#*peels off mask to reveal worms*

[moonxknightx]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : THE FACE BEHIND THE MASK : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Wade Wilson x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Fluff :))

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: X-Men

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: None!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: After months of dating Wade Wilson, you ask him to show his face, promising that his scars won't change your love. Despite his fears, Wade reveals himself, and you reassure him that he is beautiful just the way he is.

LIVING NEXT TO WADE WILSON HAD ALWAYS BEEN AN ADVENTURE. From the random explosions at odd hours (he called them "enthusiastic cooking attempts") to the incessant chatter that came from his side of the paper-thin walls, there was never a dull moment. Somehow, despite all the madness, you'd become fast friends. He’d wormed his way into your life with his never-ending supply of sarcasm, absurd humor, and unexpected kindness.

And then, somehow, you’d started dating. It wasn't the conventional type of dating—nothing was conventional with Wade. He’d whisk you away on spontaneous adventures that ranged from fighting ninjas ("It's like cardio, but with more blood!") to watching rom-coms while he provided his own colorful commentary.

But there was one thing that had never happened in those months. You had never seen his face. Sure, you'd seen his mouth, his jaw, the occasional glimpse of his eyes through the mask, but never the whole thing. He was always careful to keep the mask on, only slipping it off when he was sure you weren't looking.

At first, you hadn't pushed it. You knew about his past, the pain he'd endured, and how self-conscious he was about his appearance. But as your feelings for him deepened, so did your curiosity. It wasn't just about seeing the man behind the mask—it was about connecting with him fully, scars and all.

One night, after a particularly wild date that ended with Wade hog-tying a group of particularly rude henchmen ("They were asking for it! Literally, they asked if I could teach them some knots!"), you both collapsed on your bed, breathless and laughing.

"Wade," you said, once your giggles had subsided. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, but if it's about why I wear red, the answer is 'because it hides the bloodstains.' And also, it makes my butt look fantastic."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "No, it’s not that. I was just wondering... why don’t you ever show me your face?"

The room grew quiet, the only sound the faint hum of traffic outside. Wade’s usual banter was noticeably absent, and you could sense the shift in his mood.

"Oh, you know," he began, his tone a little too casual, "it’s just that I’m devastatingly handsome, and I don’t want you to fall even more in love with me. Also, there’s the possibility that you’ll look at me and your eyes will literally explode from the sheer beauty. It’s a risk, really. For your safety."

You reached out, gently placing your hand on his. "Wade, I know you're joking, but I also know this is hard for you. I don’t care about your scars. I care about you."

He hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly around yours. "I just... I don’t want you to see me and then regret everything. I’m not exactly Ryan Reynolds under here."

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. "Well, good, because I’m not exactly Blake Lively."

He snorted, finally looking at you. "She wishes she was as cool as you."

Taking a deep breath, Wade sat up and reached for the edge of his mask. "Okay, but if you scream, I'm outta here. And I’m taking all the pizza."

"I promise not to scream," you said, your voice soft. "And I’m keeping the pizza."

With a final sigh, Wade peeled off the mask, revealing the man beneath it. His face was covered in scars, the skin rough and uneven, a far cry from the smooth, unblemished look he used to have. His eyes, however, were the same—warm, mischievous, and full of vulnerability.

You didn’t say anything at first, just took him in. Then, slowly, you reached out, tracing the lines of his face with your fingers. He flinched at first, but as you continued, his muscles began to relax.

"You’re beautiful," you whispered, meaning every word.

Wade rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. "Sure, if by 'beautiful' you mean 'looks like an avocado had a passionate affair with a much older, uglier avocado.'"

You laughed, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. "No, I mean you’re beautiful because you’re you. And I love you. All of you."

For a moment, Wade was silent, his usual stream of jokes and quips nowhere to be found. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. "You really mean that?"

"I do."

He pulled you into his arms, holding you close. "Well, in that case, I guess you’re stuck with me. Scars, bad jokes, and all."

"Wouldn’t have it any other way."

You spent the rest of the night wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten. As you traced the lines of his face, memorizing every scar, Wade made a few more self-deprecating jokes, but they lacked the usual sting. Instead, they were softer, more playful, as if he was finally starting to believe that you could see beyond the surface.

As the night went on, your hands continued their gentle exploration, and Wade's breathing grew steady and calm. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly at peace, his heart no longer burdened by the fear of rejection.

And as you lay there, his head resting against your chest, you knew that no matter what, you would always find him beautiful—because beauty, you realized, was more than skin deep.

I fucking LOVE Wade!

I’m going to make a taglist for deadpool content! If you like to be added, let me know! 🫶

[anthemxix]

I had an angsty interesting idea and thought you’d maybe like to hear it (since you’re a fan of Wars and Time bonding)

Time and Warriors get separated from the group and are fighting a big ol’ horde of monsters when Time gets hit hard. Like, he-needs-a-fairy-NOW hard. And Wars knows he can’t protect Time while fighting off all these monsters, he’s horribly outnumbered without him, he needs help, he needs more power-

Then he remembers the Fierce Diety mask.

anon, thank you for thinking of me!! i do adore these two bonding! <3 hope you enjoy this little thing i wrote~ uwu

The realization that this ragtag monster horde was capable of implementing a coordinated battle plan carries myriad unsettling implications, but Warriors puts all that aside for later consideration. Right now, he’s rather more preoccupied with his other realization: he and Time are kind of fucked.

Separated from the other heroes by the latest portal (and maybe that was all part of the enemies’ strategy, too?), Time and Warriors are severely outnumbered, two to two dozen. The only reason they haven't lost already is because they've managed to stay back-to-back, fighting together fluidly, watching each other's blind spots. Everything they're doing is purely defensive, purely reactionary, and their stamina is quickly getting whittled away by endless waves of brutal attacks.

And maybe their draining stamina is why there's a slip-up. Warriors hopes that's why there's a slip-up, because he can't bear the idea that his carelessness caused whatever just happened behind him to make Time shout in agony.

Warriors whirls around just as Time crumples to his knees. He steps in front of the Old Man in time to block the heavy stroke of a darknut's broadsword. The blunt impact forces him back half a foot. He grits his teeth and smashes his shield into the darknut's helmet as it winds up for another strike. Armor rattling, the monster stumbles back, briefly stunned.

Swinging around, Warriors throws out his shield against the thrust of a lizalfos' spear, but both weapon and shield collide instead with a translucent blue wall that materializes between them. Sapphire-colored and diamond-shaped, the sudden barrier surprises Warriors for a second before he remembers a child casting the same spell on battlefields some years ago.

"Can't hold it for long," Time says, voice strained, as he presses one hand against his side. Warriors drops down next to him, ignoring the sounds of baffled and angry monsters pounding on the barrier encasing them, and pulls Time's hand away to reveal a terribly deep gash.

Time coughs, and a trail of blood mars his chin. Cursing, Warriors carelessly rips a swatch from his scarf and stuffs it into the wound in the hopes of slowing the bleeding.

"Give it to me," he blurts before he knows what he's saying. His conscious mind takes a moment to catch up to his mouth, but then he feels it. Beneath the clean, blessed magic that Time exudes beats the pulse of something darker, something that wormed into Warriors’ mind without him even noticing.

Suddenly, Warriors knows with certainty how this fight is going to end. He reaches for Time's satchel without awaiting an answer. The Old Man clamps a surprisingly firm hand onto Warriors' wrist.

"No," he says, the tremble in his voice belying the sternness of his tone. "I won't allow it."

The magic, which feels like frenzy barely contained, wraps more securely around Warriors' heart. He wonders how it leaked into him without his consent, how it made him its pawn before he even considered using the mask.

"It's our only choice." Warriors drapes his other hand on top of Time's. The barrier around them flickers, disappearing for half an instant.

Time retrieves the mask from his bag without looking, like he knows exactly where it is. In the open, the mask's alluring magic is more potent. It feels like chaos masquerading as calm, like a threat camouflaged as salvation.

"I could do it," Time weakly offers, even as more blood beads on his lips, as more color drains from his wan face, as resignation clouds his eye.

When Warriors' fingers graze the mask's smooth wood, a shock runs along his spine, prickles the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. The faded red and blue lines that mirror Time's remind him that dabbling with something this powerful has irreversible consequences. In an odd moment of detached lucidity, Warriors recognizes that after he puts on this mask, his life is never going to be the same.

But as he takes the cursed object, he looks down at Time's weeping gash, poorly plugged by blood-drenched scraps of scarf, and feels at peace with his decision.

"I'll be fine, Sprite," he says. "Just promise me you'll be fine, too."

As Time's spell withers and the blue diamond barrier shatters, Warriors puts on the mask.

He's dropped into an abyss that somehow feels both bottomless and claustrophobic. He can't see or hear or touch any more, can't feel his body or what he's doing; he's confined to his mind, condemned to an inky, oceanic emptiness that is filling up with poisonous magic. The deity's overwhelming presence invades more and more of Warriors' mental space, grappling for control.

And it hurts. It's agonizing, the way the subjugating magic bleeds into his every crevice, sunders him at his seams. Peels him apart layer by layer. Breaks him down to his basest pieces. Divides. Consumes.

Rational thought disappears; his darkness is lit only by instinct now, and his instinct tells him to fight. So Warriors resists. As puny and piteous a creature as he is compared to the deity's wrath, he resists, struggling to retain a foothold in his own mind.

And just as abruptly as this hellish internal fight begins, it ends. Full consciousness slams back into Warriors with merciless force. The world seems like a hazy mess of colors and light that he can't decipher. His body feels foreign, and he can't distinguish, spatially, where he is, what he's doing. He thinks he's standing--no, he's falling--

Warriors tumbles back into something solid. Someone solid, who secures their arms around his middle and lowers him to the ground. Dizzy and muddled, he squints up at the concerned face hovering above him. Twilight. The Rancher's mouth is moving, but the words are distant and incomprehensible.

Simply holding his head up is a strain, and Warriors lets himself go limp in Twilight's arms. Through blurry vision, he can see the signs of a massacre: the decimated remains of all those monsters, strewn around the battlefield. He vaguely registers Twilight's fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse, and Twilight's hands running along his limbs, his torso, feeling for injuries.

There's a swirl of red and pink in his periphery. Legend, not bothering to conceal his concern, appears on one side of him. He's speaking, too, and though the words sound a bit clearer than before, Warriors still doesn't understand. Exhausted, he doesn't worry about it, and lets his eyes slip closed.

Twilight and Legend's conversation drones over his head as comforting white noise, and the Rancher's steady breaths begin to lull him to sleep. Then something tugs at his hand, and he pries his eyes open, annoyed, to see Legend trying to take the mask from him.

Warriors blinks down at the cursed item, surprised to see it still clasped in his fist, his unyielding fingers coiled through the eye holes.

"Let go of this damn thing, Pretty Boy," Legend says when he sees Warriors' eyes are open. The Captain can't decide if Legend's voice is actually quiet or if it still sounds weirdly far away. Regardless, he loosens his hold and watches Legend take the mask, grimace at it with a mix of revulsion and anger, and artlessly toss it out of view.

"Captain?"

Turning his heavy head, Warriors finds Wind kneeling at his other side. His expression is all unrefined concern, the watery eyes and exaggerated compassion of a child. Warriors wants to comfort him, but he can hardly move at the moment. He supposes speaking is out of the question, too.

"Are you okay?" the Sailor asks, taking up Warriors' hand in both his own.

Getting no reply, Wind glances between Twilight and Legend. "Why isn't he saying anything? He's okay, isn't he?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Twilight replies. It's a stilted, rote response that holds little conviction. Warriors thinks that should bother him, but he's too tired to care.

"What about those?" Wind says, nodding towards Warriors.

On reflex, Twilight brushes his fingers against the Captain's cheek, looking sadly at whatever is there. "The magic imprinted on him, but he wasn't changed for long. The marks will fade."

Marks? Warriors tunes out the rest of the conversation, trying to deduce what marks they're referring to--until he pictures the red and blue lines tattooed onto--

Time. Warriors twitches, wanting to sit up, wanting to ask after the Old Man. Legend puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, instructs him not to move. Still, he swivels his head around, trying to squint through the still-indistinct mass of shapes and lights that make up the world beyond his little sphere.

Finally, he sees, past Wind, the rest of their troupe. As Warriors is with Twilight, Time is reclined against Sky, with Four and Wild on either side of him. Hyrule is bent over him, hands aglow with golden healing magic that surges into the dangerous wound on Time's side.

Warriors tries to focus on the Old Man's face, and his eyes finally adjust enough that he can see Time, grim and weary, looking straight back at him. He looks sad, Warriors thinks. Sympathetic. Pitying.

It's off-putting, and Warriors looks away. He closes his eyes again and sinks back into Twilight, deciding for now that he'll pretend this is a nightmare, and soon, he'll wake up somewhere else with his soul and mind intact. Yes, he thinks, he’ll let himself pretend for a little while.

[nuderefsarebest]

Destiny 2- Malfeasance

Materials: Formlabs resin (clear), SC300 urethane resin, fabric Total parts: 7 A 1:1 replica of the Malfeasance exotic hand cannon from Destiny 2, sporting the Taken themed Aim to Misbehave ornament. I was inspired to create this after finishing the Whisper of the Worm; I wanted to create another prop that had the unique Taken effect. The paint effect involves applying a metallic sea green which is then masked with random spots of latex, then painted with black and washed with more turquoise. The latex is peeled off to reveal the spots; the contrast between the metallic turquoise and the matte black helps to sell the effect. This replica was on display at the Bungie booth during PAX West 2019, as well as the Formlabs booth at Siggraph 2019. Concept art by Tyler Bartley.

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Z5n0oG

[raph-and-spike]

My Hero - Mikey x fem!reader

requested? yes/no

“Well i just found your blog and im super excited to see where this goes! My request is April has a cousin the turtles have heard of but never met and before they finally do she warns them that shes a little reserved, keeps to herself but over time when she warms up shes super dorky and like mikey? Idk if that makes sense. Just some fluffy michelangelo x reader 😅”

a/n: My first request! I was sooo excited for this one! I kinda took it in a different direction, but I tried to keep it as close to your request as possible. I can’t wait to write all of the other requests you guys have sent me!

warnings: none :)

“Oh my God, that movie was crazy!” April exclaimed. 

