belonged to.

The 56 year old Ms Baker across the hall wasn't a possibility, it simply didn't fit her fashion choices, and it definitely didn't fit the size of Mr Crosby who consistently hung his boxers on the balcony which left his remaining prime suspect - (Y/n) (L/n). As much as they were on friendly terms he knew you had yet to reach a personal enough level to slip your undergarments into casual conversation, usually exchanges consisted of asking how each other's day was during hall passing's or crossings in the lobby.

Regardless, assuming it was a one off occurrence he chose to ignore it.

Although, after a month the underwear was piling up just as the frequency was increasing and Tim had no idea exactly how to handle the situation. Of course, it just had to be his cute neighbour in the apartment complex as the proximity made sense but how the pup had obtained her panties remained a mystery. Every other day his companion would bring a new pair of delicates thoroughly pleased with the growing confusion reaching his masters features. He even called his older brother for advice, the latest artefact of the day being red lace underwear much to Timothy's horror - the thought had potentially crossed his mind but he most definitely hadn't planned on seeing your private items under these circumstances.

.

However Dick found the whole situation amusing and couldn't stifle his laughter when Tim presented him with a box containing the topic of choice but didn’t let him open it for confidential reasons.

"And the pup keeps bringing you ladies panties?"

"Yes! I'm pretty sure they belong to (Y/n), I overheard her talking to her friend the other day about how she's either misplacing her laundry or there's a serious pervert problem." The concern was evident in Tims voice, although Dick couldn't understand his lack of confidence regarding solving the issue.

"Just return them already, explain that your dog stole them and that you're sorry for the trouble. You'll finally talk to (Y/n) rather that longingly stare and crush on her from afar." Dick gave a lopsided smile, leaning back against the couch.

"We do talk! And I was going to, but every time I got to her door I panicked. Standing there with a box of her underwear, that's so creepy and I don't want (Y/n) to think I'm weird." Tim desperately explained, and they could understand his argument as he came to a halt with an exasperated sigh.

“Nah, just that you’re the pervert she was talking about.” Duke openly laughed, finding the whole situation hilarious.

"Alright, do it tomorrow and just tell (Y/n) the truth." The eldest confidently stated, Duke nodding in agreement.

"Right, I will do that. Not so hard." Tim wholeheartedly spoke, determination renewed thanks to his visitors but required serious consideration on how to handle the matter in the least awkward way.

"He's not gonna do it." Duke quietly chuckled, shaking his head whilst fussing the pup on his lap who gleefully barked in response.

.

The next day he had every intention to do so, a month was long enough and with the numerous delicates his puppy had brought back he assumed you'd be running low. The box was situated under his arm and the wait was tantalising after he'd knocked, he'd evaluated the best terminology to use and ran over his explanation countless times until it was flawless. Yet despite all of that, he couldn't explain the sheer amount of relief his body experienced when you didn't answer the door and he could safely head back to his apartment next door.

Tim suddenly halted outside, unfamiliar mumbling automatically rebooting his senses as he quietly unlocked his door and stealthily entered his apartment to better hear the commotion of the potential enemy, dropping off the parcel in the process.

"I swear you better give those back before your hot owner comes back Snowball or I'll be arrested for breaking and entering!" The melodious voice immediately put him at comfortable ease, subconsciously bring a smile to his face in the process as your compliment didn’t fall on deaf ears as well as the nickname you’d given his temporary pet.

Upon reaching his living area, he found the white bundle perched on the sofa with you slowly prowling around like you were cautious as to not scare him away, it was cute watching you both like this. That is until you lunged across the couch, fingers hooking onto whatever the canine had in his jaws as he tugged against you in reply with playful barks emitting from his companion.

"Damn you're strong pup, but please... it's my last pair..." Your tone quietened at those last words, yet you continued with your game of tug of war.

"Yeah, he‘s tough huh?"

You instantly froze with a quiet squeak of surprise, your utter startling causing you to let go of your item and stumble to your feet in embarrassment after being caught. Meanwhile the furball happily plopped over to his owner, Tim kneeling to collect whatever he had taken from you but as he dropped the item into his hand the man flushed as you face palmed.

Tim stood, garment between his thumb and index finger as he offered it back to you unable to make eye contact and a flood of apologies escaping his lips, if only he could see how flustered you were too.

"Thanks and about your apartment, sorry - it's just my last pair and I couldn't lose those before I went shopping." You briskly explained, pocketing the underwear with a sheepish smirk.

"Ah - yeah, about that..." Tim sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, walking over to the counter to pick up his previous cargo before handing it to you as he became increasingly flustered.

