#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *
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woodland
qrow x “Lieutenant” ( @slaughtermachine )
[tw: nudity, suggestive]
He comes here when he needs peace... he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t allow himself the luxury of a longass shower here and there.
Eventually, the sensation that he’s being watched gets to him so much that he finally turns his head... Just some birds, though. Nothing to worry about.
beady red eyes tilt to and fro as qrow takes in the sight...
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He comes here when he needs peace.
He’d been personally involved with mapping out the Mountain Glenn site and nearby areas. Safety and running water would be brushed off as impossibilities to anyone with less knowledge of the area than him. And now that he’s alone, he doesn’t see why he shouldn’t allow himself the luxury of a longass shower here and there.
The running water was his haven. He got to be out of dirty, sweaty clothes and discard his mask, and think over things he normally didn’t spare time for, inbetween making himself almost obsessively clean. Total privacy, and given that it was away from an encampment or headquarters, he also didn’t have to deal with people complaining about how much time he spent in the wet box.
That nuisance is traded for the wariness of the wilderness, and eventually the sensation that he’s being watched gets to him so much that he finally turns his head, baring teeth and prepared to kill anyone that caught sight of him unmasked.
Just some birds, though. Nothing to worry about.
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helpful birds, to qrow at least. amazing what information he could get from the dance of nature when he took to wings instead of words. this particular family of corvids had been populating this area of mountain glenn for generations. apparently so had a good few of the local grimm. qrow didn’t know whether that meant actual generations of grimm somehow, or whether the same ones had been around. …it’s a rough and simple translation.
the patriarch caws on a high branch, an alert of the man returned to their presence, threat of a predator.
qrow takes it as opportunity to end the conversation, not wear out his welcome, and get a closer look at what’s got them all riled up. hopping from his perch to soar down with a tap of talons on the open ceramic tile wall outside of the stall, he suddenly remembers what this building actually is.
hello there handsome.
beady red eyes tilt to and fro as qrow takes in tight muscles, dark ink, and chiseled lines tucked down into barely a towel. something in his bird brain says to fly, but something stirring in his human brain glues him firmly to the spot. scars of a body mean little when his man form shares the same, and all of that distracts for a moment before qrow catches the facial scarring, apparent and angry in a way that clutches in hollow ribs; even another moment before he can tell the difference between disfiguration and glare.
silent blinks process, looking back in feigned innocence and ignorance, and in the span of those seconds the angry face softens.
yes, good, of course, nothing but a harmless bird here, sir.
clearly, this person had been through some shit. qrow can sympathize. maybe a smile could help bring something better out of that face?
(or if nothing else, extends qrow’s showtime for some serious eye candy)
a small rattle warms up his throat while shiny feathers fluff, and qrow twists and bends his neck to scrape a black beak against mortar.
then, he lets out the unmistakable sound of a wolf whistle.
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…!
He was just turning around, ready to go collect his clothes, when he hears it. He whirls around so fast that his towel nearly slips, looking for who had made that sound, brain firing on all cylinders and body ready for a fight.
No one’s there.
His eyes are wide and searching, and his teeth are bared, the way they always were when ready to tear into somebody–verbally or physically. The lack of an immediate target stops him short, but he knows there must be one, somewhere in those trees. It’s some mix of rage and rapidly burgeoning humiliation he feels. No way any of the green upstarts at the Fang would be so bold as to do this. Is there someone here he didn’t see when he arrived? Maybe one of Cinder’s ballsy, harebrained associates?
“…Who’s there?!”
His demand goes unanswered but for a flock of birds flying away in alarm, which only makes him nervous. He had expected some sort of stifled laughter. That had been a whistle he heard, right? His eyes settle on the only thing left, a small black bird with red eyes, probably a crow or a raven. One of those carrion-feeders that wasn’t easy to scare, he supposed. Could birds imitate human sounds…?
…Maybe he should just leave. He didn’t have anything on him, and though he could handle himself without his chainsaw, he didn’t much care for violence in his present state anyway. Too vulnerable.
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mis-aimed Misfortune nearly gives qrow even more of an eyeful, and definitely causes him to hop and fluff up on the spot. that voice sounds ready and willing to knock someone right out, and his stance backs it up. only his scars looked angry before, but now his whole face does.
qrow doesn’t rush away with his companions; instead, his whole body shakes, audibly fluttering out the sudden stress in the way creatures do, trying to de-escalate. for every bit of aggression the man holds, qrow lets go his own defenses (no ego and less body to protect in this form); that had not gone as planned.
but he’s not scared, not threatened. not like this.
so, in all of qrow’s glory and experience of if at first you don’t succeed… he tries again.
mocking laughter expected a hidden source doesn’t come, but the black bird does tilt his head in mischief and silent amusement; he waits, making sure he has the man’s attention, trying to convince him of how he should feel, too… and whistles yet again; and just for show of reckless, half mindless, wild creature abandon, he hops along the wall, continuing to repeat it, mixed with a regular cheeping caw or two.
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For quite a long moment, he’s staring right at the guilty bird, feeling the sort of blank ‘processing’ kind of emptiness in his brain that tended to precede–yep, there it was. Feeling like an idiot. For all that he should be relieved, and he is, he knows he’s just made a fool of himself, threatening a bird out in the middle of nowhere over nothing.
He closes his eyes and sighs, turning his back on the edge of the woods. He’d better just get his things and get the work he needed to do here done. The benefit of being under the radar was supposed to be a little bit less alertness and paranoia, but fuck it, seems like that’s not a defect he’s getting rid of that easily. …Maybe he’ll put his mask on, just in case.
“Go! Get out of here, shoo!”
He doesn’t wait to see if the bird was successfully sent fluttering away, rather turning on his heel and returning to his little encampment. Damn it, god fucking damn it. Now he can’t shake the feeling of being watched, even though he knows he isn’t. He feels like he needs another shower–no, no, what he needs is to just get to work. He can relax when he’s asleep tonight. Or dead, really.
Fuckin’ animals…
#slaughtermachine#* we got work to do = ic *#* unbirdened *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#* save that for when you're older = suggestive *#* i gave you my life = past *
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TMA Retro 4: Page Turner
I was touched to see some tag commentary on yesterday’s post! Honestly, it gave me an emotion - I am traditionally very anxious about engaging online, it speaks to my immense love of TMA that it brought me to Make A Post At Last. It’s very affirming and reassuring to get some response to my lunatic treatises. Y’all are all right. 💜
Anyway, grab some lighter fluid and a sturdy wastepaper basket, time to torch your haunted novel in MAG 4: Page Turner
It’s ironic that this statement is about the Vast when it is one dense motherfucker. so many dangling plot threads are introduced here, each ready to hook you and start reeling. we’ve been into the meta plot since episode one but this episode is the first time the audience is made aware of such.
seriously: Jurgen Leitner and his library, Gerard Keay and Mary Keay, Michael Crew. the figures introduced in this one thirty-minute installment loom large over the rest of the entire run
you could, your first time through, even file this away as a one-off scary story if not for the fact that Jon knows what’s going on (enjoy it while it lasts, my son). He’s heard of Jurgen Leitner. He alludes to an incident with his library in 1994. Deeper than that, he immediately takes the statement at face value and treats the claims within it as authentic, which is a complete 180° on the first three episodes
and this is such a smart story choice? Jon shapes our perspective into this universe and up until now he’s been utterly dismissive of the validity of the stories he’s telling. To go from practically rolling his eyes to scheduling a meeting with his boss about tracking down more haunted books - that tells us that Jon takes this seriously as a threat. And that makes us take it seriously too, makes us take note that strange books are dangerous things in this world. Any offhand mention of books in future statements will be enough to make us sweat
And! It starts winding the narrative tension on a character level. Why and what does Jon know about Jurgen Leitner and his library? Why does he say his name with such venom? And if he’s so sure about the supernatural nature of these books, why is he so loath to believe the other statements?
(and then it takes 80 + episodes to fully answer these initial questions. Jonny enjoys a slow roasted torment)
love that the statement giver presents, as proof of his iron-clad sanity, the fact that he works as a theatre technician. speaking as someone with an unfinished theatre degree: theatre people are feral my good buddy, try again. I mean, we refuse to say the name of one of the most famous plays in the English language because we think a ghost will trip us for the indiscretion. this is not the trump card you think it is.
a quick sidebar for the Red String Brigade: The Trojan Women is an ancient Greek tragedy that involves a baby being thrown off a city wall. The Seagull’s first published English translation was done by Marian Fell, and also a seagull is a bird and birds can fly. Much Ado About Nothing is very good and you should all watch the version from 2011 with David Tennant and Catherine Tate.
it’s interesting that these early episodes seem to take a cue from urban legends in some respects. Nathan Watts gets extremely drunk at a party and then is almost skinned by a monster while having a smoke. Joshua Gillespie is approached while engaging in a whirlwind of debauchery and has to take care of a cursed coffin after accepting money for what he thinks is a drug trafficking gig. Amy Patel regularly spies on her neighbour for her own entertainment and then has to watch him be replaced by a malevolent entity only she can perceive. and now Dominic Swain pushes past his guilty conscience to score a valuable book off an unknowing charity shop and...gets a bit dizzy and haunted by a phantom stink for a few days then gets £5,000, well anyway, the point is he got spooked! spooked after doing something kind of iffy! that is pure urban legend procedure; modern day fairy tales imparting dire consequences onto societal transgressions. in a horror story this structure offers a false sense of safety - if you’re a good person, the monster won’t come for you. I can’t recall which upcoming statement yanks the rug out from under us with the first completely random victim.
cannot comprehend how this guy didn’t start plugging the book into google translate the second he got home. that probably saved him from being taken by the book but I am still judging him for not even trying it. yeah you’d be sucked into some sort of sky hell but at least you’d know what’s in the book!! could never be me
(yes I am aware in this universe I would have been eaten years ago. I’ve made my peace with that)
grbookworm1818 slays me. I don’t know which is better, the idea of Gertude carefully curating the most sixty-five-year-old-on-goodreads username she could as a cover for her cursed purchase history, or her actual sixty-five-year-old brain just expressing itself naturally because Gertrude is a very busy woman who doesn’t have time to immerse herself in the ins and outs of internet culture, she just wants to buy the demonic tomes she’s selected for destruction and get on with her day thanks.
did Gertrude know what a meme was? which Archivist could convincingly pose as a millennial best, Gertrude Robinson or Jonathan Sims?
The Key of Solomon and its former keeper, Samuel Liddell MacGregor Mathers, are both real historical figures. the book is basically Renaissance-era magical au fanfic of the Bible, and the man was a 19th century British occultist (and likely drinking buddy of Jonah Magnus) who founded a Very Serious Secret Society. this is a picture of him whiiiiiich rather dispels any sense of menace he’s meant to invoke. what kind of cosplaying nonsense
Mary Keay is such a striking figure. “She was very old and painfully thin, but her head was completely clean shaven, and every square inch of skin I could see was tattooed over with closely-written words in a script I didn’t recognise.” a Look, a vision!
I’m guessing that Our Gerard was blasting heavy metal at 2 am to try to drown out his undead mother while waiting for her manifestation to dissipate. I like to imagine him frequenting Reddit advice posts about dealing with toxic family members, poor lad
oh my gosh Mary refers to Gerard as “her Gerard” is that where Jon got “our Gerard” from?? I feel betrayed??
whatever, I’m reclaiming it. Our Gerard is meant with affection now babey!
the eye portrait is a bit puzzling. the inscription - ‘“Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call.”’ - could almost be read as an invocation against the Eye? But in general Gerry is fairly Eye-aligned, so...shrug emoji
(honestly my main takeaway from the eye portrait is that it’s finely detailed and near photorealistic so we can add “tortured artist” to our list of Gerard Keay traits and is it any wonder that he’s so Fandom Beloved?)
Mary is Not Good at negotiating sales. her main technique involves terrible tea, bringing up repressed childhood trauma, and getting her magic book to drop animal bones onto customer’s shoes. I’m guessing Pinhole Books was in bad shape even before the police investigation and murder charges.
hahaha, the Vast pushes Dominic down the stairs. classic. you gotta grab what opportunities are available
so did Gerard have to follow Dominic back to his flat and wait awkwardly on the doorstep at like 3 in the morning, hoping none of his neighbours would notice and call the cops
the revelation that Mary’s been dead the whole time! this episode may be more intent on world building and plot set-up but damn if it isn’t still a good little ghost story.
kind of rude of Gerry to just burn a book in this guy’s flat without asking and then steal his wastepaper basket.
Jon may not call the statement giver a liar for once, but never fear, he’s still our petty bastard man. accuses Gertrude of filing statements without reading them, has Sasha double-check Martin’s research, grumps about his general misfortune . he’s stressed from the Archives’ disorder and having flashbacks to a certain picture book but by Jove, that won’t stop him making snide comments on what’s supposed to be an official audio transcription!
#tma retro#the magnus archives#tma spoilers#tma meta#I love love love all the little dominos being set into place in this episode#but I am looking forward to an episode about the Vast that really dives in deep#(pun absofuckinglutely intended)
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qrow + Clover ( @courtclover ) being themselves
no cut you get to read this one
“Why does everyone have a problem with the Atlesian military?”
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“you mean besides the fact that your heads are so far up your own asses you can’t even hear your consciences?”
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“…is that how you really think of me…?”
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“the atlas military as a whole? yes.
you? less so. but i worry.
Winter? …might actually be missing out on her entire personality. gotta rile it outta her somehow.”
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“I’m glad you worry how far my head is up my arse, Qrow. Also, that’s 5 lien in the swear jar.”
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“hey, it may not seem like it, but i worry about everyone. feel free to prove me wrong anytime you like.”
happily drops 10 lien in the jar just to make a point. worth it.
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A smile breaks out on Clover’s face.
“Why would I ever disprove Qrow Branwen having a caring heart?”
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anyone that survives a round of his spiked words with such good humor has earned a grin from him. far be it for qrow to mock the militants for being so uptight and then refuse to relax a little himself.
“listen, just don’t go spreadin’ it around. i’ve got an image to maintain here.”
#* open and wide and forgiving like a hot meal after a cold night = courtclover *#* suddenly you're ripped into being alive = qrow + clover *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *
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kuro
bird!qrow + Clover ( @courtclover )
“I’m taking you out! You’re being naughty!” Clover raises his voice over the crow’s squawking as he walks down the hallway and there’s definitely a few glances and stares from those they pass by. Clover rushes a little faster.
oh! oh! Clover doesn’t want eyes on him for once? really? that’s fine, that’s fine. qrow can be the show off tonight.