You had just moved back to New York two weeks prior, and your favorite redheaded cousin invited you to see a movie with her and her boyfriend friend, Casey–much to his dismay–which you’d been thankful for; April was the only person you knew at school. 

As someone who tended to keep to yourself, April was aware of your anti-social tendencies, and she’d do everything to avoid it. She was determined to make New York City actually feel like home. 

“Eh,” Casey shrugged. “It was alright. I don’t really see the hype.”

April rolled her eyes. “Don't pretend that we didn’t see you jump at all the jump-scares, Casey.”

Casey grinned. “You paying attention that closely to me, Red? You must like me or something.”

You couldn’t help but giggle as you watched the two bicker back and forth.

“Shut it, Jones,” she rolled her eyes. 

A crash behind you made the three of you jump and turn around instinctively. Though, nothing could be visible. 

“What the hell was that?” you muttered to yourself. The eery streets of the city at night had yet to make you feel welcome.

Suddenly, what had looked like slender robots in black robes began sprinting toward you three, jumping out behind trash cans and street corners. Your heart sank to your stomach at the scene in front of you, your body frozen in shock.

“Footbots!” April screamed, exchanging looks with Casey. “Casey, get Y/n back home, I’ll handle them!”

Casey raised his eyebrows. “What?! No way, Red! You go home with Y/n, I’ll handle it.” He grabbed one of his hockey sticks and charged at the Footbots, leaving you not knowing what to do.

April grabbed what looked like a steel fan from her pocket and began fighting as well; it was a sight you never thought you’d ever see.

“Y/n, run!” April shouted over the sounds of steel against steel, and hockey sticks against cement.

You began running in the opposite direction of the chaos, in the direction of your home. Though it’d take about another ten minutes to get there, you were eager to do anything you had to get away from what you'd just witnessed.

You weren’t able to get far before one of the robots appeared in front of you, causing you to stumble back onto the cement. Your eyes wide with fear, staring at the huge being towering over you with a sword in hand. As it raised its sword, a blade sliced across its torso with a quickness you would have missed if you weren’t watching so intently. As the robot’s body fell in half onto the pavement in front of you, another being with green skin and a blue mask appeared, holding the katana that had saved your life. 

“Woah,” was all you could manage, staring at it. Green speckled skin, a plastron and a shell...was it a turtle? 

It left, fighting off the rest of the bots with three more that looked just like it, all with different colored masks and different weapons. Your heart was racing, you could feel your body pulsating with the very beat of your heart as the fight ensued. 

“Guys,” one of them spoke up. “Splinter’s not gonna be too happy about another human knowing about us.”

They can talk?

The four turtles and your two friends looked your way as your eyes rolled back and you felt your head hit the pavement before falling into unconsciousness.

You woke up in your bed, your redheaded cousin sitting at the foot of your bed. You groaned, your hand going to the back of your head where gauze had been placed. 

“Y/n,” April began, her voice soft. “We need to talk.”

“What happened last night?” you moaned, your vision spinning as the pain in the back of your head increased.

She grabbed a glass of water on your nightstand and handed it to you.

“Here,” she kept her hands on your own to ensure that you were holding it tight enough, tipping it back as you gulped. 

She stared down at her fingers, fumbling with them. This was a nervous habit you’d remembered your cousin having for as long as you could remember. But why would she be nervous, you thought to yourself. 

“Last night–”

“I saw something,” you interrupted. “Or some things,” you corrected, goosebumps rising along your arms as you thought about the turtles.

April sighed. “I know.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What exactly were they? And what was attacking us?”

And so she began.

She told you everything; the turtles, Master Splinter, Shredder, the Kraang, mutagen. It was a moment of trust, a moment of trusting in one of her favorite people–one of the only people she had left.

“And now that you’re going to be living here,” April began.

“Then I should learn how to defend myself,” you finished for her.

She nodded, letting out a sympathetic sigh. “I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”

You shook your head, grabbing her hands to hold within your own. “’United we stand, divided we fall’,” you quoted, a quote both your parents had said to you multiple times as children. “If you need another addition to your army, then count me in.”

As you both walked through the tunnels of the sewers, you kept your nose plugged.

“Does the smell get any better?” you groaned.

She nodded. “You get used to it; I had to live down here for a few weeks.”

You nearly gagged at the thought, before entering the lair.

There they were, once again. The red masked one was punching a large punching bag, the blue masked one was sitting in front of a television whilst the orange masked one sat next to him, pizza in hand. Pizza?! The fourth one was nowhere in sight. 

April gestured. “Y/n, these are the turtles,” she pointed to the red masked one, “that’s Raph,” she pointed to the blue masked one, “Leo,” she pointed to the orange masked one, “Mikey,” she paused, looking around. 

“Where’s Don-”

“Hi, April!” a voice exclaimed, nearly scurrying over to you both with a blush painted on his cheeks.

She rolled her eyes playfully. “And, that’s Donnie.”

Supposedly, after getting permission to bring you to the lair from Master Splinter, she’d warned them that you were coming. 

Leo looked over, his eyes finally peeling away from his show with a smile. “How’s your head feeling?” he asked, walking toward you.

You shrugged, gently blushing at the sudden attention. “It’s, uh, better now, but I don't think I hit it too hard to begin with.”

“Actually,” Donnie spoke, “the impact wasn’t enough to cause a lot of bleeding, but it'll be bruised for the next couple of days.”

You frowned. “W-were you the one who took care of my head?”

He nodded, invisible eyebrows furrowed in query. 

“Oh, thanks,” you said softly, “it’s healing really fast.”

He blushed, about to say something in return before his orange-masked brother interrupted him by running up to you.

“Well,” Mikey began, “I was the one who saved you a slice of pizza!”

The gang groaned in disgust; the slice of pizza had lint, worms, and an undetectable bug species sitting on top of the cheese. 

“Mikey, did you get that from under your bed?!” Leo scoffed.

Mikey smirked. “Mayybeee,” he eyed the slice. “It’s still good though, I think.”

He grinned at you, but could see the disgust in your appearance. He hung his head. “I guess I’ll just eat it,” he sighed.

You felt horrible, but in all honesty, the sight alone made your stomach churn. 

“Y/n,” you heard, distracting you from the moldy pizza.

You looked up, seeing the one and only Master Splinter. He looked completely different than how you’d pictured him in your head; he was much taller than you expected. He walked closer to you, until you were just feet apart. 

“April has told me a lot about you,” he began, his voice soothing to the ear. “I hope that you fulfill my wish to keep my sons and I a secret.”

You nodded. “Of course, urm, Master Splinter.”

He nodded, before calling the turtles to train with him.

“See you latah, Dudette,” Mikey bid with a wink, before running off to train with his brothers.

April looked at you, an eyebrow cocked at the deep blush on your cheeks.

“What?” you asked shyly.

“Nothing, Dudette,” April mocked with a grin.

You began to spend multiple days of the week at the lair with April and Casey, even bringing your homework down there after school; Master Splinter offered to train you, and you obliged. Mikey would be over your shoulder, asking you questions about your homework even after Leo had told him to give you some personal space. 

But you began to feel comfortable with the turtles, and you started to open up and reveal your personality. 

“Hey Mikey,” you announced, walking up to him in the kitchen. “Want to go train with me?”

You could have sworn that his pupils grew the size of bowling balls, and he was there with his nunchucks in no time.

You began training with the turtles, almost always with Mikey, though he refused to fight back or hit you. You’d share a pizza after, watch television, and eventually take a nap before he’d have to leave for patrol.

“You’re getting so good, Dudette!” he exclaimed after training, shoveling pizza slices into his mouth.

You blushed. “Thanks, Mikey...” You rolled your eyes as you watched him finish the box to himself. “Do we really have to eat pizza everyday?” 

“Yesss,” he said in a sing-song voice. “I love days like this; it’s my two favorite things!”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What?”

“You and pizza, duh!” 

Your cheeks heated up, and you pressed a kiss onto his green freckled cheek.

“Thanks, Mikey. You know, if it weren't for you and your brothers saving me from those Footbots, then I wouldn't even be here,” you pointed out.

He grinned. “That makes me, like, a hero!”

You planted a kiss onto his lips, causing him to nearly melt into the floor.

“My hero,” you corrected.

[belliesandburps]

OCs play Uno, Monopoly, and Mario Kart at different times. GO.

I've never played Uno, so I'm sticking to Monopoly and Mario Kart.

Monopoly

Hakari: He's going to lose every time because he doesn't like the idea of bankrupting people. So, he'd always give his friends a break...who will promptly bankrupt him once he lands on Boardwalk. He'll take his loss gracefully, but he will frown beneath his mask and mutter, "...That hardly seems fair... >: \ "

Nara: Two hours in, she will start shooting at the board.

Aidan: ...That board's gettin' set on fire...

Isole: The gentle ice boi is gonna bleed every player dry because he's so unassuming and so kind that you forget, if he has to throw down, somebody is goin' down. And beneath that gentle demeanor, lies a veeeeery shrewd Monopoly Shark... >:)

Runo: He'd steal all the Monopoly money and run off to try and use it to buy burgers and be so cockily proud of himself. "I can't believe those idiots were just sittin' on all this cash! I'm RICH!!! >:D "

Lowell: ...He'll start chewing on the houses, thinking they're gummy houses or something...and it will take quite a few swallowed down before he realizes that gummy isn't supposed to be hard...or plastic...

Kentaro: You're already broke. You just don't know it yet. He knows this game like the back of his hand and has never lost. Being a greedy SOB and a veeeeery cunning business man is this fatass' MO. He'll make all the right trades and screw you so hard, you won't see it comin'...

Drayce: He's going to question the ethics of upcharging people just for stepping on your property and driving them broke. It kiiiiinda misses the whole point of the game, but only reinforces why he hates humans so much that bankrupting each other is now FUN for them. XD

Roarke: Well, his player piece would be his favorite rock. And he'd ask if using rocks instead of hotel pieces makes them stronger.

Cadmus: He'll just stare at you with the most bored look on his face if you even ask him to play. A look that says, "Real life is meaningless...and you want me to spend three or four hours playing pretend business mogul...?"

Koloss: He's going to just start stealing houses and cash from the bank and snarl at you if you call him out for cheating. Aaaaand unless you want a trip down his gullet...suddenly Virginia Avenue can have ten hotel pieces on it...

Kasumi: Yeaaaaah, good luck convincing a wraith to sit down and play a game more long and agonizing than his own death was...

Kai: He'll breathe fire over the entire board, stomp his taloned foot over it and start laughing victoriously at winning Monopoly and ordering you all to bow down before him and bask in his greatness. That's how HE plays it, at least...

Mako: ...He thought he was playing Checkers this whole time...and he was STILL playing that wrong...

Mauler: Do not play anything that takes too long around Mauler. Because if Mauler gets bored, he gets hungry. And if he gets hungry, everything becomes a chew toy for the mutant...

Rameel: He'll start complementing whoever is in the lead and worm his way into forming a shared mutual understanding with them...then find a way to betray them and get the railroads.

Nero: He will excuse himself, leave the room, lure whoever is in the lead away for a moment...KILL them...consume them, and proceed to disguise himself as them so he can win the game.

Loch: He only plays some future space version of Monopoly, with holograms and lasers. And he once used said lasers to cut someone's arm off when they tried to steal some of the banks money. Proooooobably don't offer to play with him...

Mario Kart

Hakari: He'll be really enamored by the beautiful, colorful worlds, too much so to even care if he's winning or losing.

Nara: She's gonna be veeeeery interested in asking Lev to try and make bullets or drones like Bullet Bill.

Aidan: ...Yeaaaaaah, that game's getting set on fire.

Isole: He's really good at drifting and gliding because of his own powers, so he'd be really good at the game, but giggle to himself anytime he falls off and comes back as an ice cube in the cold levels. "Hehehehe, thaaaat's not how it works... XP "

Runo: "...Yooooooooooo...! That monkey's drivin' a go-kart!!! 8O "

Lowell: Prepare for several minutes of Lowell sniffing at the control and nibbling on it, then looking at the TV veeeeery confused about all the were-creatures and why they look so fake.

Kentaro: His fingers are literally too fat to hold controllers.

Drayce: Every single time he slides off the stage, he'd just stare in confusion and ask what the button is to reveal your draconian wings and fly to safety.

Roarke: He'd just be very, very, veeeeery confused about all the strange mages using all these random powers. Then, he'd ask if turtles really fly on clouds...

Cadmus: He would not give a rats ass. He'd literally just be bored and pushing a single button over and over half-heartedly while his character barely moves.

Koloss: He'd be grinning and guffawing at how spot on it feels plowing through all the meatbags as Bowser...then snarl murderously when he slips on a banana peel and goes flying off a cliff...

Kasumi: ...If any vestige of his living self still exists, he'd be torn between wanting to show you he's the best at everything, and wanting to both kill you and consume your shade for even suggesting the idea of playing a video game to a wraith...

Kai: ...He'll...breath fire over the game, smash the TV and console to bits under his heavy, clawed foot, and guffaw in victory, demanding you bask in his greatness. He's...umm...not very good at figuring out video games...

Mako: ......He thought he was playing Angry Birds...and asked how to perform a fatality...

Mauler: Watching all those characters on screen is just gonna make him hungry, and once he chews on the TV and realizes he can't eat them...well...best abort when you can...

Rameel: He'd use his sand powers to temporary blind you and use that opportunity to win. Yes, Rameel's biggest strategy is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTAXUYLbFYk

Nero: He'd win in the most efficient way possible, scanning the game, other players and the AI's, and mastering the perfect plays after willfully losing one round just to 3D map the road in his central chip.

Loch: He'd get bored after one round then sell you to space traders.

[adrenalinesaint]

Frozen peas smart against the bruise on Jonathan’s cheek. It’s too late to stymie the swelling, but numbing it will help with the pain. He’s out of ibuprofen again, you see. Go home, Crane, the Penguin had told him, so he did. Lindsay knows better than to hem or haw around him when he’s in a state like this -- knows better than to grill him on the subject of his most recent injury based off of his facial expression alone. Sensing she isn’t wanted, she takes up her jacket and camera and slinks out the door shortly after his arrival.

