Soma request? Soul has the stomach flu and Maka takes care of him? I understand if you’re too busy, (if you are, know of any blogs that take prompts? Thanks!)

marshofsleep:

i don’t know what this is but it happened, so oh well.

boy/girl forcefield

You’ll be thirteen in two days, and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen your father be sick. You’d never thought about it before just now, while catching a fleeting glimpse of the sickly pallor of your partner right before he slams the bathroom door. You’ve never heard your father make that noise, either (unless he’s ridiculously happy and does that joybarfing thing).

Shifting from one socked foot to the other, hovering outside the bathroom door as your partner struggles to catch his breath between hurls that make you feel queasy, you nervously call for him. What can you expect in reply, though? It’s not like he’s going to reassure you and say he’s fine.

But he does croak, “Donworryboutit,” in one rushed slur before he retches again.

You worry about it.

Read More

reblag for day crowd. thanks so much for every one of your retags. sorry if this bogs down your phone, i’ll be moving it over to ff.net this afternoon to shorten the post down.

i know you asked for soma, anon but uh. welp. the thing that possesses my hands to write whispered ‘nah’

Soma request? Soul has the stomach flu and Maka takes care of him? I understand if you’re too busy, (if you are, know of any blogs that take prompts? Thanks!)

i don’t know what this is but it happened, so oh well.

boy/girl forcefield

You’ll be thirteen in two days, and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen your father be sick. You’d never thought about it before just now, while catching a fleeting glimpse of the sickly pallor of your partner right before he slams the bathroom door. You’ve never heard your father make that noise, either (unless he’s ridiculously happy and does that joybarfing thing).

Shifting from one socked foot to the other, hovering outside the bathroom door as your partner struggles to catch his breath between hurls that make you feel queasy, you nervously call for him. What can you expect in reply, though? It’s not like he’s going to reassure you and say he’s fine.

But he does croak, “Donworryboutit,” in one rushed slur before he retches again.

You worry about it.

due to length of this post, i’ve moved the fic to ff.net. you can find the rest here: glissando 99

thank you for all the kind praise. any and all feedback is appreciated!

marshofsleep:

previous: [5:6]

~~

[2:7]

“This is Katherine.”

In hindsight, calling up the number she’d pried from the depths of Wes Evans’s official website with her head still spinning from Krazy Glue fumes might not have been the best move. “Hi! Uh. Is this the agency for Wes Evans? I’d like to—”

‘Eternally bored’ does not describe the voice on the other end of the line with nearly enough justice. “Do you have business with my client,” the woman asks with no hint of a question mark.

“I— Not, erm, professionally, but this is an urgent m—”

Click.

Read More

reblag for evening crowd

previous: [5:6]

[2:7]

“This is Katherine.”

In hindsight, calling up the number she’d pried from the depths of Wes Evans’s official website with her head still spinning from Krazy Glue fumes might not have been the best move. “Hi! Uh. Is this the agency for Wes Evans? I’d like to–”

‘Eternally bored’ does not describe the voice on the other end of the line with nearly enough justice. “Do you have business with my client,” the woman asks with no hint of a question mark.

“I– Not, erm, professionally, but this is an urgent m–”

Click.

Maka pulls her phone away from her ear and, sure enough, the screen tells her the call has ended. She grinds her teeth, cursing under her breath as she redials.

“This is Katherine.”
“Hi! I’d like to set up an interview with Mister Evans.”

The resulting silence on the line causes Maka’s mouth to twitch into what can only be described as a self-satisfied, Soul-approved smirk.

“…I’m transferring you to Scheduling. Please hold.” There’s an uncomfortable clatter and some rustling noises, so Maka simply leans back into the living room couch and waits, pleased she’ll be talking to someone who is hopefully a thousand times less rude.

Ten seconds pass, and she’s mildly surprised by the lack of any distorted elevator music playing while she’s on hold– though she does hear something. Maka mashes her phone closely to her ear, straining to pick out faint background noises. There’s a low, mechanical whine reminiscent of a powered car window rolling down; a crinkle of cellophane, some rhythmic clicking, and sigh follow.