“aahhhAaaAhhHHaa!!” he cackles in the tune of some manic 8-bit video game character as they move faster and he feels the flow of air in his feathers, fluffing and making even more silly cawing noises.
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kisses? m-mwaaah!
When Clover said he wanted kisses, he didn’t mean kisses from a big black pointy beak. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers.
“Don’t play cute now. You know you’re in trouble.” Clover chuckles, trying to be firm with the friendly crow who keeps stealing shiny objects out of Clover’s office.
“You’re being naughty! I’m taking you out.”
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“whaAAT,” comes the caw of a nearly-shunned crow, dropping a fancy twisted metal fishing lure from his beak, as if he’s innocent of all wrongdoing, and offended at any implication otherwise.
“why,” he trills, obligingly steps talons onto Clover’s arm, but as just such is explained and they start moving back into the sterile halls of atlas academy, his feathers start fluffing and he squawks more aggressively, “wot dOOiNG?”
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“I’m taking you out! You’re being naughty!” Clover raises his voice over the crow’s squawking as he walks down the hallway and there’s definitely a few glances and stares from those they pass by. Clover rushes a little faster.
“Yes you are! You’re being so naughty!” Clover takes the bird to his private quarters. There is less of a chance of anyone stepping into here than in Clover’s office. Clover hasn’t a clue how he would explain himself. The crow just showed up one day trying to steal Clover’s lures.
“There, see this is more fun for a troublemaker like you. Look, here, you can have this.” Clover offers the bird a place to roost and offers a shiny coin as well. Another one of Clover’s lucky charms, but one he wouldn’t mind parting with.
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oh! oh! Clover doesn’t want eyes on him for once? really? that’s fine, that’s fine. qrow can be the show off tonight.
“aahhhAaaAhhHHaa!!” he cackles in the tune of some manic 8-bit video game character as they move faster and he feels the flow of air in his feathers, fluffing and making even more silly cawing noises. while his birdbrain very much keeps control, some part in the back of his human brain also finds amusement at Clover calling him naughty.
especially when they get to his room.
qrow hops onto the raised edge of a dresser, resettles his wings and scrapes his beak on the nearest metal surface, acting disinterested, only out of spite for being removed from his original target, even if beady red eyes glint at new shinies. he flicks his head this way and that before peering at the man again, caw, caw, “hiiii!”
(surely, this is how this magic is intended to be used.)
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“Brothers, you’re such a troublemaker.”
Clover shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He leaves the coin nearby on the dresser, just in case the bird changes their mind later. The crow begins to caw at Clover and there Clover’s smile softens. He’s never had a pet before, never had the chance to care for something. It feels nice.
No. What is he thinking? Clover can’t keep a wild bird in the operative barracks. Even if the crow is cute trying to steal all of Clover’s special fishing lures. For now, Clover will try to keep the bird out of trouble and figure out where he belongs. Bring the bird home.
“Hiii~” Clover responds back to the crow. “What doing?”
The AceOp leader chuckles as he mimics the crow.
“No, seriously, what are you doing? Why do you want my fishing lures for? Crows don’t eat fish, do they?”
Oh great, there he goes speaking to a bird like it’s capable of understanding.
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the crow clicks and rattles contentedly, not contending the accusation in the slightest.
he cranes his neck to preen the top of his wings just so, pleased to stand in the beaming rays of Clover’s smile, pleased he can have an effect on someone so easily for once.
he’ll forgive him for trying to trade prime metal scrap for a good luck coin that will do him no good. especially when he mimics qrow, then, and it’s adorable. his head flicks back in the man’s direction. he blinks as he stands still and listens.
“wat dooing!!” he repeats.
his vocabulary is too limited to give a true answer, which of course is off limits for totally blowing the secret anyway. but in some gremlin vaguery, he lifts a leg and flexes his talons. the ones that wish they were holding a fishing lure. for crafting into something else.
“yeah!” he also adds, in response to all the questions.
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Clover laughs when the bird repeats the same sentence over again. It’s capable of mimicking all kinds of human speech, but the bird prefers asking that one question for some reason. What doing? The crow must have picked it up somewhere. It’s cute.
Clover extends a finger slowly, wanting to pet the crow’s head, but he stops when the bird motions with its talons. Clover doesn’t understand this behavior and he thinks the bird is stretching. The AceOp then notices there isn’t a band of some kind above the crow’s digits. The bird must be wild, but how is that possible? Crows aren’t native to Solitas.
“Well, that settles it then.” Clover decides he’ll give the bird what it wants and maybe having a pet wouldn’t be so bad.
“I should give you a name, huh?” Clover moves to another part of his room and there he searches for the long since forgotten fishing equipment he keeps stored in a closet. He has a box of fishing lures for the crow and he shakes it, trying to entice the crow’s curiosity.
“How about Kuro? For the color of your feathers.“
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qrow’s pushing his limits, his luck, with this disguise he knows, but he hasn’t had such fun in ages. at least, not sober. Clover looking confused is not an image either of his brains will lose anytime soon.
he’s almost tempted to step forward, to encourage what looked like a primed and ready scritchin’ finger, but then that hand moves to grab something even better.
the bird hops; back and forth in place it bounces on both feet, seeing some glint and glimmer even through the plastic baitbox.
happy trills sing in its throat until Clover mentions a name that sounds like a distorted version of his own already, and he can similarly place the inflection of it as more Mistrali. How does Clover know this?
acting as a wild bird, he cannot approve nor disapprove of what anyone cares to call him. he has had many names in his feathered lifetime.
he looks up to open his neck, tries to imitate the sound, but all that comes out is a crackling attempt at “Kh” - a clipped, gargled sound that gets struck in his bobbing throat, kind of like a fish choking on air. he would have to practice to train his chords any further for that one…
“…kh-kh… k…isses?” his voice lands on something more familiar. it’s a failed attempt at communication, but the mischief still directed at Clover from red eyes don’t seem to mind.
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Clover opens the tackle box and he stops, blinking with surprise as the crow attempts to repeat the name. What a clever little bird! It struggles with the sound and doesn’t execute it well with its limited range of vocals, but it still shocks Clover with how the bird is clearly trying.
Perhaps, with a bit of repetition, Clover can teach the crow to say it.
“Hey, good job! You deserve kisses for trying, Kuro.” Clover chuckles and he isn’t scared to lean his head down to kiss such a long beak.
“Mwaaaa~” He mimics the bird again, pulling his head back up swiftly. That’s exactly how the crow gives kisses. Clover wonders where the crow picked that up from. Who else isn’t scared of kissing crows?
“Here, take your pick.” Clover then offers the open tackle box and watches the bird a moment, thinking to himself how he will care for such a small and wild animal. Clover can’t keep it in his room for long. He’s sure the wild and nosy bird would make a mess or hurt itself somehow trying to get out. Clover can’t cage it either.
Mindlessly, Clover takes his finger and gently rubs the top of the crow’s head before a soft smile blooms on his face. Clover doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but he’ll make it up as he goes.
“You know, I have a friend who is named after you. Even his last name has something to do with crows.”
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if Clover thinks it’s cute how qrow tries to mimic him, it’s about ten times sillier to watch Clover mimic his trilling bird voice. he gets a kiss. kisses!! affection freely received and freely given, more types of freedom so much more easily found in his feathers.
he hates to admit how much he enjoys it.
the crow whistles happily and brings his head back at what would be a breakneck angle for a bigger being.
excited wings flap and feathers fluff when presented with his pick of treasures! oh, he recognizes some of these shapes from long gone days, and then some far beyond basic. the human in him appreciates the craft and the wild in him appreciates tools of survival. his head tilts all ways to capture the full picture of the choices spread before him!
his beak pecks at a few, and his talons curl to dig around others and he continues his “k” sounds at hearing the name again.
he absolutely makes a right mess, he has to put on a presentation of feral disorganization after all… any lures with too many dangly bits or big plastic pieces, or absurdly bright colors, he pulls out and scatters aside.
he pauses in his search only to allow those fingers to caress across his forehead, and his eyes close and open slowly in appeased response. the careful, respectful touch makes him feel warmer than it should in any form, but thankfully the only color he wears right now is black, and he’s entirely safe in anonymity to experience whatever emotions and sensations he likes.
he picks a simple steel twist with an opalescent scale-ish sheen, maybe even a bit bulkier than the one he’d tried to steal.
“yeah!” he calls triumphantly.
Clover’s last statement hits too close to home, and it could make him laugh if it didn’t scare him, make him feel a slight twinge of guilt in his gizzard. he shouldn’t let him dwell on the idea for too long.
so he ignores it, pretending not to follow that string of language at all. he tosses the lure in his beak, glee lacing some chittering caws while he fidgets and flaps around, focusing all of his attention on the new “toy,” …and sending a few others flying off to the floor in his revelry.
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Clover watches the crow in its mirth and he doesn’t feel any disappointment or annoyance in the mess it’s making; instead, he raises a curious eyebrow and lets a few chuckles escape him. Clover doesn’t know a thing about crows or how to care for them, but it’s not something he can’t handle.
“Hey, careful. You can hurt yourself with some of the metal ones.”
Clover begins to pick up after the bird and once he has a few lures in his hands, he stops to look them over. It’s been a while since Clover had a day for himself and fling a real fishing line into open waters.
He misses a time when he didn’t have so much weight on his shoulders, a time where a hobby wouldn’t feel so selfish to indulge in. However, that time has come to pass and Clover returns the old lures to the box.
“Here, look, you might like this one, Kuro.” Clover finds a green plastic lure in the shape of a worm inside the box and he takes it out for the crow to see.
“Not like the one you gave me, but here.” Clover offers the crow the fake worm. The bird can have this one. Clover doesn’t need the lures anyway.
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deep, emphatic squawks yell from qrow’s throat as he shuffles through carelessly with practiced beak and practiced claws. metal does not scare him. he is a master of steel.
maybe part of qrow’s curse is sucking those around him into the same over-indulgence he once partook in. maybe some of this chaos is him letting a little out. he doesn’t think of this nor realize what goes on in Clover’s mind.
these are things that just happen around him.
a spy who leads people to the truth.
a crow who leads people to their own demise.
a friend who wants to see Clover smile.
“wat wat?” he chirps and turns, more agreeable when given offerings, and drops the metal in his beak into a little pile he’s collecting of his favorites. he hops into the air and flaps his wings with some flair before gliding the short trek back across the table. he doesn’t land on the edge, but right on Clover’s wrist, pecking thoughtfully at the suggested lure in his palm.
he presses his beak to that wrist with smol kiskis noises once more, as if he remembers the prior trade and expresses gratitude, “yeah!”
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Clover softly chuckles and he smiles wide, charmed by the little bird’s adorable antics. He’s also amazed by Kuro’s speaking ability yet again and Clover wonders how such a wild bird picked up those words.
Maybe, Kuro had an owner once or maybe it has lingered too close to humans; either way, it’s incredible. This crow is incredible. Clover hopes he can one day introduce his new friend to his teammates or James and Winter. Why not? He’d love for Kuro to meet them too.
The crow gives Clover kisses again and Clover laughs out loud enjoyably. The bird’s naughty behavior from earlier is easily forgiven.
“You’re incredible, Kuro.” Clover admits his earlier thought and he lifts his arm to speak to the crow on its level.
“I’ll let you back in my office, but no more being naughty, okay?” Clover smiles at the bird.
“Kisses?” He asks the bird to promise.
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it is, very hard to stay mad at an adorable, innocent animal.
qrow cannot get away with such things as a human, often. he can be more open and himself in so many ways with this freedom.
he can be closer. the warmth in Clover’s wrist matches his smile.
he can bring others more things this way too.
he shouldn’t linger much longer. this form enjoys respectful, careful touch and treats and eyes that shine like seafoam sea glass of washed up wine bottles.
his wings flutter again, part innate response at the rush through his feathers at being lifted, part response to compliment and accusation, and part to shake off emotions that are too big for this body to understand.
“step up. step up!” he squawks, instinct setting off the familiar command that would typically place him on someone’s arm this way. …and a declaration of his intent.
he does not kiss. he does not promise.
but he will try.
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Clover’s warm smile could melt the snowcaps of Solitas. Kuro is unbelievably adorable and the bird melts Clover’s trained heart with every flap of its black wings and its crow speech.
Clover imagines having a pet has its responsibilities, but this, caring for something so small, feels indescribable. It feels as if Clover isn’t alone anymore. Can a pet be family?
Kuro doesn’t make any promises as Clover askes, but the crow speaks new words and it takes Clover by surprise once again.
“Step up?” Clover repeats, amazed and chuckling. What a unique bird. He’ll give the crow under the beak finger scratches for that.
Clover then looks to the door of his room and realizes he should be returning to the duties he’s neglecting right about now. However, he doesn’t know whether to leave the crow here or take it back with him.
“I need to go back to work now, Kuro. Want to come along?” Clover asks, which is probably a bit difficult, but Clover also pats a spot on his bed.
“You can stay, if you want?”
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qrow stills to let the warmth of Clover’s dashing, heartfelt smile wash over him, to bask in the gentle stroke of knuckles and more touch, and his feathers flutter in ruffles from head to tail. still, still, it is too many feelings for a tiny bird body, and so
he hops, bounces on bird talons again with glee along the desk. it was admirable enough to watch how Clover cared for the kiddos, but to be the recipient of that tenderness heals and hurts him all at once. these are experiences he simply cannot have as a human. possibly, experiences neither of them could have in any other form.
“step up!” he trills softly as he steps right up onto Clover’s arm, his treasures forgotten by his bird brain, forsaken for what’s in front of him now.
he must come with; he must leave. his only allowance in life is fleeting happiness. he will not stay. he cannot stay.
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Soft, warm laughter spills from Clover at the sight of the bird’s little excited hops. It’s very adorable and it’s hard not to smile at such sweet enthusiasm. Clover almost doesn’t want to go back. He could spend all day playing with the crow and learning more about its brilliance.
Work could wait a little longer.
Clover lifts the crow higher and has more scritches to offer. With a finger, he rubs beneath the crow’s beak and moves down through soft feathers to pet at the bird’s chest. Clover repeats the motion, up and down the curve of its neck and there Clover notices the light red color of the bird’s beady eyes.
