writing-prompt-s:

The Devil sells his soul to you.

Untitled (2016-07-03)

You’re walking down Mission Street, eyes on the cracked cement under your equally threadbare shoes, when your shoulder smacks into something.

“Sorry,” you mutter, without looking up, because that’s just asking for further confrontation which you’re really not in the mood for. It has led you to apologizing to inanimate objects before–lamps and signposts and, once, an inflatable gorilla mascot declaring BIG SAVINGS!–but you’re not that easily embarrassed. Anyway, better safe than sorry.

“No worries,” a voice says which rules out the inanimate object possibility. Apparently, despite your foolproof strategy, the person you’ve bumped into decides to engage.

God damn it.

“Blasphemy,” the person adds in a different voice. Same person, different voice… somehow?

You look up.

The person at first is taller than you, blonde hair, broad shoulders. Smiling with somehow charmingly crooked teeth. But you blink and suddenly that smile becomes decorated with braces, framed in a face with freckles that weren’t there a moment ago. And then the blonde hair turns brown, the eye level dropping down to meet yours.

You blink again, new appearance. Same person, you’re sure of it.

“Can I interest you in a new investment opportunity?” They say which, no matter how weirdly mesmerizing yet nauseating the constantly shifting features, is an automatic signal to leave.

“No thanks,” you mutter and sidestep the person. “I don’t carry cash,” you add, because it’s both true and has deterred solicitors previously.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” the person continues, walking backwards to keep up with you. Which is highly off-putting. As is the way their voice deepens, accents shed like molting feathers from a sick pigeon.

“Not interested,” you add, a little more firmly, speeding up your pace. You shove one hand into your bag’s outer pocket, where the pepper spray your older sister gave you in a fit of overprotectiveness has sat unused for the past four months. Hey, better safe than sorry, right?

The person’s height has increased again, legs and stride lengthening in turn, and you can’t shake them off. With your eyes on the ground you notice how their shoes change too–high heels one second, boots the next.

“Whatever you have in your pocket will be fine,” they say, less charming and more desperate, which is just enough to make you pause. Not seriously consider it, though, because your keys and phone and wallet are in your pockets and that would just be stupid. Might as well sign your soul away.

“No,” you say simply, and walk away…

… or at least, you try to.

Don’t you walk away from me!” they say, and now you’re not sure what their voice is like or what they look like because you can feel them somehow, the command scratching away in your brain and in your lungs. Words beyond sound, fear written down deep in your bones. The pepper spray falls harmlessly from your hands.

And yet, despite it all, you still think they sound terribly desperate.

“I don’t even know what you’re selling,” you say, because sometimes sensibility has to give way for stupidity.

The person circles you, frozen in place as you are, appearance ever shifting but the same expression of consideration on their faces.

“That pocket,” they say, pointing at the zipper of a pocket awkwardly situated just off of the right armpit of your jacket. You don’t really use that pocket for much. Actually, you don’t really remember what’s in there. “I’ll trade it to you for the contents of that pocket.”

Considering what happened last time you said no, you reach over to unzip the pocket and pull out what appears to be a half-filled packet of tissues, two throat lozenges, and an oblong ball of lint.

Skeptically, you hold it out to the person.

“Excellent,” they smile, looking far too pleased by the remnants of your last battle against the flu. They pluck the detritus from your hand and in exchange give you what looks like a… you’re actually not sure what to call it. A slimy lump of coal? A sickly goth fireball? What the hell is this?

“You’re not too far off,” they say, near manic with glee, “with the last one, that is.” They smirk, bright and smug and waiting for a punch to the face, before suddenly disappearing.

Frustratingly, you now wish you had a tissue to wrap this thing up. You settle for putting it in your empty tupperware from lunch and wiping your palm uncomfortably on the thigh of your jeans.

That done, you resume your walk–no need to make your delay longer than necessary.

It takes two weeks for you to realize what exactly you bought.

And that has more to do with the angry archangel banging on your door at three in the morning, while an unrepentant shapeshifting devil takes refuge on your second-hand armchair.

God damn it.

Once, my father cried in front of me.
That’s a lie.
He’s cried in front of me four times.
But never where anyone else could see it.
I stared at him in silence each time,
And tried to swallow down my laughter.

Once, I loved a girl;
This is nothing new.
But I didn’t realize until two years later,
After I had already stopped,
And she began loving someone else.

Once, I broke another girl’s heart,
And forgot how I did so,
Immediately.
To this day I still don’t remember,
Unsure what I did or why.