Alone in the apartment, the veil comes off. With a quick blow, he punches the wall and fails to cause a hole due to lack of strength. Cobblepot was right. He’s stupid -- he’s being stupid. Even right now, it’s absurd. It reminds that reaching out at all for emotional contact is a dangerous gambit. Specifically, Penguin reminded him of that -- and he won’t soon forget himself again.

Standing now in his apartment bathroom, he blacks out his eyes using his hands instead of a makeup sponge. There’s only one way to cope with conflict like this -- only one thing he knows how to do to get a release. He can shoulder the burdens of others, delighting in the knowledge that they aren’t his, but when it comes to his own, he’s weak. So, so very weak. Doubt creeps into the fringes of his mind and when the burlap comes out, he feels a comfort in the knowledge that he’ll see what he needs to see soon.

What are you afraid of, dear reader? What strikes you like a pang of ice in the dead of night when nobody is there to distract you? What absolute certainty picks at your sanity, when you dare to leave that place in your mind unguarded? And what if you could face that thing -- look it dead in the eye and experience it as if it were real: your worst nightmare -- would you do it?

Some performers stand in the mirror before a show and tell themselves the worst things they can imagine an audience saying about their performance. It’s a way to steel the nerves -- exposure therapy.

When his face is sufficiently blacked out, he dons the mask and stares hard into the mirror. A pre-loaded syringe filled with toxin sits in the bowl of the sink, looking up at him expectantly.

As the needle goes into his arm, he shudders with the anxiety of knowing what’s to come. As it pours into his vein, the toxin tingles and burns like eucalyptus on the lips. Leaning in closer to the mirror, he watches closely as his pupils dilate. Normally, half a syringe is enough to incapacitate a person for several hours and send them into a state of total disconnect from reality. The plunger pushes a full syringe into his blood and rests for a moment as he begins to shake violently.

Breath doesn’t come. There’s a large black cat sitting on his chest. A shadowy figure of a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat enters the bathroom and snaps his neck. The floor is cold on his cheeks -- he’s convulsing. Somehow, he’s alive, and his lungs burn for air, is he breathing? Is he underwater? A powerful current lifts him up from the floor and thrusts him into every wall and then the ceiling -- black.

A single crow caws overhead, and Jonathan is laying on his side in the fetal position. Tall grass all around him moves as though its kelp in tepid waters, stalks of corn rising up above and a smattering of orchids below: a strange and impossible scene. The floor is sand, and as he walks, he can feel vibrations deep below him rumbling out of giant worms that can feel the rhythm of his fear. His feet sink into the sand as he moves, threatening to fall in all the way and be lost forever.

In the middle of the field, he finds a million raindrops suspended in the air in a perfect dome around two figures: masculine and an androgynous femme. They stand there together, frozen in time in Klimpts lover’s pose. It’s him -- or a creature he knows looks like him but isn’t him -- and he’s holding Kira’s face in that perfect expression of longing and adoration, kissing her cheek. She’s smiling, bittersweet, and holds her hand over his, knees bent. Were the figures not frozen like wax, she would be falling to the floor in a display of romantic rapture. Both figures eyes are closed in ecstasy. 

In this strange suspension of time, Jonathan can approach the lovers. He can even draw near enough to reach out and carefully move one of Kira’s hairs out of her face. Even though he had not touched her skin, the smell of it washes over him and for a passing instant, he’s no longer inside the field, but inside of her. She’s welcoming and patient. Cold, precise, and clever. The oldest soul he could imagine.

In this wash of comfort, he forgets the dream he’s in and attempts to touch her skin. But the rain begins to fall. He blinks -- or perhaps here, in this strange world, he does not need to, perhaps time or the universe around him blinked. Kira and this other Jonathan’s eyes are both wide as saucers, piercing him with a stare that penetrates his very core.

His doppelganger peels his face away from Kira’s to reveal that there was never a kiss at all. His mouth is attached to the skin of her cheek, tearing and bloody as he pulls away to separate himself from her. What remains of his mouth is a bloody mess, no teeth, no tongue, no opening, just a flat plane of bone and gore. The universe blinks again. He’s standing underneath this other Jonathan, pinned down by his ankles.

It’s surreal, like a dream. He can only see and understand that he is underneath this other Jonathan -- everything else is black. His doppelganger stands with his feet atop his ankles, and as he desperately tries to free himself and scurry away, his doppelganger grows larger and larger, heavier and heavier. As Jonathan’s energy wanes and exhaustion takes over his ability to struggle, he realizes that he cannot free himself because he is immaterial. Holding out his hands, he cannot bring them outward or backward. He’s two-dimensional, a literal shadow, stuck under the shape of his other self. Kira stands at the fringe of what he’s aware of and takes a pencil eraser to his edges, slowly whittling him away.

He can’t protest. Shadows can’t speak. He can’t move on his own; he’s only what’s left from the light touching that other version of himself.

The sight of his doppelganger and Kira fall down a long tunnel and again everything is water and currents in the deep.

He stands alone in a room in the familiar style of most Gotham architecture, but the walls, ceiling, and floor are all painted black and sticky to the touch. Stevie Nicks plays on the television and he’s fourteen again, humming along in the dark, praying to a God he doesn’t believe in that he won’t be caught.

Kira. Her face, emerging from a pool of opaque black ink.

“You’ll suffice,” she says. And then the flood gates open.

You’re nothing but a replacement. A band-aid for a wound that you didn’t cause. I love the idea of you, not you. My love is conditional. You’re unremarkable compared to the other you. He’s better in bed too. Why bother making yourself matter in my eyes? My thoughts of you are written in stone and you never got a chance to help write it. You’re just one more of countless other versions of you, each more likely to have his shit together than you do. Somewhere out there, Jonathan Crane let himself have happiness, why can’t you? Aren’t you supposed to be fear incarnate? Fear doesn’t have this much weakness. What’s wrong with you?

What’s wrong with you?

What’s wrong with you?

Mary Keeny strikes him in the back of the head with her cane and he hits the floor. He’s watching from the corner where the wall and the ceiling meet. Little Jonathan weeps and begs for forgiveness while his great grandmother continues to beat him senseless.

“What’s wrong with you?” She demands. “Why can’t you just be normal?”

[newbornwhumperfly]

some of them want to abuse you.

a tentative first chapter of my OC whump!verse (confusion will be cleared up eventually).

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The problem is, it’s too easy. Way, way too easy.

And it’s so fucking delightful.

Jorah didn’t think he’d ever get tired of that tiny startle, almost too brief to catch if you weren’t aiming to draw out that twitch from those still, solid muscles. Or that line of tension which threaded like a taut ribbon through the whole of the disposable’s body. Or the way that ugly, too-big, too-fucking-blank face shed a little of its flatness with a flicker of something, a bleeding of the tan in a sudden loss of color. A faint tremble in those rough hands, usually rare but which Jorah was quickly finding he could conjure up as quickly as he liked.

It didn’t go to his dick, necessarily, but it would be a lie to say it didn’t do something for him.

It was just so satisfying to see that smug mask crumple to reveal that look. That look, like a guilty child, caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It was hiding, that true face of perpetual guilt beneath a mask just waiting to be peeled back by Jorah’s precise and brutal scalpel. Nobody else could see it. They were all fooled by his meek attitude, his ridiculous compliance, his sucking up routine that would be sickening if it wasn’t so dangerous. But Jorah could see that guilt beneath the bullshit and it was only getting easier to reveal that true face to the world.

Soon, someday soon, Morja wasn’t gonna be able to keep the mask in place anymore and he’d be revealed to the world (to the team) for what he really was.

But for now, Jorah was plenty content to let him stew in the knowledge that Jorah both saw and hated what lay beneath the mask. He sighed out a cloud of smoke as he let the nicotine wash over him, a pleasant buzz though less and less able to soothe his roiling thoughts.

“Bored already, lazy fuck?”

Jorah could see his drawl strike the disposable like an electric shock, going rigid from his momentary slump, the brief respite he stole from his labor. Not that the work, the “extra chores” he’d been “assigned” (by Jorah), shouldn’t be making him bone-weary of course. But calling attention to moments of stillness always puts that weird expression on the disposable’s face.

Why would he always look so guilty if he didn’t live in guilt? Why did he look so fucking scared when he was supposedly so innocent, so fucking loyal now?

No.

He was hiding something, concealing his nature, even if Jorah couldn’t prove it yet. In the meantime, Jorah would still give him plenty real to fear. Consider it his patriotic duty to make this lying fuck suffer.

The disposable straightened from where he hunched over the hover-engine with the miniature scrubber and oilbrush, tools far too little to airbrush an engine that size with any kind of success. Not that Morja knew that or could complain if he did. Cleaning the hover was painstaking, once-a-month work that everyone hated. So it was perfect for Morja.

(This was almost as satisfying as giving Morja a bristle brush rather than an industrial mop to scrub the dining hall tiles. Oh, that had been fucking hilarious.)

Before Morja could answer the rhetorical question, Jorah cut him off with a raised hand and beckoned with two crooked fingers; the disposable hastened to comply. He was such a fucking kissass and, while it was transparent as all fuck (at least to Jorah), it was still kind of enjoyable.

He waited until Morja stood before him, at ramrod attention with hands gracefully clasped behind him. God, who’d he think he is? A soldier? Jorah blew smoke into that smug little face, curiously observing that the disposable did not cough or gag but rather stood still as a statue while holding his breath as the cloud dispersed. Eyes watering, throat clicking, but no outburst. Fucking one-upping little cocksucker.

“You need something to keep you energized?”

Jorah gestured vaguely with the smoking arm as he used it to grab a soda and Morja’s eyes followed that hand.

“Thirsty?”

Morja’s eyes snapped back to Jorah’s face where they fucking belonged and Jorah smirked. Ungrateful, disrespectful fuck.

“No, s-...Lt. I am fully capable, thank you, Lt. I have finished the task.”

Again, with that disgusting face he made! That guilty fucking worry etched into his face. No fucking way this guy was only in his thirties, his lines were already beginning to show. Being a chronic liar and a degenerate killer must make you age faster.

Jorah sipped his drink thoughtfully, pretending to wait while he eyed a single drop of sweat roll down Morja’s neck. He licked his lips appreciatively, not just at the proof of strain but at the perfect line is made down the disposable’s broad neck. He was kind of body-hot for a disposable, no denying it. Even a blind straight guy could see it and no doubt Morja’s legs were always spread wide open to whoever on Jorah’s team could appreciate that infuriating fact. Nobody kisses and tells but Jorah fucking knows he’s gotta be fucking at least one of them. Brax for sure and probably Cobi or Sarai.

He’s not worthy to lick their fucking toes, let alone take any one of them to bed. It makes Jorah’s blood simmer in protective fury.

“Show me.”

Morja nods sharply and leads Jorah to the engine as he runs his hands over every inch. It is as neat and smooth and clean as can be reasonably expected from the tools Morja’s used.

“Don’t like it. Do it again.”

Something quivered on the edge of Morja’s mouth - anger? God, Jorah hoped so. It would be more delicious than he can bear imagining having a legitimate excuse to put his hands on this fucker.

Not that Brax would approve, Jorah thought viciously. The boss had been starry-eyed over this traitor for weeks, probably cause Morja was spreading his legs for Brax. The thought curdled, an odd furious heat in his gut that caused an involuntarily curl of his fingers. Brax was far too good, a thousand times too brilliant, to stick their dick anywhere near this...this...

Jorah forced himself to breathe, huffing through his nose as he clenched his free fist as though he could somehow squeeze the rage out of his own flesh.

But no. Whatever it was vanished almost immediately and the disposable bowed slightly at the waist as his arms slung to cover his front, hand hooked on wrist like a fucking butler, businesslike and polite.

“I apologize. I have failed to properly clean the engine-”

“Isn’t that what I literally just fucking said?”

Morja’s stupid mouth snapped shut. Jaw worked. Opened.

“S-sir, Lt. Jorah, while I am, of course, am grateful for this task...I feel like I should, that I might, remind the Lt. that our team has an early transport tomorrow. A minimum of rest is required for maximum efficiency.”

Our team. The way it slipped so casually from his forked fucking tongue. So naturally, like he actually considered Jorah’s team to be his. The motherfucking audacity made Jorah’s hand tremble as he raised the cigarette for another drag, noting how Morja’s gaze tracked his hands. Eyed the cigarette. The fist. Oh. That’s definitely fear now, dancing spark-bright in Morja’s shadowed eyes.

Good. Good. Good.

“You disposables are known for that, right? Efficiency. Endurance. But you can’t even clean a goddamn engine properly, even though it’s the second time tonight?! Wasting time, wasting supplies, wasting time on you.”

Jorah kept his tone measured but knew the disgust seeped through based on how the disposable’s hands shook at his sides; it was barely perceptible but still went like a shiver to Jorah’s gut. Maybe a tad lower.

“Wasting my fucking breath explaining this shit to, staying awake to supervise your stupid fuck-ass job so you don’t fuck it up for all of us.”

That wasn’t true at all. Jorah could’ve gone to bed a while ago but it was too rare that he got to openly revel in disposable’s discomfort and he wasn’t gonna waste it. The satisfaction was doing him wonders, more than sleep would offer. Still...at his spat words, Morja’s broad shoulders shrugged inwards, clasped hands hitching higher to cover his gut while those gnarled fingers clenched sporadically. Finally, some goddamn worry.

He briefly wondered if he should try to make him beg (it probably wouldn’t be too difficult in this exhausted, nervous state) before dismissing it. That had only happened twice and it wasn’t worth riling the fucker up that much if the team wasn’t around to experience the fallout, the sloppy awkward pathetic struggle to pull his mask back up that made him less perfect than usual. The disposable was buffer, older, wider, better at committing calculated violence than Jorah - and yet he was making the assassin squirm like a bug on a pin.

Jorah drew another long puff from the cigarette before flicking the ash at Morja’s feet. Those dark eyes watched the white flakes flutter to the floor, one more thing for him to take care of.

Morja weasels in with his team? Worms his slimy, dark way into their too-big, too-kind hearts? Not on Jorah’s fucking watch. He’ll protect his team, no matter what it takes.