“Huh…” Clover sounds. He knows this color. He’s seen it before. How curious.
“Good boy.” Clover compliments the crow and he scritches at the top of its head. The thought of Qrow enters his mind and a soft, warm smile blooms on his face.
#* open and wide and forgiving like a hot meal after a cold night = courtclover *#* suddenly you're ripped into being alive = qrow + clover *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *#* unbirdened *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#i'm cryin#this thread is a blessing#i don't often get to do serious stuff with birbform
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siblings
qrow + Raven ( @corvidisms )
“Your face is boring.”
“better’n resting bitch face.”
“At least I’m not in the dictionary next to the term ‘shitface’.”
“Raven, y’actually read now? i’m impressed.”
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That’s it.
She’s putting something slimy in her brother’s bed.
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“have y’not noticed, that’s kinda what we’re goin’ for here.”
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“You are disgusting.”
She’s gagging.
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“you’re boring.”
he’s shrugging.
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“Your face is boring.”
Back to the childish insults as always…
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“better’n resting bitch face.”
nothing to be done for it.
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“At least I’m not in the dictionary next to the term ‘shitface’.”
They’re like five year olds.
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“Raven, y’actually read now? i’m impressed.”
or worse.
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“Of course I fucking read, you pissant. Just not your three sheets to the fucking wind text messages.”
Worse. Much worse.
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aw, yeah, she’s getting mad now.
“sounds like someone who doesn’t get a lotta messages, Sis. don’t blame me for bein’ so boring, i’m th’ only one t’blow up your scroll.”
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Funny enough—he is pretty much the only one she gets messages from.
“Sounds like someone who doesn’t know what spell check is.”
Mad is relative. She’s not really mad, just full blown snarkasaurus rex… which is about normal.
“At least I can tell everyone I’m the fun twin.”
And she’s flipping her hair, puffed up proudly.
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qrow’s eyebrow quirks up so sharp it may just prick that overblown posturing she’s got going on. yeah right.
Raven? the fun one? in other people’s minds? last time he checked, being drunk enough to slur a little spelling was a pretty good time.
he crosses his arms and doesn’t even dignify that one with a response. let her prance around for a second in that false security, that’s fine.
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She stays puffed up like that for a minute, only faltering when she sees he’s giving her that look.
“Hey!” She stomps one foot indignantly. “Don’t you look at me like that, you..!” Ah, there’s an insult on the tip of her tongue… that, or she’d like to punch him. One of the two.
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his sense of self-preservation is all but gone. nothing matters save for watching Raven’s eyes turn redder and redder, stoking that fire in her that made his sister undeniably his sister.
he steps closer, continuing to give her the exact same look, and now adding a head tilt for emphasis.
“or you’ll what?” he knows that wrinkle on the bridge of her nose, “…mess up my boring face?”
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Smug bastard.
“Or the next time you’re three sheets to the wind and want Oreo cookies, I’ll lick the frosting off every single one before you get them.”
She’s dead serious, too. She damn well will.
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that breaks his character. not enough to back away entirely, but certainly changes his tune, makes his face fall.
“you wench,” he points at her, “you don’t even like that much frosting!”
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He’s right. She doesn’t even like the frosting, period–she’d just eat the cookie part straight.
“Nope. I don’t like the frosting at all. But I do like getting back at you, and that disgustingly sweet shit is worth the suffering.”
Now she’s the one with the shit-eating grin.
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“well… not if i lick them first.”
then they’re his. and she’ll be too late! he’ll have already gotten the frosting.
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“You’d have to be the one to buy groceries, and we know you wouldn’t be caught dead in a supermarket. You’re too much of a princess to even take out the trash.”
She’s smirking.
“Reminds me, I gotta pick you up a ballgown for your next school dance.” Wouldn’t that be a sight–a Signal teacher showing up in a ballgown.
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she hits him where it hurts, and maybe a standard onlooker wouldn’t see the slightest flinch like he just took a gut punch, but his sister would. he should have known it’d come to that eventually.
he avoids those things because Misfortune likes to make a horrendous mess of any task involving bags. he’d love to help his family, but he can’t. his version of simple tasks isn’t helpful, it ends up taking four hours and adding three more things to do. a lot of broken eggs and trash juice on the carpet…
then, she twists the dagger by reminding him how ignorant and gullible he’d once been, even though she’d been right there with him. he’d take ten stolen boxes of cookies over this.
congrats, Raven. you win this round.
he retorts, of course, but the heart behind it is gone, “oh yeah? so why don’t you come with for a change? we’ll poll the rest’a th’ teachers. see who’s still got th’ better legs. even without takin’ the trash up’n’down th’ driveway.”
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Raven knows when she’s gone too far… but she also knows how to bounce back from it. Hopefully, anyway.
“Gods, no, we aren’t gonna poll them,” she said, shaking her head. “We both know whose ass and legs look good in a skirt, and it ain’t mine.” Truth be told, her brother had taken that prank in stride. Even if he’d fallen for it, he’d taken it and owned it.
“Tell you what. Find a dress that I look good in, and I’ll letcha wear a suit instead. Maybe find you a pretty girl to dance with.” She wiggles her eyebrows at him. Mean as she is, she’s more than willing to wing-woman him.
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“tch,” qrow rolls his eyes, rolling his good humor back around, too. if Raven didn’t push too far, she wouldn’t be the sister he knows so well, but he’s at least glad he won’t have to sit in that hole he dug himself any deeper - he’d own that hole too, if he had to.
is it sad he’s far more excited that Raven’s willing to get dressed up and be part of his life again in a whole new school context than any possible stranger she might find for his arm?
and Tai would probably be there… though, this is all hypothetical, huh?
“jus’so ya know,” he grins back, equally as sly, “they do have a minimum length.”
#corvidisms#* it's all an adventure that comes with a breathtaking view / walking the tightrope with you = branwen twins *#* i don't really know = timeline undetermined *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#this was such a good time
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@aestasrosis from ***
❝ i’m not really the advice type, but i am damn good at coming up with distractions to forget the bullshit for a while. ❞
even in her darkest moments , qrow managed to make summer laugh . “ thank you , ” she smiled , fidgeting with her hands . “ it’s just been hard — trying to reintroduce myself to living a normal life . ”
"yeah, well, speakin' a' distractions..." he's doing it to himself right now. this is one hell of an adjustment for him too. but Summer even being able to function came first.
"i could tell ya about a thousand wrong ways t'do it. you were there for half of 'em. remember?" he means when twin bandits had to accommodate to 'normal' life at beacon. not quite the same, but the best he can relate.
#aestasrosis#* we got work to do = ic *#* your favorite fairy tale = au *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *
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stay
qrow +(x?) Winter Schnee ( @eiiskonigin )
qrow’s entire essence screams at him how he’s already been spending too much time with Winter lately, yet the toes of oxford shoes halt just shy of the threshold to her room; his fingers pause, wrapping the doorframe.
He could leave, of course, and Winter would never speak of it again. Would pretend that any such weakness had never been shown, would act as though she was not trying to beg him to stay, to listen, to give her something that she couldn’t explain.
he looks back, and she can only meet his eyes for a moment before turning her own gaze away, down towards the floor. She doesn’t know what she wants from him, but what she does know is that she does not want to be alone.
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“shut up and stay. please.”
qrow’s breath catches in his lungs rather than expelling any more excuses about how much he should go, even if his entire essence screams at him how he’s already been spending too much time with Winter lately; the toes of oxford shoes halt just shy of the threshold to her room; his fingers pause, wrapping the doorframe. a crack splits it from the wall, stubborn metal peeling away from more stubborn metal just a little, and he’s unsure if Misfortune plays a role or just his grip.
he sighs, lighter than his own usual, yet heavier for the burden he accepts from Winter’s shoulders.
he looks back.
her voice cracked, too, the most pitiful please he’s heard in awhile, and it pinches at his protective heart. the sound of someone suffering something worse than what a little bit more of his presence might bring.
he can’t seem to break her free, but neither can she keep him with her in a cage forever.
not forever. …but for awhile?
he’ll never stop recklessly falling into traps, will he? they just change form.
‘least this one’s a pretty one.
his arm falls from its hold, and he has to activate aura to keep from slicing his skin on that new crevice. qrow’s body turns in confidence once more to Winter, and he approaches; points one of those calloused fingers over his lips, making a sarcastic shushing motion with a yes ma’am look in his eyes.
no more words then.
“…”
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She despises the sound of her own voice, that soft, pleading tone that she had given up on trying to conceal, and for a moment she thinks that all of it was for naught. That even showing that much weakness was not enough, or perhaps altogether too much. She isn’t certain which it was, and she doesn’t dare try to ask.
Instead, she simply waits and watches.
From her spot seated across the room, she watches as he seems to be considering his choices. His options. He could leave, of course, and she would never speak of it again. Would pretend that any such weakness had never been shown, would act as though she was not trying to beg him to stay, to listen, to give her something that she couldn’t explain.
When he looks back, she can only meet his eyes for a moment before turning her own gaze away, down towards the floor. She doesn’t know what she wants from him, but what she does know is that she does not want to be alone. It’s the sound of his approach that has Winter looking back to him, watching in absolute silence as he draws closer once again.
His hand moves, slowly, to draw a finger to his lips.
It bothers her, and yet once again, she cannot say why. So she doesn’t try – finds a strange comfort in her own silence, and instead reaches up to catch his wrist with her ungloved hand. His skin feels warm against her own, and she brings his hand down to her level, cradling his hand in her own before drawing his knuckles to her lips.
Her voice betrays her, wavering and soft as it is, and her nails dig slightly into the skin of his wrist. Finally, through that tightness in her throat, she manages, “…just… stay.”
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qrow has never particularly agreed with the world’s definition of strong and weak. a strong love of one’s self builds walls of safety, and strong, patient, unassuming love breaks them down. none of it has anything to do with weakness, even when it feels that way. vulnerability is not the same.
maybe qrow has always lived a little outside of the box, a little backwards. he only feels weak in his knees in the way Winter snatches and digs at his wrist with the strength to assert what she wants; in the weak gasp of breath he tries to catch as her lips press soft and certain to blood-stained, hardened callouses in a strikingly sudden, intimate acceptance, and it sends a strong jolt all the way up his arm to short circuits and reset his thoughts about this whole situation.
Winter’s touch nor her kisses have any cold about them, in the ways qrow might have imagined, yet a chill sneaks down his spine for entirely different reasons. weakness hides in the way he still wants to run from this closeness, to stay a sword’s length away, to act in complete hypocrisy to the togetherness he preaches. strength musters in the way the shattered woman finds words to put herself together and speak at all through this heavy, deciding moment between them, in the determination to foster a bond instead of break it.
Winter. is not. weak.
qrow’s broad shoulders uncoil from his frame, red eyes scan over her, all too knowingly, and his expression droops in an understanding he wish he didn’t have for the level of loneliness washing over Winter’s features; his fingers wilt above where she plants her own in the dirt on his flesh.
“alright…” his other hand comes up to cover the tight clamp there with his palm, calming; he has, he thinks, done enough riling her up by now.
somehow, in the tiring game of trying to get her to honestly unload, it never occurred to him that he might be the one she’d come to when the time came.
qrow breathes against the stubborn beating of a protective heart, and against deeper desires he still tries to ignore with a woman looking at him like that. he has never, and could never, turn down someone hurting and lost.
“i’m here,” he assures with the gruff voice of experience. Winter may not know exactly what she needs, but sometimes company completes the first step.
his hold tightens, “i’ve got you.”
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She couldn’t say what had compelled her to do such a foolish thing, to beg him to stay– less with words and more so with motions. Her gaze falls resolutely downward, not daring a glimpse upward to see however he looks back at her. Afraid, utterly afraid of what she might see there.
Winter has shown such weakness in the past, to people who were far less deserving of seeing it. Each and every time, it came back to haunt her. Qrow may have pushed her to show it, but now that it was there… Now that she was so small, and those sharp edges were showing, that fear had returned. That it would once again be too much. That she was still too broken to be around.
She doesn’t know if she can take another rejection of her self.
Her nails are digging into his wrist, tighter than she meant to, and his touch seems to draw her attention to it. Her hold relaxes, but doesn’t release him: clinging to his arm as if it was going to keep her grounded. She needs to let go. That thought is clear in her muddled mind, but she cannot bring herself to do so.
I’ve got you. Her eyes shut tightly, her grip tightening just as much under his hand. Her subconscious need to hold herself together remaining for a moment longer before she exhales, shaking, and her hold falls away.
There is nothing she wants to say and everything she needs to. In the end, her silence wins again, no sound leaving her save for the shuddered breaths she is forcing herself to take. The familiar urge to scream is at the back of her throat, held back by the tightness that refuses to even allow a whisper. Gods, she can’t even bring herself to cry.
She needs to stop doing this to him.
It isn’t fair: the comfort she finds in him these days is not fair, given that she can’t offer him the same. That she should find some sort of solace in his warmth, but only ever returns it with more of her own ice and closed nature…
He should go. She should have let him go.
“I–” She finally manages to choke out, in a voice unfamiliar to her these days, “–I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…”
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qrow is the last person to reject anyone with a kindred kind heart. this woman cannot scare him, cannot push him any further away than he already distances himself. her titles don’t impress him, any image of herself, meaningless. all these things which she clings to he hopes will fall away.
and yet in the bite of sharp nails, he can feel how she thinks. jagged pieces of that brokenness seek out his sinew like some sort of glue. or mortar. or even just a softer edge.
qrow knows. he knows the depth of that silence, the shadows within a head, the scream within a heart that cinches before it reaches lips, the body twitching to pinch it back, because the outside world could never accept anything but strength.
it’s wrong.
gods, all of atlas needs to learn the damn lesson. Winter still looks up to her superior, follows his lead. but no man can carry the whole world on their back, alone. nor woman.
everyone that tries, somehow, finds themselves in his arms, one way or another. togetherness. it’s what these kids have that the rest of them seem to have forgotten, especially with Oz gone.
it doesn’t have to be so hard, the way they keep reaching out tentatively for shards of compassion.
this is what they’re supposed to do.
anything to keep from being divided.
qrow doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. doesn’t judge. refuses to show the overflow of someone else’s distress unsettling his chest. not until Winter’s own processing and words fail her.
life isn’t fair, and that’s exponentially true for him.
qrow makes the best of the hand he’s been dealt, tries to be of more benefit than loss to those around him. so just as Winter finally convinces herself she’s strong enough to let go, he takes her by the shoulders, lets his palms slide reassuringly down her arms, and then pulls her in against his sternum for a firm, yet escapable hug.
she can take all the comfort she wants from his embrace, can forge herself in it, or hide in it, or fall apart in it. were she any less icy, she wouldn’t need that warmth, and especially after all he’s been through lately, it’s kind of nice to be needed. to still feel like there are some tasks left which he has the capability to accomplish.
he once faced her with an exaggerated, staggering sway, but now, doesn’t mind staying steady for her, just like so many others. he has traveled nearly every corner of Remnant, met many of its people, and faced many of its dangers; he has weathered far greater storms than Winter.