Once, I stayed up for forty eight hours.
So exhausted,
But too desperate for sleep to actually do so.
I watched the sun rise twice and despaired;
Saw the sun set thrice and thought:
Is it my turn now?

jacksgreyson, Untitled (2016-07-01)

Semi-Phenomenal, Nearly Cosmic: Or, Three Times Tobirama Accidentally Summoned Shikako (2016-06-30)

He is ten and just beginning to experiment with fuinjutsu–far too young, some would say, but if he’s old enough to fight and die for his clan then surely he’s old enough to risk dying for knowledge.

And, perhaps, in one universe that is what happens.

Of course, in another universe the seal succeeds without any issue and this day passes without anything memorable happening.

This is yet another universe, though. One where it doesn’t fail fatally, but it also doesn’t quite succeed either.

Instead of yes or no, this universe answers with a question of its own.

Tobirama tries to create a teleporting seal, and ends up summoning a person instead.

He’s not surprised, necessarily. That was the basis of this experiment, after all, trying to reverse engineer the normal animal summoning seals into something that can transport a human.

He was just expecting that person to be himself. Not some random stranger.

Thankfully, she’s a Nara–the clan’s symbol clearly embroidered on her clothes, though her armor is unlike any he’s seen before–and the Senju’s treaty with the Akimichi-Nara-Yamanaka alliance is one of the most reliable.

Yes, he could have done much worse and ended up with a hostile Uchiha on his hands–but still. It’s a stranger summoned where he expected none. It’s more than a bit alarming.

The girl is maybe only a few years older than him, but the scars and seals decorating her skin makes her seem older. As does the sharp look she sends his way, distracting him from the snaking shadow along the ground that freezes him in place.

“Who are you?” she asks, pulling out a pair of kunai from a pouch on her hip. Tobirama, in casual clothes, mimics her movements and only gets empty air in his hands.

A strong Nara, then. Only the strong ones can make the jutsu control their targets instead of just paralyze.

“I should be asking you that,” Tobirama says, because he is the Senju chief’s second son and it doesn’t matter if he’s making a poor showing of his clan at this moment, he is still representative of it, “This is Senju clan territory.”

“Senju clan–” she repeats, before biting off her words, brow furrowing, eyes darting around the small patch of forest Tobirama uses as his personal training grounds. She spots the wide scroll beneath her feet, covered in his fuinjutsu prototypes.

“Hiraishin,” she murmurs.

Tobirama very carefully doesn’t flinch. That’s what he was going to name his teleportation jutsu. He hasn’t told anyone.

“You’re… Tobirama Senju?” she asks, and this time he does flinch. Because though he may be the Senju chief’s second son, he is still only ten. No one should be able to recognize him on sight or know his name–not even their allies.

“How do you know–” he begins, only to be cut off.

“Tobirama!” he hears his brother cry out, voice wending its way through the trees. The Nara girl steps back and away–off the Hiraishin seal–and promptly disappears.

Tobirama hastily rolls up the scroll and vows to make adjustments so this doesn’t happen again.

In a week’s time, he tries out the Hiraishin again, and isn’t at all disappointed when it succeeds as planned.

He is fifteen and his brother has died, the Senju chief’s four sons whittled down to two.

He didn’t cry at Kawarama’s death and he’s not going to at Itama’s, but it still hurts. He’s sick of mourning for brothers lost. He doesn’t want to do it again.

Hashirama rambles on about peace, about a world where all clans work together instead of tearing each other apart, but Tobirama has always been a realist.

Dreams mean nothing without the sacrifice to make them reality. Words are empty puffs of air until chakra turns them into jutsu.

Tobirama throws himself into research and surfaces five weeks later with another prototype.

And mad, somewhat twisted hope.

What if he didn’t have to mourn dead brothers? What if he could bring them back?

A stray thought captured with seals. Spirituality wrangled into science.

Edo Tensei.

Hashirama wants peace to prevent more of his loved ones from dying.

Tobirama believes in efficiency.

It probably says something about him that he thinks death is less insurmountable than peace. Or maybe it’s just the world he lives in.

When he goes to his patch of forest–more and more his as the years go by, lined with traps that only he knows how to bypass–he prepares the Edo Tensei. He’s not so far gone that he’ll kill someone just to experiment with a seal, but he thinks a fallen deer will be suitable enough. Its about the same mass as a human, and if it fails then he can always bring home the meat for venison.

In another universe, this would do nothing–deer and humans being incomparable when it comes to souls–and he would shelve the Edo Tensei for another time.

But this is the universe that likes to play tricks, and so something strange occurs once more.

Tobirama would be lying if he said he never thought about that first attempt at the Hiraishin. But it’s true that he never really thought about it frequently–his clan is at war and he is one of the Senju’s strongest fighters, he has enough on his plate.