“Do it again.“

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

i hope y'all like this, i’ve never done this before. be gentle with the new whump writer :)

[at-the-exd-of-everythixg]

😴 ][For Dae. Also yes, every time you post a meme I become a gremlin with grabby little hands][

@blind-mutant

"Diamond, I want you to try again." Iris - the golden mother, smiled a fake smile and nudged her head towards the body that was tied up and moaning. It wasn't the moaning that was good when Doe or Morde or Undine were around, all noises were bad noises when Iris and Dae were there.

Diamonds were sticking out of this thing that was once a man but now he was a part of Dae, he was Dae. Dae could feel his pain and terror but it was so easy to take a deep breath and smother it with the calm feeling that always came when Iris used her golden strings. The strings that would take Dae away from this and make him forget that his eyes hurt, that they clicked strangely whenever he blinked and he wanted to badly to scratch and give in to the numb urge to peel away the useless skin but Iris had laid him out on the pain table and taught him a lesson in why he wasn't allowed to play with what was her property and assets.

His hair was short and barely curling, nothing like the smooth slicked black hair that his new part had. Black diamonds with the brightest purple hue tore out of human skin. His flesh still caught and tore, it didn't burn away and peel like Dae's own skin. He wondered if it hurt the man as badly as it did to him. Made him loose feeling in his fingers like it made him lose his kind and cut him away from Mordecai and Peach and all the other redheaded thoughts that curled up safely in the wombs. He wondered a lot of things but he always made sure to look up and listen to Iris.

"Peel and mould, like I've said." She's smiling but Dae can see a blank and ruined face in her sheening eyes. Dread. Its then that the man starts withering again, gagging and whimpering when Dae juts and rocks his neck around and diamonds start to move forward again. They rip out of his skin and theh curl around him, keeping him safe and unbreakable. Dae wonders about needing him one day, and whether this man will rise with the rest of his parts to help him for things. Whether death could break a diamond.

The man stops twitching when Dae wants him too and Dae himself is left panting, faint sweat shining for the barest second before it hardens and takes away all feeling in his hands. He doesn't cry at the feeling anymore. But he feels his mouth tugging slightly as Merajo strolls by with a lanky Doe, both of them standing still and analysing everything about Dae's new diamond. They needed to know how to become him and Merajo needed to put this part with all the rest of Dae. But its not what he cares about, not when he can already taste the dirt of so many on his ruined tongue.

"Did I not tell you that it would work today?" Iris is smiling and now its finally warm and now Dae feels his mouth doing the same. Thy both knew he had earned the right to not be buried alongside the rest of his parts. But he had earned something possibly even better. "Y-yes th-tha-th-th-"

She waits and he's weak and grateful for the power she's given him, that he isn't a normal human child but hers and someone who has earned the rare treat of warmth as a covered hand rests on his cheek and her wrist is sliced open to reveal gold worm-like threads. "Th-thank y-you m-muh-Mummy."

Dae sits up and he feels sick. Sick at the sudden memory and the calm thoughts at the time, sick that he was like that and hungry for her praise and that he's possibly even hungrier for praise. Especially as Rhys is so willing to feed him it.

But mostly, Dae is sick at the familiar taste of dirt on his tongue that's never really left.

He can't wash it out, seeing as he didn't really have teeth and the acid was at its strongest in his saliva. But Dae could slowly roll out of bed, wincing at the sudden tight feeling between his ruined skin and the mask he wore when sleeping to ensure Rhys's safety. He was going to have to peel it off and Dae felt like that might as well happen at four am. He wouldn't be able to sleep again after all, might as well get started on some daily chores or chores that he left long enough because Rhys gave him a distraction. Maybe some stardew or animal crossing? He needed to finish his landscaping...

He walked to the kitchen and the diamond-studded man tried to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking as he searched for the cup that only he could use as well as a knife. It was going to be a long day and he wanted to be semi presentable for when his beloved marshmallow rose from the pits to get some coffee.

[mademoisellegush]

Foolish Heart

pairing: Chargestep, (Julia/F!Sidestep)  warnings: adult themes, minor spoilers for one scene of the retribution open alpha in the last part  1716 words  beta’d by @echoise

You don’t know what it is, but there’s something about Solana that feels… real. 

Undeniable, palpable in a way nothing has been since you fell and woke. She laughs at one of your dumb jokes, and there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to make that happen again.

“Idiot,” she sighs, but the corners of her lips turn up, grey eyes crinkling, alight, and something churns in your gut at the sight. Nerves, you think, and pick her up like she hates, making use of your whole extra twelve inches over her to carry her around to Anathema’s vexing delight and Sentinel’s fond disapproval. You like putting your hands on her, and how she calls out your name, julia julia julia-

 You stay up braiding each other’s long hair like schoolgirls, sitting on your shitty couch in your apartment that feels too constraining compared to the ranch of your childhood, and when she scoots closer after to watch some movie she’s never seen and you put your arm around her, the twist your stomach does isn’t a surprise.

You tell her “I’ve never kissed another woman before,” courage singing in your veins, hands shaking as you peel off her mask, the smell of plasma and blood and sweat in your throat, and then you kiss her, nervous and bold, and something inside you breaks a little at how unreal this all feels.

You dream, and she’s astride your hips, fully dressed like always while you’re still in your nightshirt, she leans over and kisses your neck. She tugs your braid, and you feel the shape of her body, soft flesh and muscles against your own, calloused hands over your chest, she moves and back in your bed you-

You never want to wake up.

You crash asleep wearing last week’s clothes, breath heavy with grief and beer, and you dream. You keep seeing her, and how she looked as she stepped out, and-

You go to sleep, and you keep dreaming of her. It hurts to see the sun, because that’s what she called you (Iliotropo, ilio, sunflower), and that’s what you called her (sol, sol, sol, the sun bright and shining down on you as she held your hand across the table while you ate dinner with your mamá), so you stay inside, blackout curtains drawn, and burn through public goodwill like the flames licking your broken heart.

You go to sleep, and you remember-

-pushing her down on your couch and she’s watching you and you kiss along her neck and she laughs when your half-undone braid falls on her face and you laugh too. You don’t think about it when she tugs you to kiss you, devour you, face in her hands, you can’t control the static in your brain and in your skin when you finally, finally understand the hunger (for you, she wants you, the most genuine person you’ve ever known sees you as you are, and still chooses you) and then-

 Nothing, because she panics when-

 She panicked. So you set ground rules for yourself and you paid so much more attention because you couldn’t believe you hadn’t been careful enough; you let her initiate everything because you wanted her to know she was in charge; you-

You wake up, alone in the dark, and you cry. 

You see her again, seven years after everything shattered. 

You feel like you’re falling all over again, and “Solana? Is that you?” slips past your lips and spills over her like a wave; chocolate cake crumbs drop everywhere, and the frown she wears is hers; blushes, red red red like her scarf (that you shoved in a box after Heartbreak, then wore for years and years until it was all frayed and washed out and you cried, like a child, over an article of clothing), and for a precious moment you’re a decade younger and you’ve just stolen a kiss, two, three, against a wall before going out to speak to the cameras. Foolish, foolish heart, and you want to reach out and touch her, make sure that it’s her (you’ve heard things, you’ve seen things, and you can’t believe-) but you also know how she gets, you remember the panic, so you let her pick the pace. 

You talk, and she talks, and she lets some things she didn’t want to tell you escape her, and that hurts (and you feel betrayed, but not by her, never by her, you should have been better). Not the knowledge she hides things from you, but the fact you couldn’t help her, can’t help her. You let her down and now she doesn’t trust you enough to ask for help again. This is on you.

You love her, except now it’s not a realization while you grieve. It’s tangible, she’s right opposite you, and if you tear up when she hugs you first you don’t mention it. Nothing can happen, but you can still hold her.

 You’re wide awake, and the sun is shining on your face and in your arms.

You use your time at the dojo well. You have many worries on your mind, and miles to go before you sleep but now, with your past catching up, you still find your thoughts turning back to Solana. You left with the promise to see her again, her number and the assurance she would (reluctantly) try to help Angie. She's got issues of her own, still desperate to build walls and hold it all within herself, but you broke those down the first time. You've seen her secret garden of roses, the best of herself that shines through even if she refuses to admit it.

Speaking of roses, that’s the reason you’re here this morning. From afar she looks… very familiar, but you know that already. Grey eyes, brown hair, a wide open face belying caution. You put on your most dazzling smile, because you know she is someone’s iron in the fire, and this is one acquaintance you must cultivate. She’s fighting pretty hard against some invisible enemy, so you approach carefully, hakama and belt marking how you do belong here, maybe more than she does. Like your Rangers suit, or whatever you throw on to go under the spotlights. Masks that you wear, and only ever one person seemed to get through to the real you - lost now, because even if you got her back, you didn’t. 

Silly Julia.

She’s crying. She’s crying, and you’re not proud of yourself, but. You tell her she looks like a friend of yours, “more than a litte,” and she seems puzzled by that (so are you, foolish heart, that something in Rose reminds you of your sun) and you laugh, and you flirt, and she flirts back, and so you can keep an eye on her, and for once something in your lonely, lonely life seems to go right.

One (side)step forward, two steps back, one sunflower lost, one rose found.

You wake to find her at the hospital, looking oh so worried at the machines beeping around you. Not the first time, not the tenth, and you’re reminded of a lifetime ago when she kept watch almost like this (you were in your suit, not these frills, and she was in hers, not those randomly thrown on sweaters and scarves, and she had held your hand when you woke and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, not even jumping at the static, and you had loved her a little more for it). You call her close to you, and she looks, grieving, and it hits you then, how much she hurts, but you're hurting too, and you can't let it show.

You almost kiss, but you make the mistake of bringing up your date - and how was she supposed to take it, being replaced, being left out, even if nothing had been going on and she had rejected your invitation - and she offers to come see her, see Rose. You say no, because... you're embarrassed, because you do like Rose, but you love Solana, but nothing is clear with her and with the way your investigation is going you can't let her get involved, not unless she wants to. And not with this new villain, who put nearly all the Rangers in the hospital. 

She walks out, not even listening to you as you yell after her disappearing form that you'll talk later, and you press down on your foolish little heart.

Whatever bits weren't crushed under your broken rib, anyway.

You’ve never been so content. So peaceful. It has nothing to do with after-sex relaxation, intimacy raw in your teeth, on your tongue, in your heart; healing at last from half a decade of regrets with a heartbeat-

a heartbeat-

no heart but your own in your lonely blacked out room.

The sheets still smell like her, like you; your skin still bears the scrapes and the kisses and the tears you both shed over the other like ablutions washing off everything left unsaid to leave behind only the certainty that she was there, in your arms, and she held you in turn, and she said your name again like she did a lifetime ago -julia julia julia, and then, ilio, ilio, my heart - and you traced her scars in the dark, no light to guide you but that the certainty this was real, so real.

You know this, because you sat with her on your couch, smelling human, feeling human and known, the culmination of twelve years of loneliness and tragedy that had burrowed in your bones like worms in a corpse. 

And she said…

and she spoke… 

and she revealed…

terrible, terrible things, and she had to calm you down, and for that and many things more you are ashamed.

No light in your apartment, but what little comes in from outside. You caress the camellia, not yet blossoming, on the table, a relic. Like you, but the plant must be treated much more reverently than yourself. Maybe you’ll grow your hair back, when all is said and done, and go back to Sol’s hands in your hair, swift and tender, braiding it as it used to be. 

Today, there are things you must do, and then. Tomorrow, you’ll seek the sun.

[ausp-ice]

So, I've started an RP with @the-valiant-valkyrie in the DST Superpowers AU - working title is Apparitions, though that may change.

@tinkering-survivor joined in later but that's later and some others are in the docket for joining later scenes as well

ANYWAYS, we've decided to post the log publicly, scene by scene! I'll probably try to make companion art for each one. Here's the first one! It may be a little disjointed at times, since this is an RP.

Rest in peace, formatting. Copypasta does nothing for you, and neither does my laziness.

Apparitions, Scene 1: First Encounter Words: 2166 Featuring: Wren/Incisura (Mine), Wenzel/Raffle ( @the-valiant-valkyrie​ ) Archive | 1 2 3 4 5 6

Incisura stood balanced on the edge of a building, breathing in the cold night air. Their gaze was fixed on a point in the distance. A point at which the flashes of clashing powers disturbed the night - yet another conflict between the heroes and villains.

It would be hard not to notice. Little fits and fights like this were always rather... Loud. Bright, and colorful- it would be quite the interesting display if it wasn't a hazard to any bystanders.

They leapt from the edge, dark tendrils extending from their body to break their landing in a dark alleyway.

A shame something so hazardous was... Such a beacon to curious sorts... It screamed danger, yet how could one help but examine it...

Incisura started, looking to and fro. They weren't alone here. Someone else was this close to the battle? Not running like many others would, as well.

The wind blew through Raffle's hair as he sat on the roof, eyeing down the chaos a little below him... He really shouldn't have been here... Hell'd be unearthed if anyone knew... But he simply couldn't quite help his young curiosity.

Incisura looked up at building near the one they just left, squinting to see a vague shape on the roof. Curious. Dark tendrils extended from them again, and they scaled the building of the onlooker.

He didn't quite seem to notice right away, far too busy with trying to find the best angle to examine the chaos unfurl down below

They reached the roof, silently approaching the person, but stopping a few feet away. "What are you doing here?" Their voice cut through the air like a blade, clear despite the noise of the battle.

It startled him. Clearly. He jumped in surprise, twisting in an instant, automatically tossing his hood over his head, which did only little good in concealing his face. The kid couldn't have been any older than nineteen or so.

Icy eyes peered at him from behind a gleaming white mask. The contrasting black and white of their cloak flowed in the breeze as they tilted their head. "You seem rather young. A hero in the making? A villain finding a purpose? Though I must say, that, well, hmm. Your... costume isn't doing much to conceal your identity."

"It's fine..." He muttered under his breath, only pulling it up further without quite realizing his doing so,

"Neither of us should be here, anyways- but you're not really hiding yourself, either."

They seemed to look a little sheepish. "Well. My face isn't revealed, at least. Though the 'flashiness'... It's a worthy sacrifice for style. I just can't help myself." They approached the edge of the roof near him, acting as though their conversation partner did not look as though he was about to bolt. They looked once more to the battle. "Regardless. Should, should not. All subjective. Everything people do is for a reason, one way or another. I am simply here to watch. And perhaps lend a hand, if that time comes."