You opened the mysterious thing, rooting through the contents with a contrast of awkward relief and mild concern. Your red lacy pair, your ribbon briefs, the basic garments, they were all here.

"So... you just kept a box of my underwear in your kitchen?" Your tone was mildly suspicious but held humour as you cocked an amused brow.

"Don't say it like it that! At first I thought it was an accident, the pup only brought back a Batman thong and I thought it was a prank. But then it continued, almost everyday and I couldn't just throw away whosever they were after I'd attained so many. I didn't even know they were yours at first, it was simply a logical deduction. It's not like I could just knock and say, oh here's your panties that my dog stole." Tim instantly justified, hands waving up in defence as he flushed even further, cute really.

"True, what would the neighbours think about us. But thanks for not throwing them you’ve saved me a shopping trip and again, sorry for intruding." You gave a kind smile, along with your apology whilst the pup wagged his tail at the exchange.

"How did you get in exactly?" Now Tim was curious, crossing his arms and raising an expectant brow at your awkwardness.

"Um, I may've climbed over the balcony. I was preparing dinner when I caught sight of your puppy tugging my last piece of underwear off of my clothes line - I had no choice to but to chase after him. Lord knows how he managed to get across that gap." As you explained, you walked Tim out onto his own balcony, pointing over at yours whilst the male paled slightly.

Admittedly, Tim was worried for your safety, falling from the third floor would definitely cause you some injury and the last thing he'd want was to ever let you get hurt. Yet the more pressing matter was that Kryptos offspring may have inherited certain abilities that allowed him access to your home.

"That's one talented dog." He only managed an uncertain remark as to not clue you in on his Alien related thoughts.

"Right? Anyway, I should probably get back over there." You happily chimed, moving to sit on the balcony railing before Tim automatically  grasped your waist to pull you back down to his level.

"Wha-What are you doing?!"

"I left my key on the side when I gave chase, my door is locked so I've gotta go back the way I came." You shrugged but gave a small laugh at your hasty behaviour, you never expected your first proper meeting with your hot neighbour to go down like this and you’d hoped it’d improve your relationship with him.

"No, you're not doing that. You're here because of my house guest so I'll do the honours, please wait here (Y/n) and help yourself to anything you like." The male gave a weak smile, ensuring he’d deterred your adventurous intentions before hopping onto the railing himself with ease.

"Anything? Hm I guess fair is fair, where do you keep your underwear neighbour?" Your mischievous tone caught Tim off guard, his words faltering at the forwardness of your question.

"I - (Y/n) -"

"I'm kidding Tim, sorry I'll keep Snowball here company." Your neighbour shook his head with a smile, stabilising himself before hopping over effortlessly compared to the strain it took you to waddle across the connecting ledge.

.

Tim returned through his front door moments later, finding you and the pup situated on the couch holding up the Batman Thongs.

"Ah (Y/n), I know we skipped a few steps in the friendship ladder but I've seen enough of your underwear for the past month." Tim jokingly commented, covering his eyes as he placed your keys on the coffee counter before you.

"Oh no, these aren't mine..."

You both stared at each for a moment, then back at the thongs with realisation hitting you simultaneously.

"Ms Baker!"

"Ah since your pup stole them you should return it Tim."

"You held them last!" At that you tossed them in his direction, the man instinctively dodging whilst the pup caught them mid air and brought them back to you.

Only, it wasn’t normal.

The pup was suspended in the air, tail frantically wagging as your breath hitched whilst you backed away ever so slightly.

“Neigh-neighbour... I um, I think I know how your friend stole my panties...”

It was the underlying fear in your hushed whisper that caused Tim to focus his attention on you rather than the beverages he was making, his discovery caused him to sigh with his previous assumptions proven correct by the flying super canine.

“What - oh crap... Um I think you should stay for dinner, I can explain...”

“Ye-Yeah...”

.

Best first date ever. At least it would be when you retold that story about your boyfriend and his canine, Snowball the Superdog.

[thedailyscourge]

Day Seven

(of the 4th month of the year Twenty-hundred and Twenty)

An entry from the journal of a squire of Brookland:

Within an hour of starting my shift on the Tiny Human Ward, now filled with regular sized humans afflicted with the Scourge, one of our patients began dying.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

I can honestly say the degree to which this pandemic is a disaster was lost on me as it is to everyone who has not had the kind of intimate encounter with the unique forms of suffering it produces as I did today.