It might be the glue fumes, but it sounds like someone is in the middle of a smoke break. Before Maka can screech into the phone for anyone to pick up, there’s another muffled clatter.

“This is Scheduling,” a woman says in the exact same voice and cadence as Katherine. Maka only just catches herself from crushing her cellphone in her hand. “My client’s next available slot is the week of Easter.”

Reeling, she slides off the couch and onto the floor, irritation overtaken by shock. “E-Easter? No, you don’t understand– I need to talk to him immediately, as in preferably today.”

“Uh-huh. And what magazine, paper, or station do you represent?”

“I’m–“ She winces. Sighs. ”…not a reporter.“

Click.

Maka nods, unsurprised. She doesn’t bother swearing this time as she immediately redials.

“Flat learning curve, I see.”
“I call it perseverance, thank you. Look, it is nearly Christmas and it is imperative that I talk to Wes before–”
“My client is extremely busy during the holiday season, so either get a clue or talk to someone who cares.”

Growling at her coffee table, Maka throws all amiability to the wind and spits, “I feel bad for Wes’s career if this is the agency behind the scenes.”

“Tell that to his bank statement with a straight face.”
“Grinch.”
“I’m blocking your number.”
“Smoking gives you cancer.”

Click.

"UUOOOOOUGH!”

Maka tosses her phone to the coffee table, next to the horrifically lopsided record she’d glued back together. She glowers at its inelegance, the newspaper she’d spread underneath it as a drip guard for the glue having inevitably attached itself like a grade-school arts and crafts project. She’s tempted to break it again and put it out of its misery.

Rubbing violent circles into her temples, she decides more help on this mission is required. It’s probably a bad idea, but as she picks up her phone once more and dials Kid’s mansion, she plans on blaming glue fumes (and agents named Katherine) if things go awry.

first: [8:1]
previous: [5:6]

next: [9:8] TBC (eventually)

previous: [3:5]

[5:6]

“WE CAN’T STOP HERE, THIS IS BAT COUNTRY.”

It’s intermission. His hand fists around her elbow, toting her along at breakneck speeds directly to the stage. With a dread she is slowly becoming accustomed to the longer this expedition of hers goes on, she questions if this is divine retribution for having the audacity to convince a loudmouthed thespian to help her ‘sneak’ into a black tie affair. She can already foresee her career going down in flames (or worse– her first impression to Wes Evans being this soon-to-be-even-more-mortifying moment in time: Maka Albarn, three-star meister, caught center stage at Davies Symphony Hall, standing next to Black Star while he preaches to the ‘twelfth century heathens,’ the resulting smartphone snapshots circulating Twitter until they land the front page of the D-City Epigraph just in time for Christmas).

So much for scoping out the Path of Least Conspicuous. “What is your freakin’ malfunction,” she hisses, catching up to his stride. “This is the exact opposite of being sneaky!”

Black Star does not answer, but he doesn’t exactly need to, because an inordinate number of barrel-chested English Bulldogs have just rounded the corner, giving top-heavy chase through the well-dressed crowd mingling in the main foyer. Every last pudgy beast has LED reindeer antlers strapped to its jowly head, blinking festive and frenetic red and green. The cheery jingly bells on the ends only serve as strange, holiday-esque sirens announcing the dogs’ arrival.

Davies has great acoustics. The pack’s collective roar of noise is crystal-clear as the bulldogs cram through the double-doors of the auditorium and scramble down multiple aisles after the two meisters. Even the startled screams of the scant, still-seated audience members carry well. Soul would be impressed.

Maka runs faster.

“You are the worst ninja ever,” she cries, yanking her arm from Black Star’s grasp as they both leap for the stage.

“Well that’s just disrespectful,” Black Star says before swiping two music stands and twirling them so naturally it’s as if he’s been some kind of orchestra equipment meister since conception. “Who expects guard dogs at a charity event? You said ‘hitman-slash-yojimbo,’ not Hitchcock’s The Bulldogs–” and, despite all previous finesse, he inelegantly chucks the stands into a domino line-up of (terrifyingly expensive) string instruments left behind by the performers. “So really, this is your fault with your shitty briefing and false advertising.”