So when that same strange Nara girl appears, somehow the same age as before, he is both bewildered and unsurprised.

“Oh,” she says, as if this also bewildering yet unsurprising to her.

“Hello again,” Tobirama says, because to be honest, he thinks he would rather deal with an unknown Nara than actually have succeeded at reviving one of his brothers with a deer, even if that was what this whole seal was for. “I never got your name,” he adds, because that has been bugging him for the past five years in a small, niggling sort of way.

“Nara,” she replies unhelpfully. Before looking straight down at the scroll beneath her feet. “This isn’t the Hiraishin,” she remarks, head tilting this way and that to read the inked characters.

“No, it isn’t,” he says, equally unhelpful, because two can play at that game.

She sighs, getting the point, “Shikako Nara,” she amends.

“That’s the Nara clan head’s naming scheme, isn’t it?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“My father is clan head, and my brother will be after him,” she answers.

The current clan head is a woman.

Tobirama says as much.

Shikako taps her foot.

He rolls his eyes, “Edo Tensei.”

“Ah,” she says, pursing her lips for a long moment as if contemplating a difficult decision, before she continues, “You’re missing something. As it is right now, you’ll never be able to summon a specific person; you need to have their DNA or modify each seal per person. Otherwise you’ll end up pulling random souls from out of nowhere.”

“What would you know about it?” he asks, near to bristling as this stranger talks about his original technique as if she’s an expert.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” she deflects, which works, annoyingly enough. “My father is the sixteenth clan head. My brother will be the seventeenth.”

The Nara clan isn’t that old.

Yet.

In order for teleportation to work, seals must subvert space and time. Death is beyond both.

She smiles. “It’s called Konohagakure,” she says, shifting her arms to show off the metal plate sewn onto her sleeve, a leaf engraved in its center.

His brother’s dream comes true.

“You always were my favorite Hokage,” she adds, dropping that conversational bomb and–by stepping backwards–disappearing immediately.

Apparently, Tobirama has work to do.

They meet again. Several times, actually, though usually on purpose. Shikako never seems to mind–then again, that may be because she doesn’t appear to age each time he summons her. For all he knows, each meeting occurs consecutively for her, while for him they are months and years apart.

She drops hints about the future, but only ever when she wants to–never when he tries to trick it out of her. He stops trying after the third time and just asks her directly. If she says no, then that’s fine, she usually gives him some other tidbit of info in exchange.

Getting to see a finished Sword of the Thunder God was worth the tight-lipped refusal on the fate of the Uchiha clan.

Or so he thought at the time.

But Madara has defected, baying for blood, and the Kyuubi is running rampant. Tobirama knows his brother is strong and that Mito is powerful in her own right, but Madara has always been his brother’s weakness and how can one human compare to a bijuu?

They are forces of nature given will, gods compared to mere mortals…

… mortals compared to gods?

It is a stray thought, but Tobirama feels almost guided in this direction. His greatest fuinjutsu techniques have always been about summoning: summon himself, summon the dead, and now–

Summon the Shinigami.

He knows that doing so may make his life forfeit–but he would rather himself than his brother. Rather himself than their fledgling village with clans only tentatively attempting peace–he is prepared to die.

But this universe has other plans.

Tobirama was always her favorite Hokage.

~

A/N: I’m gonna be honest… this was a loooot better in my brain and I considered not posting it, but I’ve been working on this for two days and it seemed kinda a waste not to?

Anyway, not shippy, but I’ve kinda been having Tobirama feels for non-DoS related reasons and then I remembered that Tobirama is Shikako’s favorite Hokage and well, I thought, why not do something with that?

Of course, I didn’t articulate it as well as I had hoped… and I maybe got distracted and gave up about two-thirds of the way through, but mreh. I have no idea what’s happening on Shikako’s end–is she dead and thus god in this universe? Is she caught in some weird time/dimension-traveling fuinjutsu accident? I dunno.

Title is a vague reference to Genie from Aladdin.

I’ll probably clean this up/rewrite this before I put it up on ao3…

Untitled (2016-06-28)

It starts as hunger.

A steadily building desire.

A needy creature residing not in the stomach but in the heart.

Lovers. Plural.

He can’t be alone.

All of his tricks–his speeches and illusions–they only work if there’s an audience. He draws them in close, keeps their attention on him. Eyes and ears and minds on him.

Hearts outstretched until he sinks his teeth in them.

(Famine)

Next is conflict.

The spark catching flame.

Growing and roaring and burning everything it touches.

High Priestess. Guardian of Mysteries.

The stars near to attainable, but scorching. Some tricks are better at a distance.