I was deployed to this ward in a kind of vague capacity to fill in gaps of coverage in some non-specific and sometimes very specific ways.  One thing I knew I was sent here to do was to go into room after room of patients afflicted with the Scourge and assess their health.  And, late in the morning, that is exactly what happened.  After my team had spent several hours getting to know the needs of each patient by looking at their lab results and getting reports from other professionals, and then “table rounding” or “round tabling” depending on what type of knights you picture us as, we had talked enough. It was time to confront the invisible enemy directly and at the same time witness the most tangible form it can materialize as: a fellow human being, laying in front of you, struggling to breathe.  I have seen people who were short of breath before, people with various forms of oxygen masks, intubated, on ventilators of all kinds, gasping for breath.  It’s jarring.  But to someone like me who’s seen a great deal more disease and death than most people my age, the striking thing was not the nature of any given case, it was the sheer number of them.  In nearly every single room I went into today, there was a person fighting for their life, drowning above water.  An entire ward full of them and beyond that, an intensive care unit with more.  I was prepared for and acquainted with the severity, but not the volume.

We had maybe two in their 50s, one in the 30s, and one in the 20s but, as a whole, these patients were almost exclusively in their 60s, 70s, and 80s. It was as if science, public health, and medicine advanced inch by inch to the point that we had prolonged the average life expectancy in a remarkable demonstration of our dominance over nature, only to be humbled by the tiniest microorganism arriving and taking all that life away in a matter of days.

It’s difficult to describe how even the thought of an invisible enemy this small and contagious will strain your psyche when you are literally surrounded by it. There is a psychological absurdity to the dozens of small actions and choices you must make throughout your day that is akin to a French mime whose world is not made up but rather unseen by everyone but her. The mental acrobatics you have to engage in to create any sense of control at all in this environment are olympic in their complexity and duration.  At some point, even the most intelligent professionals are so burnt out by this underlying stress that they subconsciously surrender and unwittingly allow the enemy to gain a disturbing amount of ground, transforming our very workplace into a hazard itself.

When I say the ward I walked into and worked in all day was a nightmare of infection control, I mean that at times it felt like the work of germ theorists in the 1800s was just a niche genre of academia like scarf rock or Icelandic death metal, not a foundation for one of the most respected professions on earth.  Face shields, contaminated from countless close interactions with the Scourge and never disinfected (because of a shortage of supplies to do so) were strewn about haphazardly in the cramped workroom where squires and knights spend hours formulating plans and touching surfaces that allow us to create life-saving orders.  All the while we are contaminating and cross contaminating our belongings, our armor, ourselves.  It was clear that many members of the team, who had been denied adequate equipment to protect themselves for weeks and who had struggled minute by minute to maintain a sense of hygienic integrity had resigned to this relative squalor out of sheer exhaustion.

There were many other little lapses in infection control practices I noticed throughout the day, probably because my line of work has conditioned me to be very sensitive to these kinds of details.  But in nearly all of them, just as evident was the lack of resources and enormity of stress on those involved that really was to blame.

What may have been the worst of all of it was an egregious offense to our values and what we hold as sacred. The last rights of the dying, not of religion, but of being and feeling loved by a family member or friend while you pass, are stripped from those who have succumb to the Scourge.  A wife, a cousin, a sister, all denied the tangible validity of their relationship with a dying man, a quiet, tragic opera playing out through telephone lines, in lonely hospital beds, in a room of my ward this morning and across the world again and again for months on end.  The necessary preservation of the species has cost us possibly the greatest token of our humanity.

As I shifted my responsibilities midday to take care of another elderly man in the intensive care unit, filling one of the many gaps in our staffing, I was conscripted into the cast of another tragedy of unique cruelty.  

A woman, a middle-aged nurse who had been working as recently as 2 weeks ago treating some of the sickest tiny humans there are, had been struck down by the Scourge and was now lying in the very same room as the young lives she had helped take care of and, what’s worse, her friends and former coworkers were now the ones charged with treating her disease.  And she was deteriorating. Quickly.

This woman ended up needing to be intubated, a tube placed down her throat, and connected to a ventilator.  I found out about her position as part of the team who were now taking care of her when I asked why she was being moved to another intensive care unit after the intubation.  The head of the unit told me it was for emotional reasons.  I was confused until she explained that she did not want her and her coworkers to potentially experience the trauma of doing chest compressions on their friend as she coded, veering toward death.

At the end of the day, the chaplains were called in to hold a session for us to decompress and process what had just happened.  Although it halted productivity in the midst of a crisis, evident by the way it ended with several of us peeling off to assess a patient in distress, I found the group experience profoundly important, if not for it’s actual therapeutic effect then for the statement even holding such a session made in the middle of what is, for all intents and purposes, a disaster on every level of society.