He glanced as they moved, silently tracking their movements as he wondered what to make of the stranger. He hadn't met one willing to stay so close to a battle without being a part of it before. Wenzel wasn't sure what to make of it,

"... Well, that makes two of us, then... I guess..."

Their eyes flicked to him, curiosity sparking within their eyes. "Oh? Interesting." They turned to face him, extending a hand. It seemed to be covered in some sort of black material, with claws attached to the tip of their fingers. "Call me Incisura. I suspect we'll see more of each other in the future."

He stared at the extended hand a moment, scrutinizing it as though as soon as he went to touch it the thing would lunge out and bite him. It took a while for Wenzel to deem it apparently safe, shaking it with the same hesitation,

"... Raffle..."

As they pulled their hand back, a powerful explosion shook the building. A mild screaming grew in volume until one of the participants in the battle crashed on their roof, cracks spiderwebbing from her form. She rolled over, spotting the two clearly-not-suspicious people on the roof. "Ah." Incisura froze. "It seems we're about to become involved."

Wenzel was paralyzed- glued to the spot. He should get out of there. He should really get out of there. If he got tangled up in some superhero mess, and Mr Robert found out he couldn't imagine how chewed out his ear would be by the end of it.

But he couldn't move. He'd never been so close before. Wenzel hadn't a plan for if something like this were to happen.

He glanced up at the stranger, and then down to the super on the ground.

A wind rushed past them as another one joined them on the roof, ice crackling from her hands as she landed before the one from before. "It's the end. You can't escape-" It was then that she noticed the Incisura and Raffle, who still haven't moved from the edge.

The unknown hero used this beat to their advantage, pushing themselves from the ground and attempting a charge. The faster one could get the confrontation from off the roof, the safer the bystanders would be.

The villain laughed and froze the floor of the roof, attempting to freeze everything on its surface. Incisura at last moved, leaping from the floor to hang from the building's water tower.

They were frozen to the spot almost instantly- and so was Wenzel for that matter, who hadn’t the sense in that head of his to move in time. Her eyes flickered to her weapon a few feet away, and the bystanders a few feet away on her other side, finally landing on her foe... This would have been much easier without any interference

"Oh, you make this too, too easy." In a flash, they stood behind Raffle, hovering a hand over his chest. "I can end his life in an instant. Just one blade, cleanly through the middle. Surrender, Saber, and perhaps I'll let both of you live." Incisura, hand frozen to the tower, gripped the cold metal tightly. Should they make their move now...?

He couldn’t breathe. Could barely move. His pulse drummed astronomically loud in his throat, and his body felt cold (for reasons other than the fact there was ice covering the floor, and his feet were frozen to the spot). His eyes flickered to get the faintest glimpse of who would probably be his murderer. Oh, jeez, if Mr Robert found him dead in the papers, he’d be pissed.

“Cut the act. We both know that boy’s worthless to me. Do you know him? Should I? Go ahead and waste the energy, see where it gets you...”

A grin like gash spread across her face. "Do you really think that? The PR will be terrible. The name of Winter will be across the headlines, and so will yours! But, if you say so..." the cold gathered in her hands, frost crackling ominously.

The sound of shattering breached the air, a dark red tendril rushing to push Raffle out of the way just as the icicle burst into existence-

He gasped in relief- or tried to, in between fumbling to the ground. It was long enough a pause for Saber to worm her feet in the icy turf, breaking herself lose and automatically leaping a few feet away, back into a prepared stance.

Raffle was shaking like a leaf.

Winter hissed, irritated at the interference. Incisura stood between them all, red globules of liquid floating around them ominously. "That's quite enough, isn't it?" They pulled down the cloth covering the bottom half of their face, just as the liquid sharpened and shot towards both Winter and Saber, aiming to draw just the smallest bit of blood...

The redhead eyed the things with something along the lines of intrigue, but dashed out of their line of range, before it found any place to strike. No chance she was going to let yet another person strike her when she was already in her own battle.

The strike at Winter proved true, however, piercing Winter's shoulder. It quickly retracted. Incisura narrowed their eyes. Well, one should be enough. They lifted their hand to 'carry' the droplet to their mouth, concealing their consumption of the blood. Winter instantly gasped, coughing out blood and dropping to the ground, clutching her chest. Incisura turned to Saber. "She'll live. Perhaps." They approached Raffle, still trembling on the ground. "Raffle? Raffle, were you hit?" They spoke under their breath.

Saber glanced, almost concerned at the state of the villain before her, but wasted no time retrieving her spear and taking it to her adversary, willing to grasp for any semblance of an upper hand.

Raffle was still shaking, a hand reaching to touch to his shoulder, feeling the warmth of blood finally starting to thaw the... Chill of the wound,

"It hurts..." He muttered gently, at too much of a loss for anything better to say, "It hurts..."

"Ah, shoots." They threw a quick glance over their shoulder, before looking back at Raffle and gently applying pressure to the wound. "I can help you. Do you trust me? I know we've only met, but... yours is not a life that should be lost, I feel."

"Please if you can help then do it-" He gritted, quickly, "I think there's something still stuck in there- I can't move it-"

"Very well," they whispered, before running their bloodstained hand across their tongue. The blood around them seemed to peel off the ground, and the bleeding slowed. "Sorry about this. I can't have anyone nearby while I'm.... ...." They used their tendrils to lift Raffle and leap into the darkness to find a hiding place, careful not to jostle the wound but unavoidably doing so.

He didn't seem to notice much aside from getting picked up. He winced every so often when he was carried around a little too carelessly, one hand gripping to his wound. Goodness, how was he gonna explain this one, then.

They eventually found a rooftop concealed in shadows, and Incisura put him down as gently as they could. "Now, hold still." They closed their eyes, and reached for the energy of his blood, using it to slowly dislodge the ice within and reconstruct his wound. The sounds of the world dropped away, all of their mind focused on the boy before them.

He continued to pant every so often, wincing on occasion, but didn't dare move. He hadn't a clue what this stranger was doing, but didn't doubt that any twitch might cause some serious complications. Wasn't that always the case with magic.

A limb formed from blood seemed to extract the remaining ice, and before long, all the remained of the wound was a faint scar with a faint ache - all the blood gathered and returned to his body. They let out a heavy breath, slipping to their knees before him.

"W... Wow..." Raffle tenatively tapped where the wound was a couple of times, "That's pretty neat, str-" His delayed sense of perceptiveness finally kicked in, and he stared as Incisura simply... Went down like that.

"You alright? Oh god- don't... Like, die, or anything-"

A long moment passed before they answered. "I'm..... fine. It's difficult to reconstruct wounds. Easier to inflict them or prevent them from getting worse. And I haven't... really done it in a while." They laughed a little breathlessly, waving a hand haphazardly. "I'm sure someone your age has somewhere to go, don't you? I'll be fiiiine." Their speech seemed a little slurred, and their eyelids were drooping, as if they were about to fall unconscious on the spot.

"You... You sure...?" He did have places to be, it was true... Though it also seemed the stranger was in no condition to be left there,

"You... You'd be fine there on the floor if I just went...?"

"Absoluuuutely. Let me just. Lie down. For a moment." They proceeded to plonk onto the cold stone.

He stared at them.

"I... I don't think you're alright... But I also really have to go, so..." He gave an uncomfortable thumbs up, "Thank you, for that... That was real neat of you to save my life like that-"

"..." They stared at the sky. "I did what I felt was right. That's the only thing you can be sure of, in a world like this. And... I think we'll see each other again. Some company on lonely evenings is... nice..." They closed their eyes.

He stared at them for a little while, debating whether or not to move... Their eyes were closed, though even so the pale hue that radiated off of him was rather bright, even through the barrier of one's eyelids. A little luck could only do the fellow so good.

He didn’t stick around afterward, disappearing into the early eve.

[chibinightowl]

Under a Starlit Sky

For @charcoal-soul and inspired by a recent conversation we had about swimming pools and specifically, swimming at night. 

~*~*~

The water in the swimming pool lapped gently at Jason’s bare skin as he lay there on the surface, staring up through the open skylights at the stars above. Here in Gotham, this was the closest he could get to finding the same sense of serenity he’d found back on the island with Kory and Roy. Out there, surrounded by the sea, the sand, and the night sky, Jason had finally found a way to calm his demons. Not purge them entirely, no, that wasn’t ever going to happen, but floating in the warm embrace of the water, contemplating the stars and the infinite void of space gave him a perspective on things, that out there somewhere, there was another being whose life had to suck more than his.

When he felt the itch beneath his skin, reminding him that nothing he did was ever good enough, that he wasn’t good enough, he came here to the penthouse at the top of Wayne Tower to make use of the massive swimming pool that no one ever used and yet was still meticulously maintained for appearances. At first, he snuck in, having created a diversion for his former family that would keep them busy for a couple hours so he could reclaim what passed as his inner peace. He’d tried other places before, but they were too open, too public. Up here, he was still surrounded by walls of bulletproof glass and some of the best security systems known to man.

He needed that sense of security, of protection. Not quite someone watching over him, but rather, knowing that someone would be here in a flash if he were to come under attack. Back with Roy and Kory, it had been enough to know his best friends were there, the fact that one of them was a superpowered alien princess who was also one of the finest warriors in the universe helped soothe his nerves. Here, Jason knew that if a mouse so much as farted where it wasn’t supposed to, the security system would soon have a Bat coming to check up on things.

It wasn’t the same, not by a long shot, but it helped.

So Jason floated in the pool, drifting here and there with the flick of a hand or foot, staring up at the sky. He missed how clear and bright the Milky Way appeared when there was no light pollution to distort it. Some nights he’d come up here only to find no stars visible at all, the view blocked by a thin layer of clouds and the yellow glow of the city lights reflecting off them. In a way, it had its own charm and Jason’s thoughts would instead drift downwards to the city below, imagining he could feel the pulse of Gotham’s heart beating through each and every one of them, if only they knew how to listen.

Tonight though, the sky was clear and Jason could pick out familiar stars and constellations. His mind provided images of other stars, a couple of which he’d traveled to.

Wasn’t that a kick in the pants? A Gotham street rat who’d traveled amongst the stars in an alien spaceship and having the kind of adventures that Edgar Rice Burroughs could only dream of. Perhaps he should take pen to paper and make a record of his travels, changing only the names to protect the so-called innocent. The thought amused him, and he smiled softly, kicking slightly to keep himself in the center of the pool.

Jason ducked his head fully under the water momentarily. If he was at the point where he could smile again, it was time to leave. The water and the sky had done their jobs and he was feeling more comfortable in his skin again.

He drew a deep breath and fully submersed himself, drifting in complete weightlessness and utter silence, the last of his tension releasing itself into the water.

Resurfacing, Jason shook his head, sending droplets of water flying every which way. He started swimming towards the side of the pool, his powerful body slicing through the water with practiced strokes.

So lost in his own head that Jason didn’t notice the toes of boots on the edge of the pool until he was almost right on top of them. Rearing back, he startled, treading water as he spotted Dick standing there in his Nightwing uniform, sans the mask.

Dick, the brother who he shared a most definite unbrotherly relationship. To this day, Jason wasn’t certain what they were exactly, but it worked for them.

“What are you doing here?” Jason asked quietly. He wasn’t upset per se, but this time was his and not something he’d ever shared with anyone who had grown up in the Batcave.

“Checking on you,” Dick replied neutrally. “You were floating for longer than usual.”

Jason snorted and ducked back under the water. Of fucking course his little sanctuary wasn’t quite as private as he thought. Rising again, he wiped away the water in his eyes. “How long?”

Dick shrugged. “We all know you break in here sometimes, but since there’s never any damage, Bruce lets it slide.”

“I don’t break everything I touch,” Jason snapped. The words had struck a nerve that was always open and raw. He knew better than to believe he would ever have a happily ever after, but he’d at least thought Dick believed in him somewhat.

“I didn’t say you did,” the other man replied, kneeling gracefully so that he was on a more even level with Jason. “In case you missed it, I said I was here to check on you; not tell you to leave.”

Privately, Jason could admit he’d glossed over that part. It was still an odd feeling to have someone looking out for him because they cared rather than because they expected something out it. Roy, Kory, Dick, hell, even the Pretender to an extent. His mind shied away from Alfred. That still hurt too much to think about.

“Well, I’m just fine and dandy, so unless you want a show, go fly away and bother someone else.” Jason grabbed the side of the pool and hoisted himself up, water streaming down his bare body. He never wore a swimsuit when he did this. Part of what helped soothe the raw parts of his psyche, of his soul, was removing all barriers so he could feel the ebb and flow of the water over his skin. There was something meditative and entirely sensual about it, but damn if he would admit that to Dick now.

Dick rose and stepped aside but didn’t leave, openly gazing at Jason’s naked body, probably checking him over for injuries that for once he didn’t have.

No, those were all on the inside tonight.

“Does it work?” Dick asked, gaze flicking to the open water and back to Jason.

“Does what work?” Jason strode over to his pile of clothes and body armor. His t-shirt acted as a towel more often than not and tonight was no exception.

“That,” Dick said, gesturing at the pool. “Just…drifting.” There was a wistful note in his voice, one that made Jason remember that he wasn’t the only one who’d had a lifetime of shit and misery to deal with.

“It helps me,” he replied, pulling on his briefs.

Dick contemplated the water while Jason dressed. “How does it work when it leaves you so open and vulnerable?”

Ah, there was the heart of it. The part Jason himself had the hardest time accepting. “When I started doing this a few years ago, Roy and Kory were there with me. Just close enough to hear me if I shouted. Here…,” this part hurt to admit, but Dick needed to know so that he’d understand. “Here, I know that if something happens, a shout will have all of you scrambling your asses to help me.”

That made Dick crack a small smile. “So you do trust us.”

“No, I trust that Bruce doesn’t want to deal with the property damage and media attention that follows if something happened up here.”

The small smile blossomed into the familiar Dick Grayson grin that had wormed its way into Jason’s frosty heart to take root. “It’s a start.”

Dick peeled off his gloves and dropped them on the pool deck, then started removing the rest of his uniform until he was the one as bare as the day he was born standing there next to a fully dressed Jason. It was a vulnerable position the man was putting himself in, but if there was one thing Jason knew for certain about his brother, it was that his trust in people occasionally overrode his common sense.