“…hey,” he grouses in gruff tones, “y’ asked me t’stay. too late for take-backsies.”
she should have let him go.
and if she had any idea of at least half the ways he’s picturing how to give her what she needs… she might have.
#* if you break the glass then i'll help you fly = eiiskonigin *#* we are products of our past but we don't have to be prisoners of it = snowbird *#* we got work to do = ic *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *
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bust your windows
qrow + Winter Schnee ( @eiiskonigin )
As happened every year, Jacques Schnee felt the need to declare how important he was to the world by holding his annual solstice party, and, as she did every year, Winter made her obligatory appearance. It was beautiful, and perhaps that only serves to add to her feeling uniquely out of place – despite that she fits the mold well, wearing white satin and jewelry that sits a little to heavily upon her throat and wrist.
Brothers, she wants a drink.
Winter’s problem arrived in the form of the one person she didn’t wish to see. She wove in and out of the ballroom to try and make her way to the other side without being spotted, without being stopped.
qrow could think of about five hundred places he’d rather celebrate the solstice, filled with about five hundred more fanciful colors than the sparkling, sterile halls of Schnee manor, but he couldn’t miss out on the chance to do some snooping all in one spot. he meanders through the crowd, absolutely irreverent in opposition to Winter’s perfectly crafted demeanor, and smelling just like that tall, strong drink she equally craves as detests.
A familiar figure to Winter’s left, and without thinking, she reaches out, using their frame to briefly hide behind... wine red eyes blink back stupidly as acknowledgment sinks in between the pair, and qrow sets himself up in the tango frame Winter pulls him into.
“Qrow–” She’s breathless still, and she shakes her head slightly, glancing behind him before clearing her throat, “D-Dance with me. Please.”
qrow speaks low, the bite of banter only digs to create a safe space that she could use to air any worries, “…t’what do i owe th’honor?”
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As happened every year, Jacques Schnee felt the need to declare how important he was to the world by holding his annual solstice party. While the people below Atlas struggled to simply stay warm, he would be up there in the clouds, rubbing elbows with the other elitist snobs.
And, as she did every year, Winter made her obligatory appearance.
It was the one event she never seemed to miss, try as she might to have an excuse to year after year. The one time of year when one could spot a glimpse into what things may have looked like, had they played out differently. Every year, she showed up simply for her mother and her siblings. And as time went on, just for her siblings, then just Weiss, and now… Now she isn’t entirely certain why she is there.
The elegance of the Schnee ballroom is monochromatic, moving in shifting tones of whites, silvers, and blues. Crystals and jewels sparkle, caught and refracting in the soft lighting like freshly fallen snow. It was beautiful, and perhaps that only serves to add to her feeling uniquely out of place – despite that she fits the mold well, wearing white satin and jewelry that sits a little too heavily upon her throat and wrist.
Brothers, she wants a drink.
A simple gaze across the room to her mother quickly quenches that feeling, and a low breath escapes as she descends the stairs into the ballroom, trying to force a smile into place. It doesn’t feel convincing, but considering how many masks she can see worn on those around her, she doubts if anyone thinks anything of her own.
It will be quick, like ripping off a band-aid: make her appearance, be seen by those few influentials who she wishes to stay in the good graces of ( the members of the council, of course, and the general should he choose to make an appearance, ) a dance with Weiss should she be there, and then leave before anyone could start whispering about her while she was still present.
The problem with her plan arrived in the form of the one person she didn’t wish to see – and it was that arrival that had Winter panicked ( a rare sight ), and weaving in and out of the ballroom to try and make her way to the other side without being spotted, without being stopped.
A familiar figure to her left, and without thinking, she reaches out – grabs hold of their hand and tugs them along with her to the side, using their frame to briefly hide behind. It takes a moment of catching her breath before clarity returns to Winter’s mind, and she blinks up at the person she had pulled along with her.
Fuck.
“Qrow–” She’s breathless still, and she shakes her head slightly, glancing behind him before clearing her throat, “D-Dance with me. Please.”
The plea in her voice is evident, and she just hopes that for once he won’t tease her for an elaboration. The story is not one she takes pride in sharing.
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it wasn’t as if Jacques’ message wasn’t loud and clear all over Remnant, all within the prosper and the decay, and with Schnee dust logos plastered over both. qrow could think of about five hundred places he’d rather celebrate the solstice, filled with about five hundred more fanciful colors than in the sparkling, sterile halls of Schnee manor, but when he’d been invited by some marketing so-and-so who thought an elite huntsman equaled business opportunity for some more dust, or sponsorship, or PR, or… something… frankly, he tuned out a third way through the spiel, but anyway, he couldn’t miss out on the chance to do some snooping all in one spot. especially, with Ironwood acting so out of sync as of late, and Winter with one less sibling around.
a turn around the ballroom could reveal almost as much as a round in the sparring ring.
(and if he’s honest with himself, he might not mind, for once, if Misfortune felt like busting up some windows or crashing a chandelier or turning the ankle within a shoe all-too-ready to step on their fellow man or faunus.)
qrow meanders through the crowd, absolutely irreverent in opposition to Winter’s perfectly crafted demeanor, and smelling just like that tall, strong drink she equally craves as detests - dressed in his typical scuffed up monk boots and an untailored tux swiped from the butler’s closet; dress shirt not even buttoned all the way up, and with the black bow draped loosely around his neck rather than tied. he had little tolerance for feeling tied up or choked.
likewise, he has half a mind to pop that pretty diamond choker fastened around Winter’s neck right off; free her and sell it for a pretty penny.
yeah, he was staring. can you blame a man of the shadows for being drawn in by the light, especially when it comes wrapped in a skin tight skirt around the hips? darker thoughts assume it’s his gaze that sent her disappearing into the crowd. that icy shock of fear sits about right for most when they notice he’s near. he turns away with a rough, wistful sigh only to feel warmth around his wrist, and a forceful tug of his feet towards the dance floor.
wine red eyes blink back stupidly as acknowledgment sinks in between the pair, and qrow sets himself up in the tango frame Winter pulls him into, one palm resting on the small of her back, the other lifting her hand to shoulder height, and elbows squaring into steady stance; he guided their silhouettes to align, sheltering her, as requested. weak, as always, to a woman in need.
“a dance with the Ice Queen, eh?” whiskey breath huffs between crisp head turns and the start of a one-step. though he looks nothing of the part, he yet moves with the same precise, elegant steps and long-legged turns he’d enact on the battlefield with Harbinger instead of Winter, to the beat of the music instead of the clash of blows. both lady partners he can easily lead and lift in smooth, skilled rhythm.
qrow speaks low, the bite of banter only digs to create a safe space that she could use to air any worries, in whatever depth or code she likes; he pries with intent of protection, “…t’what do i owe th’honor?”
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Her heart is racing a little too quickly to think better of this, to consider the thought that he owes her nothing – to think that he would be well within his rights to walk away from her that very instant, and she would hardly blame him if he did. He owed her nothing. He accepts her hand nonetheless, draws her into position as if it took no thought at all.
She can forgive that dreaded nickname this time.
“Protection,” comes her response, falling a little too easily as she follows his lead with a practiced ease. For a breath, she is almost surprised by how well he found the rhythm, and she finds herself wondering just how often he finds himself dancing, to find it so natural. “…I saw someone I would… really rather never speak to again, and he’s less likely to approach if I am with someone.”
It had been chance that she had found him, a sliver of good luck – although she was loathe to admit it. Still, she confesses, and after only a moment of setting her jaw in irritation, “…and of all the people in this ballroom right now, you are the only one I trust.”
Their trust was one borne of proximity and little else, but it was there. She trusted that Qrow would not leave her to the wolves, certainly not this particular wolf. Qrow had fangs of his own, and was just as capable of tearing her to shreds, but she found that she didn’t need to fear him the way she did these Atlesian elite.
She could only hope that wouldn’t turn out to be a mistake.
Quick to change the subject, Winter meets Qrow’s gaze again – head tilting slightly for only a moment before turning her attention outward again, “I wasn’t even aware that you could dance. I’m actually impressed.” No, of course, she needed to get at least one taunt in amidst all of this. It was too strange, otherwise.
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Protection.
never have qrow’s hackles raised so quickly as in response to that one word from Winter in a worried tone, verbalizing his suspicions.
it takes more than a little to shake up this woman (else he wouldn’t take such pride in managing it himself). his grip tightens and skeptical eyes squint. he can use the aloof expression and head snap turns which go along with this dance as advantage to continue scanning the room.
he wonders if the universe laughs at it’s own joke - how he always seems to show up right on time, with Misfortune to mess something up.
not yet, at least, his steps stay sure and his mind stays sharp.
(as do those fangs).
Winter must be hard pressed for it to fall to him as first in line for trust, and yet not misplaced. his bullying tags her on the playground for mutual amusement, challenge, attention. the others in this room would shove her flat on her face only to step on her back. they are not in the schoolyard now. he would not betray the chance to do good by her. no, his hand remains firmly and respectfully placed at the small of it, supporting her.
he winks when their gazes meet, “i’ll take that as a compliment.”
he sets her out for a spin, showy in his own form and in a way that sets her skirt floating out, before drawing her back in, “believe’t or not, atlas’sn’t th’only school t’require ballroom. took some extra lessons with Oz.”
he doesn’t hate to admit the man had been right about how easily the patterns, anticipation, and body positions fit into fighting, how much qrow used them.
his next move dips Winter, his hand on the outside of her thigh, low, holding her knee in position only, he grins down at her, “learnin’ some discipline did me good.”
he can already hear her scoffing. hey, if he’s this way now, just imagine how he was before. besides, a little recklessness might come in handy by the end of the night if this guy does try anything…
#* if you break the glass then i'll help you fly = eiiskonigin *#* get my gray hairs from you = qrow + winter *#* we got work to do = ic *#* i gave you my life = past *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#this little snippet was just everything i could have ever wanteeeeeeeeed
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costumes
qrow + Summer Rose ( @scatterose )
“i don’t like the look of this.”
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“Oh come on, Qrow! Tomorrow’s Halloween! I got us team matching costumes!”
“Here’s yours! You’re the scarecrow and I’ll be be the farm girl with the ruby slippers. You think Raven would wear these lion ears?”
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yep. yep. that was the look of Summer Rose with a team building exercise.
although, as she reveals what she’d been hiding behind her back, he’s gotta say, it isn’t the worst thing he anticipated.
Halloween.
oddly enough, not something the tribe celebrated, but they had close approximations for the season - fancy dress and nightfall rituals. nothing with the - what was the phrase - pop culture costumes like this.
he’s actually kind of excited. treats, bonfires, and dressing up like fankids of certain things?? count him in! nerd. (although, he really wanted to be a reaper man. guess that didn’t fit into a team theme as much. he can’t say he minds that thought either.)
long fingers accept the patched up burlap thing Summer hoists at him, and he twists it around a few times, huffing in spite of both of them. scare-qrow. har har.
it did feel very harvest festival, though. familiar. appropriate.
the scarecrow with a scythe out in the field protecting the farmgirl.
“yeah, alright,” he grins and drapes the garment over the edge of his bed, “not the biggest fan’a th’t hat though.”
Summer holds up the ears next. cute. he tries to picture it. he scrunches his lips into a tilt, thinking they might get buried in Raven’s mane of hair, “mebbe. probl’y look better on Tai, though, dontcha think?”
he barges in next to her, complete disregard for personal space, rummaging around now. “wha’s th’ fourth one?”
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Woah! Woah! Woah! He’s way to close!
Summer’s face warms from the sudden intrusion of her personal space and she leans away from him, trying not to draw attention to her obvious discomfort. Qrow towers in size over someone like Summer and has no idea how intimidating his height can be. In fact, Raven and Qrow can be quite odd sometimes, both lacking in social cues and social interactions. Summer and Tai have begun to notice.
It can get confusing with the twins. They don’t like anyone to touch them. but they sure do invade Summer’s and Tai’s personal space a lot, not knowing that intimacy can be embarrassing. Perhaps, it’s a sign of trust? Nobody gets this close without an arm being twisted.
“Ah! Maybe you’re right! The yellow lion ears should go to Tai!” Summer moves away to look through another party bag. For now, she lets it go and moves on with other costumes she bought.
“I have a witch’s hat! I think the wicked witch might suit Raven better, don’t you think?” Summer giggles as she shows the hat to Qrow. “Oh! I even have dog ears! Do you want to be my Toto instead?”
Summer takes out the grey dog ears and fake tail.
“Here, put them on! Let’s see!” Summer laughs.
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(a sign of trust, indeed. qrow would not show his back to just anyone around here. especially not without Raven in the room to protect it. he must believe, even if subconsciously, that Summer would too. and maybe that’s why his arm remains untwisted. he appreciates it, unknowingly.)
qrow’s guard drops enough in this moment to let Summer’s excitement continue to infect him. he snickers, deep and genuine, “y’know i was about t’say she’d make a better wicked witch.” but he didn’t know if that was part of the set, “she’s always liked stuff with skirts, too.” freedom of movement if she’d have to fight. hadn’t Summer also said something like that at some point? after having worn one he kinda gets it.
Toto - some sort of canine apparently? qrow doesn’t like the sound of as much. he can already hear the command in her voice, ah, and there it is, sounded as she stuffs the next set of accessories in his direction.
still, this all remains in the dorm, not like he’s agreeing to wear the things out in public. her laughter continues to bleed into his own lightening voice.
“alright, alright…” he settles the ears onto his head with a ruffle of his hair, and the tail at the end of his spine with a shake of his hips. he found himself wishing that if he had to have a tail, that it were longer than this little wiry stub. he doesn’t dare voice that to Summer, or that’s probably exactly what he’d be getting for the winter holidays.