Cages and chains and timers, mirrors and wires and bright blinding light. Trappings for the oldest struggle in the world: humans versus danger. None of it works without her

Her best prop has always been herself.

(War)

Then comes decay.

A gradual descent.

Skin crawling and eyes closing and a creeping sense of unease.

Hermit. Introspection. Isolation.

He’s always been the most patient.

Never needed anything but himself.

Words and glances and the occasional finger snaps. Listen carefully, set them up, wait for the trigger, and watch them fall.

Revenge and gratification all the sweeter for a delay.

(Pestilence)

Last is the end.

Or perhaps the beginning.

Slate wiped clean and ready for new marks.

Death. Transformation.

Nothing is as it seems.

~

A/N: I watched Now You See Me to watch Now You See Me: The Second Act in theaters so, I dunno, some Horsemen thoughts.

(In)Difference (2016-06-26)

(Five Teachers Kiyoshi Might Have Had)

Utsugi Kiyoshi stands alongside Katou Dan and Mokume Kunugi and waits for their sensei to appear.

Their sensei, Shimura Danzo.

Kiyoshi tries not to scream.

She manages to hold off until she is alone, at home, a pillow pressed over her face.

Her parents think it is excitement and nerves and, well, they’re not wrong exactly.

Because any hope of not being tangled up in the story of Konoha to be has been irrevocably shot.

She’s not entirely sure what to do–just knows that she won’t stand idly by as Shimura Danzo twists Konoha on itself.

Maybe she’ll stop him or maybe she’ll help him or maybe she’ll usurp him entirely.

But she needs must do something–either that, or she’ll die trying–and isn’t that just the absolute worst of it.

~

Utsugi Kiyoshi stands alongside Katou Dan and Mokume Kunugi and waits for their sensei to appear.

Their sensei, Uchiha Kagami.

Kiyoshi doesn’t hide her confusion.

Mostly because… it doesn’t make any sense and she doesn’t know what else to feel otherwise.

An Uchiha? She doesn’t even know which Uchiha this is–if he’s at all related to the specific Uchiha that will come later.

Doesn’t know if he’ll have children and grandchildren, if he’ll live to see Itachi or Obito kill him or if he’ll be dead long before that.

What is she supposed to do? Can she do anything?

Well, at the very least, she can get accustomed to how the Sharingan works. Just in case.

Utsugi Kiyoshi stands alongside Katou Dan and Mokume Kunugi and waits for their sensei to appear.

Their sensei, Mitokado Homura.

Kiyoshi treads lightly.

She doesn’t know much about him–just that he was the Hokage’s teammate, held a place on the Council, and at some point will fall prey to Danzo whether by Sharingan or just normal human manipulation.

Either way, it’s a precarious situation. She’s not sure how any of her actions may change the future–if it will at all. For all she knows, this was meant to be and nothing she does will change anything.

For now, she’ll watch and wait. It’s what her sensei would advise, after all.

Utsugi Kiyoshi stands alongside Katou Dan and Mokume Kunugi and waits for their sensei to appear.

Their sensei, Utatane Koharu.

Kiyoshi smiles, bright and sharp.

She’s met Koharu before, during the special club from kunoichi classes. Nae-chan.

Koharu was never a Nae-chan–too noticeably skilled and part of the Utatane clan on top of that–but she had been the only kunoichi on Team Tobirama. The only kunoichi on the Sandaime Hokage’s Council, and Mito-sama’s (the Nae-chan program’s) connection to legitimacy.

She almost wants to cry because maybe this is a sign–some kind path already forged that won’t make her leave her dreams behind.

Maybe Kiyoshi will never be a Nae-chan, but she can still help, still be a part of it.

She’s not alone.

Utsugi Kiyoshi stands alongside Katou Dan and Mokume Kunugi and waits for their sensei to appear.

Their sensei, Akimichi Torifu.

Kiyoshi gives a quiet sigh of relief.

Given the jounin sensei for the other genin team in their year, she had feared the worst. But Akimichi Torifu is still a respectable choice–more than, actually, given who the genin are.

Minor clans at best, and none of them particularly prestigious at that. But the Akimichi have always been the most open of the four Noble clans, and it actually makes sense in a way.

They are no Ino-Shika-Cho, not yet–three strangers put on a team and told to risk their lives together–but if anyone could get them near to it, it would be an Akimichi.

She’s not afraid.

~

A/N: I kinda just wanted to go through potential jounin sensei for my (In)Difference team and figure out which I like best. Since I think best when I articulate by yelling or writing, I figured I ought to at least get a post out of it.