In this case though, it wasn’t misplaced.

Vivid blue eyes glanced over at him. “Will you stay?” Dick asked softly.

Jason grabbed the back of Dick’s head, tangling his fingers in the windblown hair, and pressed their foreheads together. This close, he could feel the faster respirations of Dick’s breathing that revealed how on edge he really was. “Yeah,” he whispered, pressing a brief kiss onto Dick’s lips. “I’ll stay for as long as you need.”

[seasaltmemories]

celica alm cooking fluff plssssssssss

Celica’s calves burned from the walk up the stairs to her apartment.  She had told herself she should exercise more and taking the stairs instead of the elevator was an easy first step, but after a long day of working late, her body was regretting that decision.  As soon as let herself in, she kicked her heels off to the side, and peeled off the rest of her sweaty clothing until she was down to her underwear.  After running across the city and back in the hot sun, all she wanted to do was take a shower and then collapse into bed.  Tomorrow was going to be just as strenuous, so there was no need to drag today out any longer, even if that phone-call still hung in her mind.

However, before she could make it to the bathroom, she noticed the tv in the living room was still on.  As she went to turn it off she found Alm asleep on the couch.  Strange, he wasn’t the type watch much tv and doze off.    Figuring he’d prefer to sleep in his own bed, she nudged him gently.

“Mmhm?”  Alm groaned as  he lifted his head.  “Celica?”

“It’s me,” Up close, she noticed the stains lining his t-shirt and a glob of something smattered across the bridge of his nose.  Knowing him, Gray and the rest of the gang must have dragged him into something stupid, but that would be a story to hear another day. “You should wash up and get to bed.”

Slowly he began to sit up, stretching his limbs out like he was a cat.  “What time is it?”

“11:00pm.  Don’t worry, I’m gonna be joining you soon.”

Immediately his head snapped towards her, suddenly alert and lively.  “Ah! Good then I didn’t miss it!  Follow me!”  Before she could protest, he had already grabbed her hand and dragged her to the kitchen.  “Ta da!”  With a flourish he flicked the light-switch.  “Happy Birthday!”

Sitting on the counter was a plastic cake container with a note proclaiming the same cheery message. If it had been any other day she would at least appreciate the effort, but after everything that had happened, she couldn’t mask her disappointment.

“Alm...we talked about this.”  It had been bad enough having to spoil Mae and Boey’s attempt at a surprise lunch date.  “I just don’t really have the time for--”  She tried to search for the right words, but ended up coming up blank.  “--that.”  She gestured at the container.

Alm ran a hand through his hair  “I know you didn’t want to celebrate, but I thought something simpler could help make the festivities go down a bit easier.  So what if it isn’t a birthday cake, just one I happened to make this afternoon?  We can save it for tomorrow if you’re really too tired.”

In the light she could see it was flour that had gotten all over his clothes and face.  Considering the evening out together he had originally planned, Alm really was trying to meet her on her level.  It wasn’t like she disliked her birthday, but with her polling and research running her more ragged than usual on top of the other normal stresses of life, she felt as if she physically couldn’t relax, that if left doing nothing for too long she would snap and lash out at those just wanting to help her and ruin everything.    

Without warning, her stomach let loose a loud growl.  When she did the math in her head, she realized she hadn’t had any food since her quick lunch at 3.

“I guess one slice wouldn’t hurt.”

Alm’s smile was so bright, she thought it might blind her in that moment.  “Sounds great!  One slice coming up!”  With a flourish he removed the top...

...and revealed the saddest cake she had ever seen.  She hadn’t expected any homemade effort to be professional quality, but what frosting had managed to stay on the cake seemed to double its height.  The poor thing couldn’t even stand up straight.

She couldn’t help.  Immediately she broke in an ugly laugh, so hard she buried her face in her hands in an attempt to keep some measure of dignity.

“Hey! I worked very hard on it!” Alm scowled, but he couldn’t hide the flush slowly creeping up his neck.

“I know you did, honey.  I appreciate it, truly,”  She leaned forward to kiss his cheek.  “What matters the most is that it tastes good.”

Back in highschool, when imagining the grand and ambitious life she’d have once she left home, Celica hadn’t picture herself eating an ugly slice of cake in her underwear at midnight.  But as Alm and she ate (it actually turned out to taste pretty decent) something in her slowly began to still.  Ugh, somehow she always managed to forget just how much slowing down helped her, even when every bone in her body screamed not to.  Funny how humans were like that.  Repeating the same mistakes over and over again.  Really she was a pro at it.  But instead of beating herself over it, she tried to focus on the way Alm’s thumb skimmed over her knuckles.  It was harder to lose her head with him anchoring her.

When they both finished, Alm moved to put the cake up, but before he could leave, she squeezed his hand.

“Hmm?”  He raised an eyebrow.  With the way that flour was still caked across the bridge of his nose, she couldn’t help but smile and lean forward to wipe it off.

“Dad texted me today.”

Alm muttered something under his breath, yet from the way his grip tighten around her she knew more or less what he said.

“I thought you had blocked that bastard’s number?”

“And changed mine since the last time he pulled this stunt.”  Celica massaged the side of her temple with her free hand.  “But he must have been using his latest girlfriend’s phone bc I didn’t recognize the number and thought it might be one of the priests I’ve scheduled to interview.  And once I started reading....it was like a train-wreck, couldn’t look away no matter how much I wanted to.”

“What’d he say?”

“The same old about not being sure about how much time he has left,” She sighed as she pulled at a loose string.  It always felt like she pouring salt in an exposed wound right after she thought it had closed.  “And he tried to worm his way into getting an invitation to the wedding.”  

Alm let go of his hand to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek gently.  “Cel...don’t feel like you have to forgive him just it’s what you’re “supposed” to do.  You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your special day for other people’s happiness.  Least of all, his.”

“Oh the guilt is definitely there, but I feel like I’m handling it better,”  Despite her light pitch the bitterness steeped through all the same.  “Rather it feels like I have no choice.  If he was able to get my number he can probably figure out where its gonna be and invite myself.  I feel tied to being his daughter no matter what I do.”

Alm bit his lip--a common habit for when he was frustrated.  One one hand it was touching to see him emphasize so much with her, but on the other she hated making him suffer.

“I called my therapist about it.  When I get around to my next session we’ll be ready to tackle it.”

“Doesn’t make me want to try and fix everything any less,”  Alm pulled away, fists clenching and unclenching.  This was an old song and dance for them, yet that didn’t ease the pain a bit.  “You know I’m always willing to do whatever I can.”

“And I love you for that.”  It was Celica’s turn to stroke his arm.  Truly even this meant the world to her. “It doesn’t help that he offered to cover expenses.  Almost makes me want to tolerate him just so that money isn’t stuck sitting in his trust funds and--”

“--Celica, I would never ask that of you.”  Green eyes bore into her soul.  “I feel awful that you’ve had to be working yourself to death for me, but I promise once I pass the bar exam, things will get easier for both of us.”

She took that moment to study Alm closely, to really observe the man she would dedicate herself to in the matter of a few months and the worry that lined his face. My my in moments like this she could trace out the boy she first met, who had been doing his damnest to befriend the lonely, rich girl.

“Look at us--”  Celica gestured from her underwear, to the cake, then to the rest of the apartment, at a lost of what to say.  “--just...tripping over each to see who can do the most for the other.  I thought it was my job to overthink things.”

“We’re both the professional types,” Alm ran a hand through his hair.  “Professional disasters for now but one day we might get prompted on up to professional mess.”

“It will be quite exciting won’t it?”  Celica laughed.  The memories swarmed before her eyes, of the two of them sharing their dreams during homecoming, imagining the world that would wait for them once they left their small town. They had managed to survive high school together and even made it through undergrad all while thousands of miles apart.  The fact they made it this far would have blown her fourteen year-old mind.

“Hey, don’t worry about saving the world, Superman.”  This time she pressed a kiss to his nose.  “Just be my Clark Kent.”  Even with no clear solution to her father, the wedding, or tomorrow’s long hours, her shoulders still as if some of the weight had been lifted.

“Eh not sure if I can ever give up on the world,”  From the faraway look in his eye, he must have been reliving the past just like her.  “but you think it’s ok for now?”

The same tired side of her was ready to insist everything was fine, that she had to rush to bed so she could rush all tomorrow again.  However its tiredness seemed to have drained even her own weariness.

“Can we cuddle for a bit?”  She felt like a teen voicing such a desire.  “We’ve been out of sync with our schedule for a while now, and I’ve really missed it.”

Without another word, Alm wrapped her in his arms.  As Celica rested her head against his heart, she knew that everything they’ve been through would have all been worth it just to have this moment.  

A.N. Idk if I know how to fluff anymore, so some hurt/comfort as much as it got away from the prompt I am just happy to finish something

[lyricalt]

[ovw] damned if you do

Rating: T Ship: McGenji Note: Quick warm up, since god knows i haven’t been able to finish anything lately.  So, uhh…. Oni Genji/Incubus McCree, based off of McCree’s demon design here.  I didn’t have it in me to mention the piercings though.  Forgive me. For everything.

McCree doesn’t think too much about humans, but the one he’s snagged up for the night is interesting enough.  A sharp smile, clever gray eyes, and a boisterous laugh does a lot to spice up the same staple of mortal souls McCree’s been feeding on since his demonic existence.  The brighter the spirit, the fuller he’ll feel, and McCree’s already got his tongue running down one side of Genji’s neck in anticipation.

Genji makes a pleased noise, soft breath playing over McCree’s cheek.  He lowers himself down, willingly pressing himself into the cold linens.  Outside, the motel is still bustling and loud with a multitude of other evils, too seedy and wretched to completely hide with pretty promises.  McCree thinks the place still has its charms, but he’s a little surprised he’s manage to rope in someone so bright-eyed as Genji into a tiny room that stinks of smoke and drugs and decay.

Right now though, Genji looks like a full course meal, laying in the bed with the most delightful, hopeful grin.  He loops his arms around McCree’s shoulder, throwing one leg around his waist to reel in him.  His soul smells like lust and a little like wrath.  He’s going to be delicious.

McCree can’t resist taking a peek to see just exactly what kind of soul he’ll be feeding on.  He hovers over Genji, hungry smirk not quite hiding behind its literal meaning.  Humans can only see one out of the seven planes of existence, and McCree’s mortal disguise doesn’t so much as flicker as he checks the higher planes.  Genji’s soul shines luminescent up until the fourth plane, and then McCree’s vision starts to blur.

McCree pauses.  His mortal disguise only goes up to the fourth plane, mostly out of habit. Dredging up a human form for higher levels would be a waste of energy, especially only for a session of feeding.  

“Let me take a good look at you, kitten,” McCree says, easing back.  Both his hands and knees are on either side of Genji’s body.  He doesn’t touch anymore than that, and it gives him the excuse to stare down and check all seven planes of existence.

Humans are human on all seven dimensions.  Genji, on the fifth plane, fumes out darkness and tendrils.  On the sixth, McCree finds out he’s hovering over an oni with bulging eyes and a gaping maw.  

A second of horrified silence sinks between them before McCree reels away and Genji scrambles backwards, bedsheets scorching.

“Incubus!” Genji exclaims, sounding dismayed.  He had seen McCree’s true form the moment McCree peeked into the sixth plane.  His stretched out mouth rearranges itself into a grimace, oddly reminiscent of his pretty human form.

McCree isn’t too pleased himself, but Genji has the bearing of a higher demon with what markings McCree had picked up on during his brief glance. Probably some minor prince of a house in Hell or Yokai realm.  It likely meant Genji might be harboring a hell of a temper beneath his playful veneer.  

Not that it matters, as Genji’s actions as a human had been all a ploy, and McCree knows well enough to mind his sirs and sorrys when it comes to demons more powerful than him.

“I should warn you, I don’t taste very good,” McCree says, half-teasing, half-wary.  His soul and body are too thoroughly corrupt to eat, even for a higher demon such as Genji.  Supposedly. One could never tell these days.   “My mistake.”

Genji laughs and the sound is harsh, though McCree thinks it’s not directed at him.  Demonic laughter isn’t a noise that’s known to be soothing.  

“I truly wish I could say this was all part of my plan to devour you, but you are correct.  You’d taste horrid,” Genji says, shrugging.  His backed up position against the headboard relaxes as he sits up, crossed-legged.  Propping his chin into one hand, he leans forward to regard McCree with a different kind of interest, more critical now than the flirtatious gaze he’d been aiming at McCree just an hour ago.  His open shirt shifts, bearing the long marks down his chest where McCree had dug his fingers into, throat showing reddened splotches.  

McCree gives them a brief look, exasperated by the loss.  He had expended more magic than he should have, using glamour and charms to lure Genji—all of them useless in the end, which explains why McCree had initially thought Genji to be strangely resilient at first.  Resilient yet receptive on his own terms.  McCree should have figured it out sooner, but the guise of a playful rich boy looking for trouble makes a tempting target for human predators looking to take advantage.  Genji would have had no trouble finding a meal.

“Shame about that,” McCree agrees, hunger biting at him at the thought of food.  He can only go on for so long, feeding off the fumes of lust.  He checks back a sigh.  

The oni’s disguise is impressive, but at this point it’s a waste of magic.  McCree drops his own charms and smiles, peeling back his human disguise.  Smoke leaks from his body, crumpling in favor of his true form of scales and fire.  Aside from conserving energy, it’s the polite thing to do, especially after trying to seduce a fellow demon.  Honest mistake, really, but still awkward and uncomfortable, like trying to sell a coworker the exact same terrible product you both knew was shit.

Genji glances at him, apparently finding McCree’s demonic form unnoteworthy, and also shifts.  His flashy clubbing clothes melts away into dark-fitted robes, face coagulating into the rounded eyes and grinning maw with fangs McCree had seen earlier.  He pauses, putting his hand to his face, the claws against his skin tapping delicate like porcelain.  That, too, is another mask, and Genji pulls it off, revealing a second scarred face, red gleaming eyes, and budding sharp horns at both sides of his forehead.  It’s strangely more humanized, and McCree suspects some unfortunate human blood within Genji’s creation.  