And there, as some of the staff openly broke down crying, myself sniffling through a respirator during a teary eyed prayer, and others admitted the horrifying feeling of vulnerability in the microscopic game of Russian roulette that we are all playing on the frontlines, I realized today we weren’t losing our humanity.  We were finding its depths.  

The tolls:

The City of New Pork (of which the town of Brookland belongs):

76,876 afflicted

4,009 dead

The Divided Realms of Amen!-ia:

397,391 afflicted

12,000 dead

We await the miracle prophesied by the Emperor to come in the 4th month.  

[creative-type]

Building up to Arlong Part I

“Just wait ‘till the Arlong arc.”

I think anyone who’s been in the One Piece fandom for any length of time has read some variation of the above sentence. It’s almost universally agreed that the Arlong arc is the tipping point from the series, elevating One Piece from okay to great. Detractors, newcomers, and the generally curious are all told to hold off their judgment until seventy chapters into the series, which seems like an absurd amount of time for a reader to get hooked.

In an interview with several of Oda’s former editors (English summary here, about three-quarters down the page) it’s stated that One Piece met some initial resistance in Japan among the staff at Shonen Jump, with some of the editors not seeing the appeal and others having to convince them of its “awesomeness”. 

It’s hard to imagine the manga garnering such a reaction today, but I think it’s important to keep in mind that One Piece is Oda’s first serialized work. He had been an assistant and written several one shots, but he’d never had to put together a long-form story before. He was learning and growing as an author and artist as he went along. 

Just compare the art in these two pages

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Both are establishing shots of new locations, one of Usopp’s hometown and the other the Marines setting Luffy’s first bounty. The amount of detail outside the marine base blows the idyllic hills of Syrup village out of the water. It can be jarring to see how sparse early One Piece panels are when you’re more used to the cluttered, chaotic pages of later chapters.

But I think it would be impossible for Oda to make the jump from “meh” to “this is amazing” without some proper buildup. Early One Piece arcs contain bits and pieces of what makes the series so beloved, and as each arc progresses Oda takes what he’s learned and adds it into an ever-improving whole. So let’s take a look at these early chapters and find the diamonds scattered among the rough.

Romance Dawn

Chapter 1 is arguably the best crafted stand-alone story in these early chapters. That makes sense. As a pilot chapter for the series I’m sure it was written and rewritten dozens of times for maximum effectiveness, and I think it gets across everything it needs to without belaboring the point.

Romance Dawn is a glimpse of the quality that Oda would later produce on a more consistent basis. The characters are fun and have hidden depths, the art is simple but dynamic, and the bait-and-switch where Shanks doesn’t initially beat the crap out of the mountain bandits is a surprise considering the genre. And if haki was indeed planned from the beginning it’s also the first instance of Oda’s famous foreshadowing ability. 

Considering future backstories it’s a little surprising that no one important to Luffy dies, but the familiar themes of inherited will, dreams, and sacrifice are present. The lack of uber-tragedy sets Luffy apart from a lot of protagonists and fits with his lighthearted, carefree characterization and the more whimsical nature of the series, while still hinting at the darkness that exists within the world. 

Alvida

Chapter 2 is also a stand-alone story, but it’s much more generic. Following a common trend during these early chapters, it’s more focused on establishing Luffy as a character than any of the antagonists, and world building is minimal. Alvida is so boring that Oda completely repurposed her design and personality when she was reintroduce in Louge Town, and at this point Coby is a walking, talking foil to Luffy with little to no personality of his own. 

There are a couple of things to note, though. One, Luffy’s characterization is remarkably consistent to what we see later in the series. Here we see him smile as he faces death, while later in the chapter Luffy insults Coby and calls him a wimp in a scene that’s reminiscent of his interaction with Shirohoshi during the Fishman Island arc. He also doesn’t help Coby until Coby stands up for himself, subtly enforcing the idea that Luffy is not a hero. 

Second, we can see the embryonic form of Oda’s later paneling and page layouts. The above scene reminded me of a picture I pulled for my analysis of Chapter 218.

You can’t see it here, but in Chapter 218 Oda tilts his panels to match the rocking of the Going Merry, using an unconventional panel format to convey the chaos the Straw Hats are experiencing while also giving the eye an easy path to follow.

Chapter 2 has the “fade to black” Oda commonly uses when transitioning scenes, but the format is the traditional three lines of (mostly) rectangular panels. Despite the huge whirlpool you don’t get a sense that the situation is dangerous.