(curious, too, for him to consider a future with someone still around and still caring enough to get him gifts).
qrow stands ready for Summer’s appraisal with his arms out.
“i can’t b’lieve this,” he mutters. he’s still laughing.
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Honestly, Summer didn’t think Qrow would take a liking to the dog ears and tail and to her surprise, he puts them on without complaint and Summer’s mouth drops open.
“Oh my Brothers!” Summer gushes and she covers her mouth with her hands.
“You look so cute, Qrow!”
The black ears blend almost naturally into his dark hair and Summer laughs bubbly, not at him, never at him, but she laughs joyously at how Qrow is finally opening up and behaving more friendly.
“Here, hold your hands up like this so it looks like little paws! Awwwwwwww!”
Summer laughs out as she holds her stomach, almost wheezing and running out of breath.
“We should change your name to canine, but spell it with a K!”
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he sees it this time. cute she calls him. but not as cute as Summer with blooming cheeks and a laugh like she hasn’t seen and done the things qrow has at late 17. someone calling him cute in the tribe would surely be condescending, but he doesn’t get that from her. she’s just happy.
he doesn’t think about it too hard. only continues to chuckle warmly and let her guide him, paw-hands and all. he’s already wearing a ridiculous costume. might as well go full rag-doll.
“pfft,” he laugh-scoffs. “but Kanine doesn’ sound cool.”
scare-qrow he can run with, but qrow’s not a dog. so says his brain, even with ears covering it.
he gives her one last good look once she recovers from her giggle fit, but he fully plans on changing back into the scarecrow if anything at all.
those laughing eyes suddenly become sharp, “this doesn’t leave th’room y’know.”
#* her round wiles fluff his rigid edges = scatterose *#* her sentences were icebergs / the tip from her mouth / the rest kept in her head = qrow + summer *#* we got work to do = ic *#* i gave you my life = past *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#in which ray and kay live their best lives#nothing to see here ( ´ 艸｀)
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concerns
qrow + James Ironwood ( @legendscried )
“i don’t like the look of this.”
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“Neither do I, if I’m honest. But it’s just more motivation to work quicker.” Before time runs out.
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he doesn’t like the feel of it either. or that look on James’ face.
but Solitas whipping winds were always harder to read, James’ actions lately even more so, and qrow’s senses aren’t exactly stellar while adjusting to less sleep and less BAC.
he shakes it off with a turn of his head and roll of his shoulders.
“you’ve got every huntsman and resource on th’ job already, James,” even at Mantle’s expense.
the grit in his voice grates through teeth, but its volume carries warning at a warm tone of assertive suggestion, “i don’t recommend any orders that steamroll right past their limits, if that’s what y’were thinkin’.”
not everyone is made to be like him.
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“I wouldn’t ask them to do something that I couldn’t do myself,” His attention turns away from his fellow Huntsman, eyes narrowing. James was more than aware that this argument may come sooner rather than later, but it was something that would just have to be dealt with patience.
A slow breath out and he starts moving forward, hands neatly folded behind his back, but Due Process in its hilt. It may see use today, it may not. “I know this concerns you because it involves Ms. Rose and Ms. Xiao Long– and in all honesty, it concerns me as well – but this is a necessary course of action.” One that he wishes could’ve been avoided in the first place, but wishes rarely came true.
“Trust that they can handle themselves just as we can. I know it’s been some time since we’ve worked as a team, but I don’t think in the end that our efforts will be futile. Once we’re finished with our work, we can go help them with theirs if they absolutely need it.” A pause and a glance back. “Or perhaps it’s me that you lack trust in. If that’s the case, I understand. My actions as of late have most likely been questionable to the lot of you, but believe me when I say that there is a method to it. I can and will get us through this one way or another.”
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“I wouldn’t ask them to do something that I couldn’t do myself.”
that’s exactly what qrow’s afraid of, and James can’t even look him in the eyes while saying it. he’s not interested in dispute. he doesn’t care how qrow or anyone else feels about it. he might as well be talking to the televised version of the man on a Mantle screen. this has been Ironwood’s state of survival for awhile now, hasn’t it? qrow’s not really looking for a real argument either, not right now anyway. he needs to focus on recovery.
(strange, how hardly more than a year ago he’d readily provoke a fight, readily rub on nerves just for fun. what he’s been through has changed him, with his willingness to actually hear people out. he’s starting to see and feel it now. James should try it. but the time and the feeling has also made him so, so tired.)
so he just frowns and lets his shoulders sag in disappointment, the world weighing much heavier on his body than the other’s pristine, professional posture. add on ember eyes glaring daggers into James’ back at the mention of his nieces. and yeah, maybe only because that hit way too close home, rings all too true in the cold winds, but qrow’s worried about everyone. no need to make this personal.
“we’re not a team.”
well, there his quick tongue goes betraying him anyway, the words lack any real bite, but they’re true, to him. qrow’s not had a team for a long, long time, and allies weren’t the same.
finally, he gets to the heart of the matter, lands on the true concern of him. finally, he looks back, of course when he’s talking about himself, right back to repeating himself in hero’s speech as if he were trying to sway the public and not standing here with a friend. at least that piercing, determined gaze has the presumed intended effect of reassurance.
“yeah, well,” qrow, in a way, follows on the prior statement, “trust is hard t’come by these days. things’re pretty shaken up. it messes with people.” he speaks in cautionary tones which don’t accuse James but don’t exclude him either, and excludes himself least of all. his head and his stomach and his heart hurt so bad in messy example that he can hardly find words, let alone the right ones.
Glynda was so much better at these talks.
So was Oz, but, well…
he moves forward. not enough to touch, not quite enough to reach out, but close enough that James could feel the warmth of qrow’s presence. “we made it here. we’re with you, James, but we’re not your soldiers. what i’m sayin’ is…”
he scoffs, stumbles, fists and un-fists his fingers in his pockets, not entirely sure of his point himself, and most decidedly not at his peak enough to deal with Ironwood’s stubbornness. but he’s been practicing introspection more lately. he gets there.
“…we should be working together. not just followin’ orders,” maybe then it would feel like more of a team, “if we can do that, maybe there’s a way to, y’know, ‘work smarter, not harder’ …or faster. these kids’re aren’t just able to handle themselves, they’re pretty darn creative if y’give ‘em a chance.”
#legendscried ** james#* we got work to do = ic *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *
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don’t. do it.
qrow + Liadan Schmall (OC) ( @the-gray-maiden )
“Dating seems complicated.”
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“that’s an understatement.”
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“Is there a way to make it easier? Any advice?”
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“uh, yeah. don’t do it.”
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“I mean I’m pretty sure, I’m already not?” She sighed. “I guess so fair.”
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oh. oh, now she sounds lonely. geez. maybe that wasn’t the right answer.
qrow sighs. “look, from what i hear and’ve seen, when it’s right, it’s not suppose’ta be that hard,” he scratches the back of his head, “…so when it’s not… that’s how people know?”
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“Well, it being hard is just context, I guess.” She answered. “I’ve just never had a chance to experience it either way.” She admitted. “I knew one couple who would die for each other, but also were the most likely to throw a fist at one another…” Granted that was back in her Beacon days but still. She knew that Dylwyn and Marron, were not the best examples. “Maybe I should just start with getting better with people first.” She joked.
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“yeah, i got nothin’ but bad apples for ya.” no good relationships he knew of that were both happy and lasting.
“nothin’ but a bad example t’provide either, but hey. if y’wanna keep practicin’ your people skills, learnin’ t’tolerate someone like me for more’n an hour’s prob’ly a master class.”
qrow laughs in spite of himself and takes a long pull from his flask.
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“I think I do more then tolerate you at the moment Qrow.” She offered. “You are one of the few people I’ve run into more then once in a blue moon. It is nice to see a friendly face or a recognizable one at least.” She offered.
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that’s right, she wanders, too.
a softness to Liadan’s voice, her gaze, makes qrow glance up from his flask; he wants to see it, feel that warmth she offers with kind words, though he doesn’t deserve it and definitely shouldn’t encourage it. that tiny spark is all he allows himself before retreating again, “hah. a poor decision, really.”
this already treads awfully dangerous territory, so of course, he makes it worse, “but frankly, i could say th’ same. not too many others that can keep up with all th’ continent hopping.”
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“Well, my whole life has been poor decisions whats one more.” She joked. She could feel that he was trying to pull away. She knew what habit well. She would straight up just keep to herself. This dumb bird man had brought her some smiles a few times. His bird antics still make her giggle still. A warm thought on a cold day.
“Yeah, the mobile life style does tend to have a bad habit of fraying connections. Though calling every once in a while does help…” Not that she would know.
#the gray maiden#* we got work to do = ic *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#* i gave you my life = past *
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growing up
qrow + Ruby ( @rosecutt )
Fear. Ruby hurt Qrow. Put him in a place she tried so much to keep him out. So now? Now she knows he’s home, she gets up, and as fast as a heavy cape can take her, she petals her way through the door to stumble to her room.
silver gaze widens, caught in the throes of pain, in the throes of planning, flickering and shimmering right along with the rain as they trace his face and calculate and try to read the situation. fight or flight written all across Ruby’s body language and then… there she goes.
qrow’s expression changes from curious scrutiny to glossed-over resignation with a roll of red eyes. kids.
emotions.
ugh.
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"I think I'm too old for the comfort-cape thing now. Gotta grow up someday, right?"
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“…if that’s how y'feel about it, kiddo.”
oh? is that the sound of his heart snapping in two, or just a twig from a grimm attack that must be on its way to them, …or both?
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“W-wait! I lied, I’m baby! I’m babie!! Take me back, please!!” Oh dust, why that face?!
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too late, can’t hear you, already at the bar.
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She’s just waiting from the window. In the rain, that shows no mercy. This is it. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.. life is hopeless..
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
qrow comes back. of course he comes back. this is as close to home as he has, and even with slow, stuttering steps in the pouring rain, and too late at night, he can find his way to the front door.
and still see a soaking mop of red in the corner of trained eyes.
“Ruby?” he rasps, “wh’t’re ya doin’ ou’ here, huh?”
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She was a terrible person. Not only had she made the mistake of saying something so…disheartening, but it had managed to hurt his feelings so much he’d fled to the bar. And this time, it was very much her fault. She’d left him to his devices, but her heart wouldn’t rest till she knew he’d come back and upon the moment he did had she realised that, no, she did not think this far. What was she supposed to say? To tell him? Her name on his tongue caused her to flinch, mouth opening to speak but nothing came out.
Fear. She hurt him. Put him in a place she tried so much to keep him out. So now? Now she knows he’s home, she gets up, and as fast as a heavy cape can take her, she petals her way through the door to stumble to her room. Off came the cape, dry in the corner by itself. And she? Well, she sat plopped herself right into a corner, tucking her knees into her chest and hiding her face into them; hugging herself to a ball.
This is punishment. Time out for her bad, bad actions. How dramatic.
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silver gaze widens, caught in the throes of pain, in the throes of planning, flickering and shimmering right along with the rain as they trace his face and calculate and try to read the situation. fight or flight written all across Ruby’s body language and then… there she goes.
qrow’s expression changes from curious scrutiny to glossed-over resignation with a roll of red eyes. kids.
emotions.
ugh.
he grunts to get a dragging body moving again, and sways on his feet. had Ruby hurt him? enough to be worried like this? he hadn’t been thinking about it, feeling about it, any longer. enough alcohol in his system to stack whatever had happened as simply one of many - and more to come - on top of the never-ending pile of unfortunate events in his life.
(she may have insinuated she didn’t need him earlier, but she certainly needs him now.)
and he will be there, in body, at least. for Ruby is not grown up just yet, and he has apparently taught her too well to sneak past her father. so he takes his hands from his pockets and uses them to steady his steps through the door and the halls. he had his escape for awhile, but now rather than stumbling home to pass out and face another day, he must be an adult first.
(he is the adult, and his choices are not her fault.)
qrow frowns to see his dear niece curled up like that, making herself small, willing herself to be separate from the entire world, including all she loves. he doesn’t even have to look around the room to understand it.
he’s been there. felt the same. done the same.
he is not sobered up, but a few moments of somber lucidity hit him harder than an incoming ursa paw.
while he may have grown up with the tribe wishing for him to sit there and rot in his own shame and guilt, he will not let Ruby be alone. he will be for her what he never had. whether she wants it or not.
qrow sits, and stretches out long legs next to his niece, and lightly lays an arm across her shoulders, “…you okay, kiddo?”
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This wasn’t at all like stupid movies or drama in comics and books. This was real, and it was him. Unfortunately for most of her childhood, she’d grown up knowing at a young age that his ways of comfort and solace was found at the bottom of an empty whiskey bottle, a soberism that allowed her to see adultism at it’s finest and even come to grow side by it.
There was never a want to be a reason he drank, or a want to know if she was. And if wasn’t, she would die the day she did. And thus, the day came hadn’t it? Attempting to push away someone she loved dearly to attempt maturity in growing up too quickly as if she hadn’t already grown up enough in the past year, ignoring all the moments she should’ve cried or enjoyed, rather than fear and bottling it. She faced it all with a brave face, and told herself that this is the life of a huntress, the life of a martyr is she needed else to become.
So the minute, the second he drank in the aftermath of her choice, it dawned on her she were no better than the people she’s trying to protect the world from. This was punishment, no Scroll, no comfort, no Cloak. Just to sit within a corner, tucked in and a steady breath to keep herself composed.
Ruby is a child, she’d always had been. At times even herself forgot she were still just a child, just a teenager with the world melted down on her shoulders and a endless life wishing for her to fix it.
It wasn’t till her Uncle, dear as all he is, put his arm across shoulders that the little, wilted rose flinched to the touch. It should be her, comforting him for the mistake she made, for her inconsideracy and for the fact she hurt him. So her ball of isolation only grew to embrace tighter to herself, attempting to make herself much, much smaller.
If it weren’t for his long, long mosquito legs, there would’ve been an attempt to escape the comfort, one she didn’t deserve when she were the cause of this problem. Only now had it come to realization that she were in timeout, and he was invading that policy. The one where for those in timeout are not to be given any form of interaction till the deeds had been full of regret and asked for forgiveness. But she deserved neither.
“You know, you’re breaking the rules of timeout.” If her own voice didn’t betray with the broken down tone, the stitched words trying to coherently come way, perhaps she could’ve made it out less obvious she put herself here. “I did a bad thing, you’re not supposed to talk to me.”