And in place of Genji’s soul is a black void, teaming with wrathful misery.  McCree inwardly steps away.  He’d almost eaten that.

“I suspect the cowboy act was all a ruse?” Genji asks, curious.

McCree barks out a laugh.  Peculiar human culture sometimes snags at McCree.  He can’t help up but pick up a few habits, but he’s not going to tell Genji that.

“Sure is, sweetheart. But, if it pleases—” He snaps his fingers, cowboy hat appearing above his horns, and deepens his accent, “—I’ll keep it up for ya.”

Genji snorts, but the gesture seems to mollify him.  “I was only wondering how you manage to seduce any human with that act.”

McCree bristles.  He does have charms and glamour spells.  A demon not taking advantage of their magic is a high insult.

“Managed to get you, didn’t I?” he says with a sickly sweet smile.

“Only because it was so strange,” Genji says mildly, though he gives McCree a dark look at his saccharine tone.  The smoky tendrils around his form jump, restless.  Genji is likely hungry himself and annoyed about missing out on a meal.  “For what it’s worth you were charming, all on your own.”

McCree grunts. He’d be a shit incubus he couldn’t be.  “Work is work.”

“There it is.  You are much less charming now.”

“Yeah, well,” McCree says, suddenly weary.  “You seem to like playing with your food.  Not saying that it’s a bad thing, but I don’t have a choice.  I gotta fool around. Real fuckin’ hassle, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Genji offers.  

McCree rolls his eyes.  He can sense a dismissal when he hears it.  “Beg pardon, but I haven’t fed in a week.  I’m famished.”

Genji blinks in surprise. “Can you not feed off my lust?  I’m sure I must be emitting some.”

“No, that’s your need to manipulate people, not lust,” McCree says, taking his cue to hop off the bed while leaving Genji to sit on that for a moment.  

He shimmies back into his human disguise, a little scruffier than the one he’d worn previously, but he’s running low on fumes and he’s sure there’ll be easy pickings around the motel.  Devil knows he can hear a couple going at it next door already.  He can maybe join in, throw two down with one stone, even if they don’t smell quite as enticing as Genji had.  At least he’ll be fresh for at least a couple of weeks.

As McCree turns to the door, Genji blinks right in front of him.  It would have given any human a heart attack, but for McCree it’s just another Friday night in Hell.  He gets one hand on the door in any case, showing that he does really intend to leave in one piece.

“Oh, come on.  You’re a demon.  You can’t be offended about being an asshole,” McCree complains.

“I will take it as a compliment,” Genji says wryly.  His oni mask is back in place.  “Are you intending to feed off the pair next door?”

McCree leers.  It’s less seductive and more mocking.  “Why?  You wanna watch?”

“Not particularly,” Genji says, snapping his fingers.  The knob under McCree’s hand turns, swinging the door open.  “But if you don’t plan to kill them, I have use for the bodies.”

McCree grudgingly lets Genji pass through first.  “Oh.  You’re one of them flesh-eating types, aren’t you?”

Genji laughs, quietly, and his voice is muffled beneath the mask.  On the first plane, he looks like the rich playboy brat he came in as. Anyone watching would only see a charmingly mussed up man press against his latest fuck, but as he leans in, McCree feels Genji’s aura spike with every scrap of disdain for both humanity and the supernatural.

“I can eat anything,” Genji murmurs into the corner of McCree’s mouth.

A shudder of dark energy washes of them, overpowering scent worming into the back of McCree’s throat.  It’s not exactly unpleasant, but it’s not good, or meant to lure him in.  It might just be the way Genji’s aura works.  McCree stumbles back, one hand braced against Genji’s shoulder to hold him away.  It’s another human gesture, and he hates how Genji’s glances at his outstretched arm, like he knows how much it gives McCree away.  

“I wasn’t lying before.  You really were charming without your spells working on me,” Genji continues, easing away.  He shrugs back his aura, reeling it in with a brief snap of willpower.  The grin on his mask seems to magnify by the hundred.  “I would have eaten you, truly.”

For some awful reason, the statement makes McCree embarrassed, more so than the first time Genji admitted the same thing.  

“I’ll leave the bodies in the room when I’m done with them,” he says instead, dropping his hand.

“Please do,” Genji says, melting away into the shadows, and leaves McCree to knock on their next door neighbors himself.

[aspiratixxn]

Flowers on the grave of memories (3/?)

Summary: What it’s like to come back. Or try to anyways. 

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, torture, mentions of death, brainwashing.

Word Count: 1840

Notes: I totally forgot the events of Civil War so I had to rewatch it haha. Guess who doesn’t know what word counts are aha. Continuation from @nacho-bucky‘s writing challenge. Thanks for being patient with me! 

Find Part 1 [here] | Part 2 [here]

New York is really fucking hot during the summer. It’s hot and humid and absolutely disgusting but the winter soldier has fared far worse. Though if anyone asks, he definitely prefers the cold to this awful heat. He’s found a little hole in the wall apartment and through some sneaking around with a fake, he’s managed to put himself down for a lease. Don’t ask where his money comes from, he’ll just cryptically smile and wave you off.

He’s selecting plums, quietly chatting with the farmer when shit hits the fan. The TV blows up with a breaking news report, about a bombing. Normally that wouldn’t even phase him, not with all the bombs they drop on everyone ever in the middle east. But this one catches his attention when they show a flash of his face. His face, which looks hard and vicious and remorseless. Winter’s eyes widen and he’s gone before the farmer even turns back.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit. He’s running, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. That wasn’t him, it wasn’t him! Every little whisper worms its way into his ear as he bursts into his apartment, grabbing his escape back and wrenching open a window. The distance to the next building is a little long but nothing he can’t handle. Of course that’s the fucking moment that mister America himself comes bursting in, tailed by at least two dozen feds. Winter’s not an idiot, it’s much easier to just run than fight at this point. But obviously things don’t always go to plan.

American man proves to be a suitable fighter once more, which makes it easier for Winter to burn through the Kevlar encased men. But the downside is that he’s not being allowed to just take people out, both by American man and the annoying little sludge in his head, which has receded to only covering the room instead of filling it. There’s longing in it, when it whispers don’t. Don’t kill anymore, you don’t have to.

Don’t have to? The blood drips from his fingers like water. Don’t have to, what a joke.

Whatever, that’s not his fucking problem right now. He darts and dashes, finally making it to another roof top. Even if it does cost him a bit of his ankle’s mobility. It should be straightforward from here but he barely notices the shadow lurking before it tackles him to the ground. He grunts but is scrambling to get up and run because whoever’s chasing him as the reflexes of a fucking cat. Are those ears on his goddamn head? Fuck whatever.

The chase itself is pretty much straight out of a Hollywood movie. Winter manages to pull a sick move when he steals a motorcycle but way too soon (or perhaps not soon enough given the ruckus behind him), all of them have been cornered by the local police of all people. And War Machine but that’s. Irrelevant, really.

What is relevant is being strapped to a fucking chair and being made to talk to a shrink. Like any average shrink would understand. The conscious in the sludge is inclined to agree. After all, who else understands being out of place and out of time? Who else understands being stripped to the nerves and being molded like putty, being frozen and unfrozen repeatedly, having blood dye your very being? Maybe someone does understand that part. But a government shrink? Doubtful.

Except it’s not a shrink that enters the room. Winter’s eyes widen. Fuck aren’t there cameras for this kind of thing? Shouldn’t someone be watching? If he was feeling caged before, he definitely feels it now. He strains against his bonds but these are much tougher than your average run of the mill leather metal straps. Zemo circles like a vulture, licking his lips and whispering the words with reverence that is undeserved.

“Longing.”

His heart thuds. Longing, for blood they had said. Longing for the rush of a kill, for the terror painting his mark’s faces as they die. Longing, the sludge conscious whispers, for home. For him. For the warmth of the sun and the sticky sweet ice cream dripping down your chin. You long to be free again.

“Rusted.”

Blood rust, machine rust, the iron smell invades his nose and he grips the arms of the chair, squeezing his eyes shut. No, no don’t fall for it! Rust like the old garages we used to explore. Rusted like the machines we’d take down together. Rust like the shade of the sun set you’d watch after a mission with him.

“Seventeen.”

A memory surfaces and is torn to shred before he can watch it. Seventeenth birthday, where you-

“Daybreak.”

The time for creatures of the night to go back into hiding. Creatures like him, the winter soldier, trained in the cover of darkness with only the cold twinkling of the stars as company. No, you’re not alone! But the black sludge is being forced back, revealing the all too familiar bright white again. The file cabinets uncover slowly, pristine as ever somehow. The words are getting muddled. The light --- dawn ---- breakfast ----- cranky ---- watch ----

“Furnace.”

It burns, the pain, the cold, it burns through him and he clenches his hands so hard that the arm rest shatters to pieces. He must be baying like a wounded animal right now, but it all feels very far away. He’s being placed in the bright white sterile room again, that burns his eyes, his hands, his chest. No – warm --- winter ---- cuddle ----- orange ----- favorite color ----- hold his han---

“Nine.”

Nine recruits. Nine targets. Nine tests. Nine nein nine nein nine. No! No ---- please ---- you’re not -----

“Benign.”

Blend in, keep your eyes peeled, don’t raise suspicion. Everything must be carried out silently, secretly. Don’t pose a blatant threat. Not ----- threat ---- you -----

“Homecoming.”

Return to us, our greatest creation. Return to your roots, remember who you are. Home ---- Ste --- Please ----

“One.”

It’s only the mission, nothing else matters. One shot. Ple----

“Freight Car.”

The weight of control slams into him and he stops convulsing in his chair, breathing deeply. The room is clean, the sludge once again contained only in a corner. When his eyes open, he is once more the very machine they programmed him to be. He moves mechanically, even as he tears through bindings and concrete and flesh. The flesh that feels so warm under his hands, so invitingly warm. It tears like tissue paper and the ooze of blood is oh so warm and it’s so freeing, to be like this. To tear without worries or cares.

---------

Winter is confronted and captured once more by the American man, who he’s learned is named Steve. But as soon as that knowledge comes, he’s submerged in darkness again, except this time it’s much like a pool and he’s sinking to the bottom. As much as he tries to scrabble up, he can’t. He can’t reach the surface, where his eyes watch but do not see. They’re not his anymore. Not anymore.

---------

Bucky Barnes bursts through to the world and gasps for air, gasps for the tastes of the world on his tongue. He gets his first taste in the backseat of an unsuspecting car, squished by the passenger seat. He grumbles about it but puts up with it if only to help Steve, who is chatting with a really pretty blonde. Sharon Carter, his ears hear. Carter, like Peggy. No wonder Steve looks at her so tenderly, she matches the spirit and fierce face of Peggy. Bucky feels his heart burn a bit but he tries to push it aside. Except that moment of weakness is exactly when Winter bursts out the seams again, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s neck and dragging him back down.

---------

Who is he? Is he James Buchanan Barnes, sergeant of the 107th who fell from a cliff, who drank liquor in the 1940’s and loved? Is he Winter Soldier, mechanically enhanced super soldier who thinks of only the mission and dismisses the dripping wet that permanently stains his hands? Bucky who holds loyalty like a treasure, loves like a flame flickers? Winter who touches everything with a carved dagger, revels in bloodshed? Who is he? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that his body weighs heavily, and that he will fight. For Steve, against Steve, always Steve.

---------

It takes him a second to recognize that he nearly punched a twelve year old dressed in bright red and blue pajamas. It takes him another to recognize that the twelve year old stopped his fucking fist. His metal fist, which dents steel and bone with ease, and it was stopped by a child. Maybe he’s losing his touch a bit here. He’s running for a lot of the fight after, throwing some punches but mostly running. The chaos becomes background noise and he sprints, sprints towards the one thing that will make this right. He’s not at fault, not this time, and he has to prove it. He needs to. There’s a bit of a scruff in the plan when miss Russian spy herself confronts them and although they’re both enhanced soldiers, he wouldn’t bet against her for these things. Apparently Steve knows her a lot better than he gave credit for though, and she lets them pass.

---------

For everything that’s happened, it feels strangely detaching when the truth is revealed. Iron man’s voice is low, almost sticky with grief. Did you know. He watches as Steve holds his silence, lip curling in pain. “Yes.” 

Winter has seen that look. Grief, compounded with betrayal. Stark’s mask is on before long and he’s blasting the white beams, and they don’t have time to talk anymore. He loses an arm, but it is not Winter who deals the last blow, instead being thrust aside as Steve pounds his shield again and again into the core of the suit. Lodges it there and takes off running. Sprinting away.

---------  

Steve only calls for a pause when they’re far enough away that the radars can’t catch them anymore. They collapse next to each other, breathing harsh. Steve’s talking, something about breaking someone out, but all Winter, Bucky, can think about is that they’re together again. Together.

And he chooses, by his own will, to leave. He requests asylum and is granted it, generously by the Wakandan king. He apologizes, for everything he’s done. Although T’Challa dismisses it with a wave, the guilt that settles in his stomach is heavy. He chooses to go back into cryofreeze, knowing that he will be away perhaps when Steve needs him most. But it feels like the first real decision he’s made for himself in a very long time and even if he’s being caged again, it’s freeing. He knows that Steve can see it too, with the soft cracked smile he has as he says goodbye to his best friend, his Bucky, again.

[misspandalily]

update - Strangers in the Night

Thanks for the support everyone!

knottedblonde (AKA @parenthesisfanfiction​) is my blessed beta - read her story ! It’s good for your health. 

AO3 | FFN

There's a knock at the front door by the time Artemis' eyes snap open. It's sunny and bright, even with the thick drapes hanging over her windows. The light is a welcome presence for her, but the repulsive scent of blood mixed with antiseptic makes her nose scrunch up in discomfort. Her studio reeks of hospital, only less sanitary.

Artemis quickly realises that there is no way she's going to let anyone into this warzone, much less see the wings hanging off her back, carpenters on not, but then Wally's already shouting, "I'll get it!", so she decides to scramble for the bathroom instead.

Easier said than done. She forgets that she can't move as swiftly as she used to. Artemis falls to the ground in a heap just as the door opens and reveals four masked figures standing in front of her in utter disbelief. She can't see them now, of course, hair having tumbled all over her line of sight on her way down, but she's seen enough to know exactly who and what is standing on the threshold of her home: the Justice League.