I’m leaning most towards Akimichi Torifu just because I don’t really want to plunge Kiyoshi headfirst into “does fate determine my actions” existential crisis right away and I can probably finagle the others into appearing one way or another. Also considering Homura and Kagami…

I really don’t want her to end up as Danzo’s student. And given what I have written for Koharu, she’ll have a role in the story regardless? I dunno…

You are the fool who loved me too much
But I am the fool who loved you back.

And maybe that could have been enough
But the world is not kind to fools in love

So sweet
That we would even hope
Or try despite the odds

And yet
There is but a few tricks
To live beyond our time

Trees and stories and family
A look
And a smile
And a kiss
And a love

Ah, but that look
To ensnare even the strongest of beasts
How sharp its teeth
Yet thin its skin

But we love
And we try
Or cease to be

Is that not enough for fools in love?

jacksgreyson, Word Prompts (N2): Need

Word Prompts (S38): Shining

They are drenched and cold and exhausted, but Ash is missing and they have to find him.

That dweeb.

“This is just like when we were five and Ash fell into that snow bank and got stuck,” Ember says, wringing out water from her clothes as she walks. Somewhat helpfully, her Sandshrew does the same with her hair, tiny paws wringing drops out a lock at a time.

Seeing as how it’s still storming, it’s not all that effective, but the tree tops provide some cover, and better partially dry than completely wet.

Squirtle, being a water Pokemon, doesn’t quite see what the problem is and so leaves Gary to fend for himself.

“That dweeb,” Gary says, out loud this time.

Ember laughs because it’s true.

“The only winter Pallet got a decent amount of snow, and he gets sick two weeks in,” he adds, because it’s not like there’s much else to do now while they look for Ash.

And also, because it makes Ember laugh.

“And by the time he got better…” she begins.

“All the snow had already melted,” he finishes, and listens to her laugh again.

It brightens this absolute loss of a first day. At least until the sky goes bright, literally. A single, massive lightning bolt descends from the clouds striking a fair distance to the east.

“That must be Ash and Pikachu,” Ember says, the worry threading through her voice again.

“The Spearow must have followed them instead of us.” Gary infers, because Spearow are stubborn and tenacious and just plain mean and if they didn’t stick to follow him and Ember then that means…

“They’re closer to Viridian than we are. Pikachu was the most injured out of all of us, Ash knows to go to a PokeCenter,” it’s a murmur more than a statement, reassurance more than prediction, but logical all the same.

They pick up the pace, anyway.

It had always been a joke–well, perhaps joke was too flippant a word–an explanation that soothed away childish hurts and anger.

They were twins, yes, but they didn’t look at all alike. Ember didn’t look at all like anyone, really. So Ember must be a shiny version of her brother, that’s all.

Hair only ever grey and skin splashed with bright reds and dark purples–firemarks, their mother had called them. The reason behind their names. Ash had been born with one, too, splashed across his tiny chest–though as he grew it had faded.

In contrast, Ember’s had only ever darkened, her face split into uneven thirds as one particularly large firemark travelled from one temple to the opposite cheek.

Just another thing that made her an outsider.

Although, in comparison to her admittedly bizarre behavior, the people of Pallet didn’t mind her appearance much. Pallet Town is small, never changing, and after a decade nobody’s appearance is a surprise.

Which is why it takes her a while to figure out why everyone stares as she and Gary make their way to the PokeCenter.

Pikachu is being treated by Nurse Joy and the Chancey, which means his heart isn’t clenched tightly in fear and worry. But it’s still there because he doesn’t know where his sister or best friend is until the latter pulls him into a headlock, and the former steps quietly to his other side.

“Ashy-boy, you dweeb,” Gary says, rubbing his knuckles painfully into Ash’s scalp before letting him go. All of them are still damp–from the river and the rain–scratched and tired, but at least they’re not worse off than that.

He tells them what happened after they got split up, and they do the same. Relieved that it hadn’t all gone completely wrong.

Almost solemnly, Ember touches a finger to the tip of her nose, “I’m not explaining this to Mom or the Professor.”

As quick as ever, Gary does the same then laughs, “Guess that means you will, you Slowbro.”

“Aw, come on!” Ash protests, until another trainer enters the PokeCenter. Fuming mad.

Gary looks amused–because he’s a jerk, even if he is Ash’s best friend. Ember at least looks startled which is… unusual, but a lot about today has been unusual.

“You owe me a new bike!” The girl says, and Ash winces at the reminder of the absolute wreckage of a bicycle he left behind. Yeah, borrowing, sure.

He has to explain the story again, which at least cools her temper.

And that’s when the alarm goes off.

~

A/N: I dunno? I just really wanted to write some Pokemon stuff?