Still a child. Still, Ruby.
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rhetorical question. quite clear the girl was not okay. and qrow’s not at all surprised when she doesn’t answer, not really. deflects just like him, too.
had she learned more than fighting from him? observant, astute girl.
to push away even while preaching togetherness. to hide darkness in the shadows and be the best version of self only alone. to put the care of others before the facing of one’s own demons. to forgive everyone their faults and shoulder all personal blame with a vengeance.
mirrors.
these are the things qrow might notice reflected of himself in Ruby’s mirror eyes, if he’d ever look, if his sight ever cleared enough to see. but he is not ready and still too blind. brainless scarecrow, missing the field for the corn stalks.
but that’s okay. it means he can play the same games she does, and with even more experience.
“rules, pssshhh,”
qrow slurs and uses his free hand to flip his wrist in a gesture that shoos such a concept right away.
the smaller she makes herself, the more his hold tightens to fit, to pull her into his warmth. Ruby needs not ask forgiveness, for it is freely given already, unconditionally; she is family.
“y’talkin’ bad things? wooooo gods, have i got’sum stories f’r’you, then. jus’ add this’un to’em i guess.”
mirrors.
what is the bar but not his own self-imposed time out? cut away from all those he loves, including even the memory of them?
index finger boops the girl right on the nose, and speaks quietly, then, with as much solemnity as he can summon, “yer notta bad kid, Ruby. don’t do this t’ yourself.”
mirrors.
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Fingers dug into her own arm when he held much tighter against her smalling frame. The more he pulls in, the more he coops and cocoons her, makes her instincts cry to break out and cry, to hold onto him like a silly child who got lost in a park, to repeatedly apologize for everything she did wrong. But not yet, she can’t say so yet, he has to be sober, it has to be remembered.
How Tai didn’t hear Qrow stumbling through, she’ll guess about it when it’s important. And it wasn’t so much for his forgiveness she needed. She wanted it, but - She didn’t forgive herself. Sure, he’s an adult, he’s allowed to do these things - to bad things, but his bad things turned out for the better, and they never went away to drink in grief or in desire to not feel anymore.
Now she had to move her face away from him, pushing it into her damp sleeve and keeping herself from being exposed to his sight. She’d done this before, when she gotten upset all over again that he was leaving in the dark, in the scary, unforgiving woods that stole the things she loved most - when she’d bawled her eyes out and ran away to another room in claim he’d cease to return if he had left, and fortunate enough; he stayed for the bitter tears.
Not a bad kid.
Neither was she good. She’d made mistakes, she’d hurt people, even caused a death or two; and a cookie. She stole a cookie, just once. But still that comment made her hiccup vocally. “What would you know, about what I am. I said something mean to you that I didn’t really want, and you ended up – at the bottom a bottle,” her hands brushed up into her wet locks, fingers curling and clinging into them, “This is my fault, you’re like this because of me,”
That brave, loving voice could have never sounded so blue. Devoid of what love it’d been given with each growing step she took. It was empty, harsh and so, so hurt like she was trying to scold herself for the brittle reality that became of her Uncle and his unconditional ways of coping.
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qrow stays put. warm and constant, if not steady. he doesn’t try to pull her from her self implosion, lets her feel the full extent of her troubles in ways he never could with someone else near. his hand rubs her arm, his legs pull in closer to his own body in solidarity. he hums an old campfire ditty quietly in frayed intonation to fill the temporary silence, and to offer matching vibrations as Ruby shivers.
and then stops. everything he does halts in an accusatory moment.
she thinks she blames herself, but qrow feels the sting of those words just as fiercely.
he drinks to make himself feel better, not to make anyone else feel worse. his choices are still not her fault, and now she is like this because of him.
and that’s not a bitter reality he’s equipped nor ready to face.
his hand palm drops to flatten on the floor, but his arm stays supportive behind the small of the small girl’s back. saddened gaze drops to the floor and his bangs seem to hang lower over dull red eyes. a disappointed grunt grates from his tightened throat, burning on the way back up just like the booze burned on the way down.
“Ruby…” qrow doesn’t have much of a retort when he can’t bring himself to accept the premise, can’t verbalize anything about his own faults or feelings, especially not in a state of burying them beneath so much hundred proof.
so he repeats himself. turns to his niece once more and bends his brow stubbornly, and tries to muscle back in his own perspective with insistence and authority rather than acknowledge hers, “y’r a good. kid.”
#* she never seems to stop finding ways to imitate her heroes = rosecutt *#* i gave you my life = past *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#in which qrow and ruby are too much alike in all the worst ways#*chef kiss*
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grounded
qrow + Glynda ( @musedmess )
‘ You’re late and I don’t want to know why.
But you look terrible, so you owe me a
big excuse for..the mess. I’ll grab my first
aid kit. ’
“so sorry fer riskin’ m’neck out on th’ secret front lines, so y’can stay all crisp n’ cozy up here.”
qrow huffs when Glynda doesn’t take his belligerent bait, and moves to oblige the barest beckon of her hand - sitting (slouching) into the chair as if it were time out.
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‘ You’re late and I don’t want to know why.
But you look terrible, so you owe me a
big excuse for..the mess. I’ll grab my first
aid kit. ’
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“yeah, well,” qrow rasps as poppy eyes summon up spiteful energy to roll above split, bleeding lips which ooze a trail down to muddied clothes, almost dirty enough to cover up the permeating scent of alcohol with ichor and petrichor, “so sorry fer riskin’ m’neck out on th’ secret front lines, so y’can stay all crisp n’ cozy up here.”
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Neither had he needed to quip to her, as Glynda already knew
he’d likely snip or snap to her comment, yet no argument or a
self made snip of her own was returned. Just a simple blue box
opened and displayed next to him while her hand guided him to
sit, so that the witchlette had easier access.
‘ I didn’t undermine your ability or intention, Qrow,
simply asked you what happened, I’m not mad. ’
She would never be so. Not when tilting the small bottle of cleaning
alcohol onto the cotton stick, while her free hand to tilt his head to her
at her most very best gentler manner. Dabbing the cotton on his lip, a
small sigh left her own. It was no unusual occurrence that their birdly friend came back, battered and bruised; sometimes it even became a
routine. But truly nothing she couldn’t handle.
‘ So tell me, what happened, Hm? Show me where
else needs my attention, okay? And do not lick your
lips, it will taste vile. ’
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qrow huffs when she doesn’t take his belligerent bait, and moves to oblige the barest beckon of Glynda’s hand - sitting (slouching) into the chair as if it were time out.
not mad, just disappointed, he can hear in his head. he’s a disappointing person.
yet he shows up here, seeks out care from a comrade that’s more than he deserves; crosses into her path like a fussy black cat, begging her attention while acting indignant at receiving it, basking in warmth yet liable to bite the hand that reaches out, and run off again without warning.
he shuts his mouth and stretches his neck, bares his abrasions for a tender touch that promises to take care of him without scorn, to tolerate his current state at worst, offer kindness that kills him at best.
and he hisses as the astringent soaks his cuts.
he is not used to this, but has become so from Glynda; trusts her, after so many years fighting together under Ozpin, to deal with him in this delicate balance, to tend to him at his most vulnerable, especially with Misfortune broken for the briefest moment.
qrow is a mess of a man, but Glynda has proven very good at cleaning up messes.
glazed eyes yet glint with heat through liquid courage as he stares at her, blatantly ignoring the warning, running his tongue right along the part of his mouth - as a gremlin part of his brain wishes to show her a cocktail of methanol and body fluids is hardly the strongest poison he has ever ingested, and another gremlin part of his brain does so unwittingly at certain answers for where she could give him attention.
he grins and raises a brow, with slightly-less-bloodied but still swollen lips, and pops open the first button of his blazer…
fully revealing where the other half of a claw left a gash across his chest and collarbone just like his face.
“alpha beowolves,” he turns his head to narrow his eyes out the nearest window and answers with the same bitterness as the taste lingering on his tongue.
“ten of ‘em, Glyn. outta nowhere. th’ alphas’re makin’ their own packs with even bigger alphas these days. an’ lemme tell you, they weren’t th’ dumbest bunch that side’a forever fall, either,” he sighs, air deflating his chest to sink his wounds in even further, “… doesn’t bode well, does it?”
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It’s a given and very common answer he will never lose,
something others must bite tooth && nail to obtain, yet
here he sits, slouched before her retaining both her physical
care and much gentlest of voice and touch aside the man who
stands to protect her and the beings around him. His behaviour
was appreciated when he’d been a little more docile and quiet, so
having witnessed his sheer cheek in licking his lips when requested
not to, lips pursed in with a sharp inhale.
Brat.
Taking a much more slight of harsher approach, she softly squeezed his cheeks and curled her other fingers underneath his chin, reapplying the medicine to his lips. If he desired to use these lips in the future, he to better heed her advice and silent warning with her eyes that he should leave it to sit on his lip, not in his mouth.
Now to tuck away the used items on a cloth, rummaging through the kit as her semblance tucked over a stool for herself to sit between the longer legs of his own; glancing over toward the painfully stated wound against his shoulder and chest, even wincing for him in the sight. Poor Birdie, had it always occurred to her that Ozpin sent him off by himself to face the fear of every child’s nightmare, to fend for himself in places he sits in lonesome.
‘ I’ll inform the rotative squad on the Field, but
as of next time, you are to call it in. You are but
one person, Qrow. It takes more than one page
to fill a book. ’
In those words alone, she’d attempted to implement he could not be the only page in the book that Ozpin wished to write. To tuck herself between his own legs and pulled his own chair much closer, mindless of the obscurity of how it may look when leaning his legs over her waist. This was to give her easier access to the gored chest, taking out her box, to settle it in her lap.
‘ Lets see.. ’
Leaning, the witchlette pressed her fingers velvety against his reddened, wounded skin; eyes tracing over the torn flesh with a small, small nod. It seemed no deeper than a graze, and could heal over fine without stitch.
‘ You’re lucky, Birdie. You won’t be needing any
stitching this time, but you won’t be able to continue
your journey for a two week or three. You can stay
here with me. At least there I will know you’re safe. ’
Again with her gentle, she began to clean the wound with, soft paps
of the medicated alcoholic bud on his chest, using her shoulder in
a pitiful attempt to push her glasses corrective up on her nose, huffing
quietly in the unsuccessful try.
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qrow still grins, mischievous, too-drunk-to-hold back creature he is, as Glynda reclaims his face and he gets to feel even more of her touch, deeper, impassioned. …or so he tells himself. he enjoys seeing her emote, to watch the stoic exterior crack. whether in harshness or softness is fine with him, and this beautiful blend of both at the same time is even better.
imposing affection, it might be the only kind qrow branwen can manage to accept, and feathered hair fluffs up ever so slightly, ever so briefly, in off-guard chagrin.
“…yes ma’am,” he concedes to her second dose of medication and responds to the unspoken threat in emerald eyes, spreading the solution into an even coating just in forming the shape of the words.
as does his body follow suit in allowing her to shift his position and settle where she likes, assess what she must (as he reminds himself between soft stroking of his skin that assessment is all it is). it doesn’t hurt as much as it should, or maybe it’s more like the hurt seems like a fair trade for the rest of the experience.
though the commands Glynda does speak, he’s less inclined to follow.
qrow is more like a spilled ink bottle than a cleanly sorted page in anyone’s book. even if he wants to go down in history.
“there’s no time for callin’ in an ambush, Glyn. an’ i may’be only one person, but imma person who…” he hates this subject, hates admitting his weaknesses, “well, y’know i work alone fer’a reason in th’ firs’place.”
he’s not lucky.
he’s good.
skilled enough to dodge death and become its harbinger instead.
…and he has help.
help which needn’t strain herself so, in all her reaching and bending. his friends struggle more than they deserve in his and Misfortune’s presence already.
qrow sits up, only as much as required to have backing enough for his legs to support two weights, for the rest of him is fine, so he reaches for Glynda’s waist, silently drawing her closer onto his thigh, with a bold certainty and familiarity that nearly suggests she belongs there, and uses his other hand, and careful fingers, to slide her glasses back in place for her.
“three weeks?” he gruffs and lets out a sardonic laugh, immediately feeling the effect of his hubris when the effort makes his chest throb, and the bounce of it digs the last dab in more painfully. “i can’t be grounded f’that long. ‘sides y’underestimate my aura.”
he lets his head lull back, one arm remaining draped idly around Glynda while the other droops beside him. the shock starts wearing off and the weight of reality starts sinking in - that he’s definitely stuck for some amount of time to heal up to fully functional.
“three days, tops,” he counters.
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Eyes narrow once more, without needing to look the man
within his eye to know his reluctance nor his subjective spite
for being helped. Maybe Glynda should work in place to persuade
Ozpin to allow her to accompany Qrow in some of his many ventures, may do the birdly fiend much more than to die alone someday. So a sigh leaves her glossed lips as hands went to work with cleaning his wound without necessarily. She continued as focused as she could till the latter of movement was suddenly in motion.
She made pause in her nursing while he nudged her more into him,
this position were no familiar than how they sometimes tend to sit
or when practically in jest with one another. A round of rough housing && simple friendly insulting left them with many a lightened and laughter. So there were no fuss in his suggestion of temporary home, smiling gently in return to his assistance with his careful kindness to fix her glasses in place. A silent gratitude to him as now she continued her medicinal work for his wound.
Though she remained in silence, partly for the focus, but also to
listen to him grumble and for any bigger sign of pain; yet he
complains about her insisting for him to rest fully with a gruffly
laugh, causing himself only more pain when her last dip of dab
hurt him, having her hand pull away for a second while eyes peered
up to him with a raised eyebrow.
‘ I don’t underestimate your Aura at all, I
simply underestimate your ability and
sensibility to take care of yourself in this
condition, you can get sick, or it can get
infected, or split more. Then you’ll be
grounded for longer than just three weeks. ’
Again she split warning and advise into those words, not wanting
him to worsen his already worse condition with the silly antics he
can pull any second of the day, willingly or not. She applied sticky
pulls to his wound, to help the skin heal together better faster, then
applied a bigger bandaid over it to cover it up securely, fingers
pressing gently into his chest to ensure the stickness left no air bubble
for possible easy peeling.
Next she sighed, again, rolling her eyes to his instance for his work
to be more important than his health. One day he will die, alone
and that thought made her frown slightly, undressing his side to gain
better access to his chest. So the bandaging began, promptly to,
yet again, ensure safety.