The cacophony of cellos and string basses fatally colliding into each other makes the blood drain from Maka’s face; somewhere in the witch realm, Soul is doubtlessly having an unexplainable pang– like a disturbance in the instrumental-snob force. To make matters worse, the resulting destruction doesn’t even deter the tidal wave of attack-dog from flowing around the mess. Maka scrambles over chairs, leaping from seat to seat as she resigns herself to the reality that she must hurdle a piano in front of San Francisco’s wealthiest philanthropists in order to survive.

“Hahah!” Black Star cackles, running across the length of the concave back wall before climbing to the first tier of VIP seating. “Check it– that one has a Rudolph nose.”

Evidently, ‘Rudolph’ has been working out. The muscular bulldog’s piranha teeth sink into Maka’s combat boot just as she attempts to clear the piano. With a twist, she slips her ankle out of the dog’s jaws, but ends up skidding across the glossy top of the grand with all the squealing of a human windshield wiper. She tumbles off the other end, spouting a string of curses in reply to Black Star’s wheezing laughter.

“You’re the one who said we’re not allowed to kick anyone’s ass, quit bitching!” he defends.

Huffing, Maka jumps for the tier, and they take a few gravity-defying shortcuts to a stage-right exit. They are immediately met with a sea of instrument cases, open and waiting for their now-destroyed future occupants like black-shelled coffins. The guard dogs and all their slobber are catching up, so Maka and Black Star stumble their way down the hall, booking it until the path ends at an abrupt T.

They share a look, point in opposite directions, and hang a desperate right after Maka declares that she hadn’t been the one to find the freaky reindeer dog show.

They only make it ten feet down the corridor before skidding to a halt. A dogpile of more antler-clad bulldogs wakes up from their cozy nap, hearing the commotion of their siblings around the corner.

“Well ain’t this some holly jolly bullshit,” says Black Star before the two of them about-face and haul ass for the nearest emergency exit. Rudolph and company are nipping at Maka’s coattails by the time the meisters find a heavy metal door being held ajar by a large stone– which Black Star punts into interstellar orbit as he bursts through. Maka follows, slamming the door behind them.

“They’re too short for doorknobs, right?” she pants, slowly backing away from the door while it violently shudders from the chaos behind it.

He doesn’t bother answering her question, because out of sight is out of mind for Black Star. “Now what, genius masternerd? We can prolly get through ventilation, but the kishin’s pretty much outta the bag.”

“Whose fault is that,” Maka snaps back. “And I didn’t make a plan B, seeing as I didn’t anticipate you sucking so bad with such a simple objective–”

“‘Secret spy’, you said. ‘Hardcore stuff’, you said!”

She’s about to tell him to shut his monkey face (and also where to shove his complaints at high velocity) when the lever on the door starts to pivot. Both meisters watch in awestruck, morbid curiosity as the door groans open to reveal the red-nosed, blinky-light leader of the pack, standing on hind legs with a paw casually draped over the door handle.

Maka tries to share a look with Black Star, but is shocked to find him missing.

“How are we even friends,” she shrieks, boots eating pavement as she catches up with him. The sounds of only Death knows how many dogs giving chase echo behind them as they round the corner of the building, breath puffing like freight trains in the cold night. “We’ve fought on the moon together, but you’ll leave me behind on Christmas Eve to be eaten alive by freakishly muscular attack dogs?!”

“Tithe up– you gotta sacrifice cheeseburgers for that service.”

There is no earthly comparison for the frustrated noise that gurgles out of Maka’s mouth, and maybe this is why it catches the attention of a long-limbed woman in a crisp suit leaning against the side of the building, who appears to be trying to take a smoke break.

Maka only glances at this innocent bystander for three quarters of a second, but in this fleeting instant she takes in a few key bits of information:

Firstly, the woman is wearing sunglasses even though there is certainly no sun at this time of night;
Next, there’s a golden zippo lighter in the her left hand, click-click-clicking as she tries to light a cigarette;
And last, there’s the antlers.

Despite the dark shades, Maka simply knows (by way of the ice pouring down her spine) that eye contact has been made, and she impresses Black Star with her sudden burst of speed.

first: [8:1]
previous: [3:5]

next: [2:7]