Also note the sheer amount of information conveyed in the sequence from Chapter 218 compared to the Chapter 2 despite them sharing basically the same layout. There are four separate panels of the same whirlpool - adequate enough in showing the passage of time, but visually kind of boring, which sums up the art in general during these early chapters.

Shells Town 

The Shells Town arc shares a lot of the same flaws as the Alvida encounter, but has the benefit of a longer page count, which is helpful in fleshing out the story. Coby starts to grow into his own, and Zoro is introduced. The focus is still on establishing Luffy’s ideals as a pirate and Morgan is a one-note villain, but the world is starting to grow, namely with the complex morality of the marines.

We also get our first taste of Oda’s specific brand of Tragic Backstory (tm). Zoro’s flashback is arguably the weakest of all the Straw Hat’s. The pacing is rushed and I personally find the segue in and out of the present day to be a little jarring, but the bones of it is sound even if the execution is iffy. 

The fight against Morgan doesn’t last long, but outclassed as he is, he at least puts up a better showing than Alvida. There are some neat camera angles and perspective tricks that Oda uses that sell Luffy’s flowing, so-long-as-it-works-I’m-going-to-do-it fighting style. 

Again, this is but a taste of things to come, and short as it may be the Morgan fight is fun. Oda has said he gave Luffy the gum-gum fruit to help keep things from ever getting too serious, and reading these early chapters I believe it.

Orange Town

I would call the Buggy arc the first “standard” One Piece arc. At fourteen chapters it’s decently long by East Blue standards. It’s is leaps and bounds better than anything we’ve seen thus far, and we have the flashy bastard himself to thank.

Pre-comic relief Buggy manages to straddle the line between menacing and likable. One thing I do appreciate about One Piece villains is that they’re generally not given an excuse for their evilness (a trend that is admittedly starting to reverse post timeskip). We are never told why Buggy, Kuro, or Kreig set out to be pirates, and frankly we don’t need to know. Buggy is given a reason for his animosity towards Shanks, but it’s never used as a justification for his more jerkish behavior.

And he is a jerk. A clever, reasonably powerful, flashy jerk, but a jerk all the same.

With this added characterization, Buggy has the honor of being the first charismatic and memorable villain of the series, and is also the first instance of camaraderie within an enemy organization. In all honesty, I think the only thing separating Orange Town from the Cocoyashi village is emotional stakes. Buggy’s opinion notwithstanding, there is no Tragic Backstory (tm). The little dog comes closest, but the effectiveness of Shu depends entirely how much one cares for sad animal stories (I am immune, and subsequently don’t much care about Laboon either).

More importantly, it’s here that we see the first primitive instances of Straw Hat interaction, and some of the stuff that happens when Oda lets all the different personalities bounce off of one another is pure gold

Also Luffy shoves an old man face-first into a wall for his own good. I feel like that ought to be mentioned every time someone tries to call him a hero.

But the thing that really stands out in Orange Town when placed within the overarching plot is Oda’s burgeoning skill at playing the long game in regards to his storytelling, specifically in regard to Nami.

The Alvida, Morgan, and later Gaimon’s arcs are largely self-contained little stories that serve to flesh out Luffy as a protagonist. When Zoro was recruited the audience was informed of his history and character motivation almost immediately. During Nami’s first conversation with Luffy in chapter 9 we learn that she’s 1) raising 100,000,000 berries to buy a village, 2) loves money and tangerines, and 3) hates pirates. We don’t learn the reason for any of these things until her backstory is revealed in chapter 78.

There are obvious parallels to Robin’s recruitment much later, but really this is Oda something does quite often. Vivi and Law were both around for awhile before the meat of their stories were told. Having someone familiar around for big conflicts helps give a face to the nameless masses. It would have been really hard for Oda to make the reader care about the average Joe in Cocoyashi village without having a pre-established connection in the form of Nami, and it would be really hard to care about Nami if the audience hadn’t been given the time to get to know her first.

By waiting so long to let Nami develop as her own character, the emotional stakes missing from Orange Town are fully present during the much-beloved march to Arlong Park. The latter cannot exist without the former.

I said in the opening that 70 chapters is an absurd amount of time to get hooked into a story, but in some ways I can completely understand why it would take that long. One Piece isn’t built on slick one-liners or “cool” characters. It’s fun and goofy and doesn’t take itself too seriously. Hints of future intrigue and mystery are strewn along like bread crumbs down a path, organically delivered as the world unfurls bit by bit. There’s a methodicalness to it that catches the reader by surprise, yet makes perfect sense as the crew goes from island to island.

Orange Town is just the beginning of this in action, but once again this is getting pretty long. I’ll finish the road to Arlong Park in another post. Thanks for reading :)