‘ You’ll do as I say, Qrow. Three weeks,
is all I ask; not a month, just three weeks.
Then you’ll be able to fly as high as you
please. But you need to rest, and recover. ’
She paused momentarily, making her last loop with the bandaging,
closing her eyes to a halt. He was her goodest friend. She’d seen
many of those perish over many choices and silly things; but such
of, he had a choice. He could stay and recover, or run off into the
world and live a possibility of protecting nothing in the future.
‘ Please? ’
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
qrow shakes his head, feathered hair rustled along with. Glynda speaks as if he doesn’t know what consequences exist, as if he’s not plagued by every inconvenient possibility which his wound could go wrong every single time he gets one. his only hope of any of that not happening anyway, might be if he can get patched up before Misfortune returns to seep into tattered skin just like malicious bacteria would. grave situations follow him whether he takes care of himself or not.
but as he stares back out the window, projecting himself into cool winds and open space, (distracting himself from the sharp sting of cleanser and adhesive as well as the pleasant warmth of Glynda’s weight and comforting hands further pulling away his clothes…), he also thinks he shouldn’t be one to tempt fate on the subject either.
“Salem doesn’t stop,” he mutters in weak argument, to someone who he can actually speak freely with, who’d understand.
if only choices were so easy.
if only they gave him any control over the risks and odds at all.
Glynda insists it matters. and maybe it makes him feel a little bit like he does, too. makes him feel like a friend.
not very many would claim him as such.
in that pause, his fingers start idly moving overtop of her waist, subconsciously stroking in the same way he would a glass, busying themselves instead of grabbing at his flask.
he wishes he could take a drink, but til the medicine soaks into his lips, he can’t.
he feels her eyes boring into him, and turns just in time to see that face, and his would noticeably redden if it weren’t already flushed from whiskey.
‘ Please? ’
a proud, tender, beautiful woman, hand still on his flesh, over his heart, pleading so earnestly for the mere sake of keeping himself safe in this world, and, it seems, here with her. this all feels suddenly so different from that lighter banter and casual closeness. his heart races, just making more blood seep into those dressings. his breath catches and eyes widen, and
oh, fuck him sideways.
…which considering their positions is actually apt, and- ahem, he forces his brain to screech to a halt, and his hand to unclench where it balled up unwittingly around her skirt, for it seems he has more than one choice to make in the next few moments. what bridges he wants to burn and what lines he wants to cross.
she must know what she’s doing to him…? how is a man supposed to respond to that?
(not like he actually likes being alone.)
he wishes he could make promises, but it’s not his way;
he wishes he could pull her in and press his mouth to hers in pitiful replacement of them, but till the medicine soaks into his lips, he can’t.
“well… guess m’not gonna be able t’fly very well with my breast meat all opened up, huh?” he caves enough to admit a need for rest, but with no commitment to time.
qrow tries to brush off his fluster with an exasperated laugh, and then leans in, tightens his hold on her, and barely brushes his nose along stray wisps sprouted from Glynda’s bangs. coarsely frayed voice dips quiet and low, “but aw, c’mon, Glyn. …finally invtin’ me t’spend a night or few at your place, ‘cept i can’t even kiss you without ruinin’ yer hard work? ...what luck.”
gods, help him.
#* a firm hand and the freedom of choice = musedmess ** glynda *#* something pretty magical about it = otp ** right hand witch and left hand familiar *#* i gave you my life = past *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *
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choices
qrow x Glynda ( @musedmess )
[tw: alcohol]
His touch came never unwelcomed - cherishing even in the bubbly form of herself in each stroke && brush he caved to offer. Does Qrow hear himself?Clearly not. Clumsily so, Glynda’s hands raise to warmly cup his cheeks, squishing them lazily && puffing her cheeks.
‘ Out of the many choices you make, the
one you should try so most, is listening
to yourself, cause, then maybe you’d feel
a smidge better, Birdie. ’
his face accepts her hands, but the look upon it bends begrudgingly, brows knitting to the edge of tolerance. it helps that her own expression appears just as silly, just as childish.
but then, all at once, it burns. the burn in his throat, like regret, as inhibitions drop further and qrow cannot stop what rushes in him.
“don’ think y’d say that if y’knew th’ kindsa things i tell m’self.”
she wouldn’t say he’s special, nor to listen to the voices.
qrow doesn’t even address her words, isn’t equipped to, and isn’t even sure if he believes it.
she’s drunk, too, after all.
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Had few sips of bubbly, enough she clumsily toppled
over her own feet && a few chair / objects in her wake.
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“whoa, now,” qrow holds her steady, even if he wavers a bit in place himself. “don’t go makin’ friends with th’ floor just yet. trust me, he’s not a good bedfellow.”
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‘ But.. But he’s so.. cold. ’
A steady moment, her hands holding onto his clothing
while legs nearly threatened to give way to the temptations
the floor whispered to her.
‘ ooh.. Don’t tell me you’re
jealous of the floooor.. ’
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“wh’would i be jealous of th’ floor?” he snickers, moving hands from Glynda’s shoulders to her waist, giving her more central support and a frame for her arms.
“…by now y’should know tha’i consider windows an’ doors higher up in th’ world.”
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‘ Because I’ll be on it… and not.. ’
Lovely support, such of so she placed hands properly to
his shoulders rather than dig into his poor clothing, eyes
even now attempting to focus sheerly on his own gaze.
‘ Such.. pretty eyes.. ’
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“heh…”
it’s a compliment he’s heard several times before, and yet with the intent, concentrated attention of equally pretty green eyes honed in on him, and the dazed way Glynda says it while leaning into his body further, it still sets him a little light-headed.
his palms tilt back and forth at the wrist in small, steady strokes over sateen fabric at the crests of her hips, and it’s a shame, he’s just sober enough and she’s just drunk enough to keep the insinuations she makes - which align with the thoughts he has - feel unjustified. he’ll settle for this warmth of this little vertical dance they have going.
“yer a grown woman, Glyn. free t’make ‘er own choices. …but if th’ floor’s really whatcha want, i could, ah… drop ya off.”
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His touch came never unwelcomed - cherishing even in
the bubbly form of herself in each stroke && brush he
caved to offer. So many things she could speak of now
&& only later have time to regret, but so many things
suaved the idea. He, even if unfantomed by death itself
&& made will to dodge any closeness, if things to spill,
surely he’d fly away - Much like the rest of them.
No man held difference. && No woman either.
‘ Grown my ass, for over..
centuries, I have remained the
utterly shameful size I have
been… s’floor it is.. ’
The true lack of hesitation to slowly descend, letting
hands rake gently from shoulder - torso && delicate
around waist, thighs.. She dropped as elegantly as
one could to sit on the floor, a place she likely been
many a time.
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qrow is used to things, and people, spilling around him. he is made of feathered touches and born to fly away, yes, but has harbored secrets too heavy for most, the burden of which they share, which grounds him here with Glynda. one may be surprised by how little would surprise him these days.
…horrible and awesome magics and immortals? not so much.
…but Glynda Goodwitch grazing touches down his body while dropping to her knees on the floor, muttering - for all he can tell in an inebriated and enamored state - about the size of her ass? now that’s something he thought he’d never witness.
likewise, his hold loosens, as promised, in opposite pattern as she descends; calloused fingertips never quite let go, trailing the barest of tension to cause wrinkles in her top once they pass her corset, brushing through her hair once she’s made herself that low.
qrow’s breath catches, and the heart of a man pounds strong against birdcage ribs to hold her head like this, in this position. so much so, his other hand leaves to find his flask. he definitely needs another drink, distraction, at the very least. and while alcohol may make him more willing to act on less respectful impulses, it would also make him less able. and that… might be preferable tonight.
he finishes his swallow, and sinks to the floor himself, even level with her once more, lowly too, where he belongs.
“don’t think y’want my opinion on tha’ comment…” he huffs, still tucking strands behind Glynda’s ear, “no’ like anyone listen’s t’me anyway…”
hence… being on the floor in the end, after all.
at least it won’t be so cold, together.
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He too, comes to the lower descends of the floor -
joining her, in her most oddly given decision to stay
where she’d found unusual comfort, given the floor
were possibly more crude than falling over chairs &&
tripping over her shoes. Yet came an awaited, heavy
sigh. To think he believes not a soul listens to his word,
to his very loud voice - does he hear himself? Clearly
not. Clumsily so, her hands raise to warmly cup his
cheeks, squishing them lazily && puffing her cheeks.
‘ Out of the many thoughts you give,
I’ll have you know there are many who
listen to you. I know I do, cause, you’re
so special to me. ’
A single hand traverses away, awkwardly patting at the
clips, that held up her hair braviously && tightly, to tug
and pull them out, allowing them to scatter here and about
upon the floor. Loosening the bun that likely loosened
enough on their indulgement of bubbly this evening.
Though now, a much satisfied whimper, hair kept up so
long never fails to hurt && bring headaches from time
to time - But in a state like so, it felt like sheer heaven
gracing her, the moment those blondely locks fell loose.
‘ Out of the many choices you make, the
one you should try so most, is listening
to yourself, cause, then maybe you’d feel
a smidge better, Birdie. ’
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qrow can relate, honestly. often he finds himself on the ground, on the floor, somewhere solid that doesn’t so easily break. though cracks in wood and chips in flooring and snags in carpet and busted concrete still caught him too many times, at least it came with less of a fall, less of a fix than furniture falling apart.
his face accepts her hands, but the look upon it bends begrudgingly, brows knitting to the edge of tolerance. it helps that her own expression appears just as silly, just as childish.
but then, all at once, it burns.
the burn in his throat, like regret, as inhibitions drop further and qrow cannot stop what rushes in him. the burn behind his cheeks, reddening in his face at her declaration. the burn in his heart, because it never learned what to do with kindness - only coils it around his insides in the from of undeserving shame. the burn of bile in his stomach that tells him to run because this is suddenly getting far too involved, fighting with the fire burning quickly even further down his body which sears him right to the spot as Glynda literally loosens up, and silken champagne hair cascades over gentle shoulders with keening sounds.
he would almost swear she’s some sort of ephemeral goddess, were she not still touching him in profoundly solid ways, were those locks not falling over the back of his hand where it still rests.
when he can breathe, move again, his head drops as though he hadn’t even been worthy enough for the sight he’d just been graced with, drops because it hurts too much, drops because he can’t look her in the eye for any proper response. he can practically feel Misfortune waiting right at his heels to bite down for how good this feels right now.
he shakes his head, even as skilled fingers continue to comb, to ruffle Glynda’s hair into place in balanced layers on instinct.
“don’ think y’d say that if y’knew th’ kindsa things i tell m’self.”
she wouldn’t say he’s special, nor to listen to the voices.
run. you don’t deserve this. you don’t belong here. you’re going to mess it up. she’s too good for you. take your filthy hands away and don’t bring her down with you. stay and you’re only going to hurt her.
he scrunches his face even further, unable to hide the misery since he’s still trapped face to face in her grip, though he tries until the next wave of alcohol hits him and helps him forget.
nothing feels better, at best he just keeps himself from feeling worse.
qrow finally pulls away, breaks the connection of both their hands; he falls back into a lean on long arms propping up behind him, and glares towards the nearest wall. a more comfortable distance from her, and from his feelings. he doesn’t even address the first round of what she said, isn’t equipped to, and isn’t even sure if he believes it.
she’s drunk, too, after all.
his nails scratch against the floor as they ball into fists, “s’not tha’ easy. never is. no’ f’r me.”
he growls, already having screwed up. here he was, trying to take care of her, and now the tables turn, and he’s the messed up one in need of consoling.
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His solemn glance away, only made her words solidify.
In the less mattersome moments, even in such a
indulged state - her thoughts were still consuming in
matter of good strings && coherentness. Concern
stretches lazed features as he pulls away - hands
willing themselves to come away in sync, to allow him
the acknowledgement he refused to be touched for a
time being. If she could, - no, she should. But the distant words
of a friend of hers. A man who took so much care of her over
the years: They whisper the realness into the back of her head.
A strained look, slipping hands over her thighs as she propped
oneself up. A formal sitting if not how she’d usually sit upon
the floor.
‘ But I do. I.. know a lot. S’not the
best I can do..but I know a lot more
than’I should.. ’
So quietly, she exhaled. Slowly now, she took away her glasses,
a piece of her she’d had for many a year. Placing them to the
side, not discarding, but so neatly. The heel of palms came to
rub at the daring blur - hopes in all giving her a better vision
and finally looking toward the clearly, delfecting man before her.
A poor choice. But one she can’t be ungrateful for. He hid so much,
and yet she knew too much.
‘ It’s always been easy, you make
more choices than anyone I’ve ever
known in all my years.. s’like you don’t
stop for anyone, unles is’yerself.. ’
Words slurred, another fact from the intoxication running freely,
unlike the want and urge to console him, to wrap arms around him
delicately && embrace his hurt, let him feel what he needs to -
with the lack of his own self judgement. A tight swallow, and a
tilted gaze now. It is her place to encourage choice. It’s her
fate, destiny - all she was ever made for.
Daring, she scoots close, yet no contact is made. That was for
his. Yet the offering of such was implemented with the enclosure
between them, while her hands allowed fingers to lace.
‘ I.. think I might be drunk, but I’m..I’m
still smart enough to tell you that, no
matter what you tell yourself negatively,
every choice you have made up until
now, whether good or bad - has been
your own..and…and that’s good enough,
to feel good about oneself. You’re so..
different - Sometimes I forget that I am
nothing more than what is expected of me. ’
A hiccup, though tears may threaten, a shrug is given.
‘ You are so special to me. And that counts,
even if you don’t like it. ’
A reminder of herself - he were what made humans, human.
The very essence of confliction made into choice - every
motive && strength, weakness and solitary, each misery to
counter good will. He itself stood fair to what humanity would
look to, the very being that she could reach accomplish being
or could ever become. No, there were so strokes of jealousy,
no hatred or envy. But a pride and.. was it love? Maybe so,
but it grew with each giving moment.
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qrow’s head remains low, but pale red eyes peer with slanted curiosity as Glynda goes off. her words sound a little unlike herself, and akin to riddles which he hasn’t the capacity to unravel unsober.
worst of it, from what he can tell of what she says, she’s right.
and he has no way of writing it off, no way of rationalizing. she doesn’t try to butter him up with sentiments of being a good person or promises that things get better. she all but accuses him of putting others first, and praises only his effort, his choice to face the odds every day, hour, minute, without invalidating his own experience of the outcome. and he doesn’t like it.
only because it hurts to know what he can’t have. not for long, anyway.
he relaxes, deflates from a bundle of fired up nerves with the release of a long breath he’d been holding the whole time - each kind word only hit him like lashings he had to brace against, but he bears it, allowing that burn within him to become a comfortable warmth that bring the barest lift of a smile to his face. though still downcast, it allows him to catch the movement of Glynda’s hands in his gaze.
he shouldn’t, and all those same old fears grip him from the inside out in the same way they always do in these situations. for all the trouble he knows it brings, he wants her and the goodness and comfort she offers, knowing of who she offers it to, and the alcohol helps drown out any inhibitions in the way of taking them.
as much as it can.
his fingers slide only into the spaces between her own, so close and so far that no flesh quite touches, but the metal of his rings does. contact enough not to refuse her, contact enough to show he wishes to return consolation for whatever anguish of expectation she let slip, and yet less than what might start a path he no longer trusts himself to stop.
“Glyn, i… you…” just as he finds some precious second of peace, and his edges soften while searching for proper words to fish out from a swimming brain, …a snap, clatter, and crack nearby shatters the mood.
Glynda’s glasses.
after suddenly and unfortunately breaking clear through at the nosepiece, sending each half into a tiny but hard drop which left the lenses fractured.
qrow bites down the impulse to shrivel away again, but the energy comes out instead as an angrier follow up snarl and stamp of his foot. all the drunken belligerent flow of emotions he prefers to take out on arrogant enemies of Oz, turns toward the only arrogant asshole in the room, himself.
he is not allowed special moments.
not without a cost.
that is - for his entire life - the risk he takes, the choice he makes.
words fail him and his tongue freezes. he cannot say what he wants to say, how different and special she is too, in ways he doesn’t even fully understand; like she said. he stops only himself.
it hurts to hold it in, but threatens too dangerous to speak aloud. like his heart wants to just explode and would take everything and everyone else around with it.
but he takes her hand. qrow takes Glynda’s hand fully and he squeezes with the strength of everything unspoken, until sedation and fatigue set so far in that his head feels heavy; he slumps lower and lower; his shoulder joins the rest of him on the floor and his forehead rests on Glynda’s wrist.
she deserves a better response, but he cannot do this.
he is broken, and selfish for wanting to stay.
he should have gone.
and he shouldn’t have drank too much in too much of a hurry.
gods, he hates himself right now.
#* a firm hand and the freedom of choice = musedmess ** glynda *#* something pretty magical about it = otp ** right hand witch and left hand familiar *#* i gave you my life = past *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#a good read if you want to find out how to absolutely wreck my muse jfc#[bangs pots and pans] DRACO COME BAAACK
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stress
qrow + Glynda ( @professor-goodwitch )
If the woman was once a heart-racing rabbit at his touch, she now renders qrow a belly-up opossum - filled with just about as much garbage in his gut, courtesy of a flask - vermin that he is, with first instinct to shrivel up and play dead in presence of a greater being.
it somehow always surprises qrow when someone seeks him out for comfort.
(at least, anyone aside from Raven.)
but here Glynda is, doing it anyway, and that takes a second to sink in before he sinks back onto his feet and into the embrace with a begrudging, gutteral sigh.
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Glynda comes up from behind qrow and hugs tightly; internal stress noises can be heard from the huntress.
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qrow senses Glynda in the room, but no alarms go off to grab his attention. no prickling of would-be filoplumes at a threat; no need to turn and look and spy.
not until she enters his personal space instead of whipping on by, and suddenly he perceives her fully, arms wrapped around his waist and chest pressed against his back and chin nuzzled between his shoulderblades, and qrow all but leaps out of his own skin, though all that shows on the outside is the stuttering lean of a startle. red eyes pop wide and feathered hair fluffs in all directions and lanky arms go rigid, scarecrow stiff.
and if the woman was once a heart-racing rabbit at his touch, she now renders qrow a belly-up opossum - filled with just about as much garbage in his gut, courtesy of a flask - vermin that he is, with first instinct to shrivel up and play dead in presence of a greater being.
it somehow always surprises qrow when someone seeks him out for comfort.
(at least, anyone aside from Raven.)
but here Glynda is, doing it anyway, and that takes a second to sink in before he sinks back onto his feet and into the embrace with a begrudging, gutteral sigh.
pained sounds mewling out from such a proud woman pierce his heart, call forth more concern for his comrade than himself and every typical fear clawing from within, telling him to run, to fly away; her hug holds those demons and his body at bay, if briefly.
calloused palms pat and then cover the backs of soft, hardworking hands with warmth, and qrow cants his head to rest against Glynda’s crown.
a breathy hum sounds out with grizzled commiseration, “rough out there t’day, Glyn?”
does he mean out with the grimm or out with the students? some days there isn’t much difference.
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Today was a heavy day for the huntress and it was far too much even for her workaholic standards. It simply wasn’t just going around and doing paperwork no, she had to go through so many meetings with different people to day. Those meetings always required so much energy, tolerance and resistance to not slap a hologram of the councilmen.
The meetings were about the funding for Beacon and Vale’s economy to expand it. All would be well if the council had not mentioned pulling out its funding to the academy to focus on a project that would only cater to the higher class or even just their own benefits. It was hard debating with the huntress without the possibility of her choking anyone because of their twisted views on how to handle finances.
She always wanted what was best for Beacon and Vale, even more than the councilmen themselves. So she had to fight to keep the funding of Beacon as well as the necessities Vale needs. Thankfully she won this debate but only to be met with a side comment by a councilman that a woman should not be running this decision, but a man of power like Ozpin.
Glynda had popped of on that councilman and almost swore that he felt something move on his end despite not physicall meeting with the huntsman. He was shut down so much that it brought silence to the whole meeting until it was quietly adjourned.
Exerting that much anger and energy could drain even the toughest huntress of Beacon when pushed to the limit. All she wanted right now was to ‘recharge’ or calm herself and she knew who to look for.
It wasn’t hard to look for that man since he’s mostly in his room at night. Glynda made her way there, leaving any overtime paper she had to do. She didn’t want to think about work right now and just wanted to head to the man she needed.
She entered the room and only the gods know how she was able to sneak up on her fellow comrade, Qrow. Arms wrapped around the man, garnering a surprised reaction from him but did not move from her spot. His hand hovered over hers, a warmth of another person is what she needed.
He spoke to her, breaking her from her trance and merely responded with a low nod against his back. Her arms wrapping even tighter, getting more of that comforting warmth from Qrow.
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qrow still doesn’t entirely understand this, but he doesn’t hate it either. and somewhere in some of Glynda’s frustrated mutterings into his cape that come as her only response, he maybe kind of gets the idea. he can’t say he cares, though. about her, sure, but not what troubles her. she came to wrong place for help with all that petty nonsense.
he can almost feel the smoke coming out of her ears (was that some steam on his office window?) and definitely feels the clench of her jaw set stiff against his back. he chuckles a bit at the thought that they probably agree that it’s all useless and petty, and that’s what’s got her so worn down.
Glynda tightens her grip, and he fights against it, twisting to loosen her arms, but only so he can turn around. he doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t make her look up, doesn’t make her say anything at all. he simply settles one arm around her shoulders in return, while the other pulls her head into his chest.
he can’t fix it, and he can’t fix her; he’s no good at the emotions game, but he can at least do this.
be a cozy (if a bit bony) body and welcoming set of arms.
and, actually, the heat of her holding him mixed with the whiskey warmth in his throat and belly, and the gentle slosh in his head is rather nice.
hmm. well, maybe if she’s looking to get away from some responsibility, she came to the right place after all.
“need a drink?” he offers into her hair, knowing that she knows about the liter he keeps in his desk - the bottle he’s already been working on, sitting right out in the open since it’s after-hours.
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Glynda didn’t fight against his movement when he shifted to face her. After meeting with his torso, she immediately treats it as her makeshift pillow and bringing her arms back to lock around him. She rarely showed her vulnerability like this and the only time she would show it are around people she deeply cared for.
And one of those rare and probably only person would be Qrow.
It wasn’t surprising that he had the scent of alcohol to him yet she wondered if it was the only thing he did in his office. He offers her a drink and admittedly nods her head. Glynda had a big need to de-stress and keep her mind off work for now and just cherish his company.
“.. Is it whiskey?” she asks knowing her preferences for alcohol. Glynda geared towards more on the whiskey or rum side rather than Vodka.
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sarcastic words yet lose their edge when all but whispered with low volume over the crown of Glynda’s head and reported more like fact, like a tent flap lifted with care to officially invite her in, “Who’d’ya think yer dealin’ with? ‘course it’s whiskey.”
he moves slowly, barely, thumb stroking the small of her back beneath her own cape and palm sinking further to cradle the base of her skull. he respects how difficult it is to show weakness, and treasures each time someone trusts him in those moments not to make it worse.
and he is almost as practiced with this as he is with scythe and sword. first with Raven at her worst, then to other men and women in the tribe as word got around that qrow branwen was soft and caring; traits spat like curses and used to tear him down in a crowd, yet then sought out in private when curiosity or insecurity struck. inevitably they all went right back to their savagery once association with him became inconvenient.
buncha hypocrites.
beacon was better, if messier. he learned. with his nieces, too, he found solace in the ability to give things he never received.
still, he’s too soft, maybe, and that’s why he needs hard liquor to get by in the world.
“might ‘ave some wine som’where ‘round here too.”
chattering. he’s just chattering so he can hold her longer, embrace her deeper, enough of that whiskey running through his system already to convince him he can do this. he can be here and just be himself and it will be okay. Glynda is different. Glynda is good.
not dropping his arms for a second, qrow takes small strides closer to the desk, nudging her legs, drawing her along with him until she’s lightly trapped between the press of a wooden surface against her bottom, and his body weight leaning in to reach past her waist and grab the bottle. he takes a swig first as if it could wash away all those images pulled up from memory lane, then holds it in her peripheral vision, as promised.
“…no glasses, though. ‘m’not useta sharin’, really.”
that, and he’d broken them all.
#* emerald fire in her eyes; controlled and refreshing = professor goodwitch *#* something pretty magical about it = otp ** right hand witch and left hand familiar *#* i gave you my life = past *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#s o f t
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the world
qrow + Clover ( fortuniis )
In the relative silence of the night, Clover’s laugh seems louder than it truly is, falling heavy into the darkness around them before fading away.
qrow might not have heard the hint of resentment in the sound - a deep, confident thing - but he can see it in Clover’s face, in the way he looks down instead of opening up. he holds something close to his chest, hides it in the shadows of night, shelters it with his chin.
qrow keeps his eyes sharp and his mouth shut about it.
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Clover let his eyes roam out over the open tundra, nearly luminous under the moonlight, reflecting the faint lights of the aurora up above as they peeked around the bulk of Atlas. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders, helped in part by the lack of any Grimm on the horizon.
His eyes cut across to his partner on this patrol. The moonlight illuminated the streaks of silver in Qrow’s hair and gleamed the puffs of breath that clouded the air before dissipating into the night. The slow patrol made for a long evening, but Clover had plenty of practice finding ways to spend them.
“Have you ever been to Atlas before?” he asks, voice friendly and professional, even as he sought more information about this man the General seemed to trust so much.
Much to Winter’s annoyance.
“It can be quite a big change, from the rest of Remnant.”
Bigger Grimm. Colder weather. Not to mention the so-called rigid rules and regulations.
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while Clover appreciates the scenery, qrow stares mostly at his feet, though his aura sense and ears are just as on guard for grimm as the other’s gaze. maybe too overstimulated in sobriety, thus forcing a retreat into his head.
not that it’s much quieter there, with so many voices and so much loss yet to sort out, and nowhere to run anymore. if Clover’s watching those puffs of breath, he might notice the changes in their rate as distressing thoughts come and go. he’s got another nasty headache, but he pushes through it for the sake of the job.
one footprint in the snow after the other, one more day after the other, forward.
he huffs quietly at the question, glancing halfway over. they must not have briefed the man on much about him.
“been just about everywhere in Remnant, few times over,” he answers quiet but cordially. small talk on the field - another unfamiliar part that comes along with the whole partner thing. but qrow has to admit it makes the long treks go a little faster, “an’ yeah. ain’t no place like Atlas, that’s for sure.”
he finally looks up, briefly, the aura bright in his eyes, and unwittingly reminding him of absinthe, even though, that’s more easily found in vacuo, “pretty views, but i wouldn’t wanna live here.”
he pauses, considers the other, looking over more intently and noting once again his perfectly sculpted soldier appearance, the confident carry of his stride, a stupid lack of sleeves for freezing temps, “seems like you’re a decent fit, though, huh?”
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In the relative silence of the night, Clover’s laugh seems louder than it truly is, falling heavy into the darkness around them before fading away. There is truth to Qrow’s words- there was no place quite like Atlas, and Clover was a decent enough fit.
Not by choice, but Clover had little choice but to bend to the life laid out before him.
“There are lots of places you can get pretty views.” Clover had seen pictures, but if pictures did not do the aurora over Solitas any justice, Clover had a feeling the pictures did not do those places any justice.
A quiet, familiar longing unfurled in his chest again, quickly pushed away with more small talk before Clover let himself indulge it too much.
“I’ve never left Atlas, except for Vytal Festivals back in my school years.” Clover lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug, but there’s no hiding the curiosity in his voice. “Not much time to travel, especially lately.”
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
qrow might not have heard the hint of resentment in the sound - a deep, confident thing - but he can see it in Clover’s face, in the way he looks down instead of opening up. he holds something close to his chest, hides it in the shadows of night, shelters it with his chin.
qrow keeps his eyes sharp and his mouth shut about it.
“sure are,” he says with a vastness that suggests more than he can choose from to describe. and the thought of discovering even more while soaring through the clouds helps his head feel lighter.
“sounds like a drag. can’t imagine spendin’ my whole life in one place.”
Another way they oppose each other. his hands make fists then fan out, a poor simulation of spreading his wings, but it offers some sense of release.
a featherlight scoff passes through qrow’s nose, “dunno how they expect ya t’save a world y’haven’t even seen.”
#* a perfectly sculpted and confident exterior with questions at the core = fortuniis *#* suddenly you're ripped into being alive = qrow + clover *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *
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