The freaking Justice League is filing into her house, one by one, thanking Wally for allowing them inside like they know him. She realises with a jolt that these are the connections that he has. Not mafia, not gangsters, nor are they hitmen. They're superheroes. Wally West is on a nickname-basis with Earth's most prominent superheroes.

The Flash, she's used to – Batman, no way.

All the alarm bells are going off in her head, urging her to duck and hide, or conceal the suitcase carrying Venom in the crack beneath the floorboards while Daddy goes to answer the door. Artemis blinks. She remembers that Sportsmaster is long gone, probably off committing some heinous crime on the other side of the globe. She's safe; the League isn't a trigger warning for her anymore. Breathe, Artemis. Breathe.

Pulling her tresses away from her eyes, Artemis spots Wally walking back and forth from her fridge, accommodating the heroes with cups of the cheap orange juice she'd recently purchased for half price. They don't seem to register the obviously poor quality of the juice, nor do their noses wrinkle at the pungent scent emanating from her carpet.

All four of them: Batman, Nightwing, Hawkwoman, and the Flash, are staring at her inquisitively. She feels naked under their gazes, like they're all trying to peel off the layers of her skin, like they're trying to uncover all of her deepest, darkest secrets. Sadly, Artemis has those in surplus, most of which are highly relevant to the League – not that they know that, she hopes.

The Flash coughs pointedly, and all of a sudden Wally's gently prying her off the ground, making sure to avoid exacerbating any wounds on her arms, then helps settle her back onto her bed, this time sitting upright and facing them all.

Interestingly, Wally has a knack for alleviating awkward situations with witty repertoire and light-hearted jabs (which, honestly, freaks her out, because Batman doesn't seem to be the type who enjoys joking around), because soon Nightwing's starting to join in with Wally's conversation with the Flash.

"So," he addresses her, in an oddly familiar voice, "A little bird went nuts when he called me about your situation last night, I hope you don't mind that I've called some back-up; this isn't something that a simple renovation will fix, unfortunately." He gestures towards her wings with a gloved hand.

She gets his point, accepts the glass of juice and painkiller tablets that Wally shoves under her nose, downs them, and coughs a little. "I'll manage."

Batman's slitted eyes angle towards her. She gets the feeling that he recognises her from the few run-ins they'd had while she trained with Sportsmaster, but thankfully he doesn't comment on it. Artemis prays he doesn't remember her, because she left Gotham City to start over, and there's no telling what will happen if he opens that can of worms.

"Artemis Crock," he says, with an air of finality.

"Yes."

Hawkwoman interjects herself into the conversation. "Your wings are impressive."

"Thanks." Artemis notes the credibility of that statement.

It's not the first time Artemis has heard of Hawkwoman, but it's the first time she's seeing the woman up close and in real time. She's deeply impressed. There's a severe mask on her face, hawk-like and shimmering gold wherever the sunlight hits it. Overall, Artemis gets the feeling that Hawkwoman isn't someone she wants to mess with, seeing how there are muscles bulging out from underneath her battle-gear, and the metallic wings protruding from her shoulder blades look so sharp they can (probably) cut into diamond. Distantly, she wonders why Batman's summoning Hawkwoman - of all people - to show up in Kansas when there's so many other exciting places she can be, like Michigan, or Prague.

"Uh-"

"Safe to say you won't be at the Museum for a while, then?" The Flash interrupts her thoughts, ignoring Hawkwoman's irritated elbow-jap at his side. "Sorry. You could always pass your wings off as an elaborate costume. Early Halloween? It's still a month away." Batman shoots him a look. "Shutting up now."

She can't help but grin at the familiarity of his countenance. Everything around her is shifting and collapsing, but at least she knows that Central City's favourite hero moves at a constant speed. Flirty and flighty he may be, but Artemis finds herself unexpectedly reassured by his presence.

Deciding to angle for diplomacy, Artemis clears her throat and ignores the ache in her back. "So," her voice sounds unexpectedly hoarse when all four superheroes and Wally refocus their attention to her, "I think it's best that we address the elephant in the room. What brings four high-profile members of the Justice League to cosy Kansas?" And how? Artemis hadn't known that so many big-gun heroes could be so receptive to a civilian scientist. Clearly, Wally has much more influence than she's aware.

Batman, forgoing all formalities, wastes no time being as transparent and simultaneously vague as possible. "The League is interested in the necklace that your team excavated in Greece months ago, Miss Crock. We have reason to believe that it possesses magical properties - dangerous properties, should it be placed in the wrong hands - and as it stands, we know almost nothing else about it, save for what's right in front of us." He lets the implication of his words sink in.

"We're here to offer you a deal, or a partnership." Batman's tone softens slightly, yet still retaining the hard edge that she's come to associate with Gotham's Dark Night. "You've spent years of your life writing a dissertation on the influence of power on Greco-Roman art and scouring the globe for the very same information that the League is now looking for. Should you choose to help us, we can offer you rehabilitation, and protection."

She fidgets on her bed slightly, somewhat disconcerted by the onslaught of information. Judging by the nonplussed expressions of everyone else in the room, Batman's extensive periods of silence, peppered with outbursts of cold, hard facts, seem to be a 'thing'. She isn't sure if she finds that funny or not.

"Look," Artemis says after a brief pause, "I'm going to pretend that I'm not creeped out by how much you know about me." She really isn't, though. Anyone who knows anything in Gotham City knows that the Batman and his gang of Bat-children are the world's pantheon of detectives. "And I can help you, free of any charge. There's no reason why you should go out of your way to protect me when I'm hardly a target."

Because by now, Artemis knows well enough to steer clear of any unnecessary affiliations with the Justice League, lest any questionable family members manage to track her down and make her life a living Hell. Still, she's relieved to know that Batman is here for the knowledge that she's been researching for close to a decade, and not to arrest and accost her for her underground connections.

And then she sees the slight wince from the more expressive faction of her audience - namely the Flash - and looks at them curiously. "Unless, there's something else you need to tell me."

It becomes startlingly clear that Batman is the go-to man for the deliverance of bad news, because he immediately resumes his speech. "The Justice League isn't the only party that wants you, Miss Crock." He presses a button on his suit's wrist and shows her a holographic screen of the three specific words she'd been hoping to avoid for longer. "I assume you're familiar with the League of Shadows?"

There's a trickle of dread flowing down from the nape of her neck to the bottom of her spine, a feeling Artemis hasn't had creep up on her for years. "Yes," she replies, feeling her throat clamp up, "I am."

He's the only one who looks at her knowingly, and she suspects that her family isn't as underground as she would prefer anymore. Everyone else in the room seems to look scandalised, or shocked, or both. "So," Batman says with an air of finality, though the slits in his mask seem to vaguely express something more sympathetic. "Do we have a deal?"

Wally watches Batman's black cloak disappear behind Artemis' door with a sombre feeling in the pit of his stomach. Which is saying something, given that his stomach is widely considered to be bottomless.

Artemis is still upright on her bed as he turns around and realises one thing: he has no idea how to explain this entire situation to her. His connection to the League, the fact that as a civillian (to her), he really shouldn't be as aware of their operations as he should've been. But then again, the fact that Artemis had barely blinked an eyelash when Batman brought up the League of Shadows, or that Batman hadn't even needed to elaborate on their operations to her, was the one thing that hadn't stopped bugging him since she made a deal to join the League.

Join, in the unofficial, ward-of-the-Justice-League, sense. Not as a superhero.

Unless she wanted to be one.

He stares at the gigantic brown spot covering the majority of Artemis' carpet, yet to be cleansed or removed. It'll be problematic if someone unwittingly visits Artemis' studio and sees the portal to Hell emblazoned onto the floors. The cops might get involved, and thereby the media - he really doesn't want Aunt Iris to find out about Artemis' wings via the Police, and before he has a chance to explain the situation to her. Wally's hand runs down the length of his face.

And what was the League of Shadows' deal with Artemis anyway?

They'd all been debriefed about their task before they left for Central City: the Museum was holding an exhibition unveiling an artefact that the Flash had recovered, and their job was to protect it from harm. The curator was the second priority when they started, but now Wally's beginning to realise that Batman and Nightwing are being annoyingly unclear about their motives again - obviously Artemis Crock is a lot more than she lets on, and so far only they're the ones who really seem to know her. Her and her affiliation with the Shadows, the world's deadliest group of assassins.

He watches the wings protruding from her back move to the rhythm of her chest, fluttering lightly when she fidgets. It's then that he also realises that Artemis is fixing him a stare more scrutinising than Batman's trademark.

She opens her mouth and slams it shut a second later, as though she's deciding against something. Wally dearly hopes, on Einstein's grave, that she'll let go of whatever thought is clearly making her more upset by the second. He has literally been awake for twenty-eight hours without a sizeable amount of food in the past six, and so genuinely cannot handle an argument at this point in time.

"You-" she pauses and takes a deep breath as he tenses, "Who are you?"

"I'm Wally," he replies slowly. "Wally West? Do you have a concussion?" Wally reaches for her head. Artemis slaps his hand away.

"I mean, you're one of the hundreds of scientists who work at STAR Labs. How do you even know the Justice League?"

"The same way you do," he shoots back, mentally slapping himself, "I'm a big fan."

Artemis breathes out through her nostrils. "Big fans normally aren't on a nickname-basis with Batman," her eyes narrow at him, "Are you a spy?"

"I'm not a spy."

"Then how about you tell me how you happen to be able to call Earth's Mightiest Heroes over to Kansas - overnight?" He knows what her predicament is, what it looks like. In all honesty he wouldn't trust someone from highschool (who isn't Dick Grayson) who invites some of the biggest superheroes in the world to respond a small distress signal, either. Artemis' expression becomes stonier the longer he stays silent. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Hey - you're not exactly Little Miss Transparent either!" His foot flies into his mouth before he can catch it, and Artemis is already starting to glare at him, so Wally decides to Hell with it and runs ahead. "You didn't even blink when the Shadows came up! How do you know about them?"

"What I know is none of your business."

His jaw clenches at the hypocrisy. "Well, you don't see me launching the Spanish Inquisition against you - why should I tell you about the League?"

"Because you're living in my apartment, genius," she's standing up on her bed and glowering down at him like she really, really wants to punch him. "Which, by the way, I never wanted!" He blinks exactly once from the gust of wind that rushes through the studio and feels his expression harden into a glare.

"Fine," his voice doesn't come out as shaky as he feels internally, which he's thankful for. "But I was never here for you - I'm here for Iris."

Despite the bluntless of his words, the name seems to trigger a calming response in Artemis. Her eyes begin to look considerably less crazed, she exhales deeply, and her wings start to fold in. She's silent for a good few minutes, during which time Wally's anger ebbs away in small waves - enough to dissipate the uncomfortable feeling scratching its way up his chest but not enough to stop his face from burning. "Fine."

"Get some sleep," he walks over to the window that isn't next to her bed and throws it open. Its frame slams against the wall noisily, which neither of them bother commenting on. "I'm grabbing more bandages."

And going out for air. Wally shrugs on a coat and closes the door behind him - carefully, this time - before activating the alarm system he knows Nightwing installed just before the League were officially introduced into Artemis' studio. He isn't angry at her, per se. Just incredibly frustrated. He doesn't recall her being as confrontational in high school, and quickly amends that thought when he distinctly remembers her never talking to him for a decade.

And in any case, he'll be seeing her more frequently than she'd like for a while now - as Kid Flash, and not Wally West. The image of her connecting the dots and realising that she's been living with Kid Flash does not bode well in his stomach, which is obnoxiously grumbling by now. Wally passes a hotdog vendor and retracts his footsteps.

At the very least, before he stresses out over Artemis for another few weeks, he'll eat his weight in sausage.

[philaprint]

Invasion of the Body Snatchers: "Get Out" and the Everyday Horror Story for Blacks

MARCH 12, 2017

By Tre Johnson

Hollywood has been producing black horror films for awhile now. The 80s and 90s were replete with films with a horror bent. 1985 gave us “The Color Purple” monster “Mister”, a monster the movie positions as an almost tireless, ageless evil who terrorizes the women around him. Spike Lee pulled off horror twice; 1989’s “Do the Right Thing” felt like an urban “Twilight Zone” tale, where Bed-Stuy had everyone cooking underneath a magnifying glass, the setting gradually slimming down from a neighborhood to a pizza store murder. Two years later, he did 1991’s “Jungle Fever” where everyone was predator and prey, falling for the incurable desire for two white substances: women and crack.

There’s been lighter fare too, but even they have preyed upon psychological fears. Movies like 2014’s “No Good Deed” or 2015’s “The Perfect Guy” might be called thrillers, or 2009’s “Obsessed” another horror masked as thriller all playing different notes on the real-world fears of heterosexual black women finding “a good black man”, and being wary about who you do and don’t let into your home. In real life this has been a horror story for the black community; 1.5 million black men have been swallowed by everyday monsters like imprisonment or murder (Chicago recorded its 700th murder in December) or unemployment; nearly 50% of black men aged 20-24 in Chicago are unemployed. All of these films have origin points that can be traced back to the original horror story of slavery, and its likely why a lot of black people, even as Hollywood has continually held up films like “Birth of a Nation”, “12 Years A Slave” and “Amistad” as works of art, have often talked about avoiding or being weary of these same films. They are too real, too scary, and too relevant.

Now we have “Get Out”, a film by Jordan Peele that’s a welcome reversal on many of these narratives. While on the outside “Get Out” is about many of these same issues—the film touching on everything from the criminal justice, black bodies and the ever-simmering tensions of black-white relations—it’s actually squarely preying on white liberalism, a group that often views itself as harmless when it comes to racism and bigotry. This point comes across in many parts of this movie, which on the surface is about what happens when a young interracial couple, Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) and his girlfriend Rose (Allison Williams), travel to her parents’ home for the weekend.

“Get Out” has several set pieces worth discussing, but the film’s garden party scene might be the most essential, the gathering of Rose’s parents’ friends and acquaintances for an annual get-together in loving memory of her departed grandparents. Earlier Rose’s father offers a popular assurance and validation when he proclaims that not only was Obama the greatest president he’s known, but he would’ve voted for him a third time. As Chris wanders from couple to couple, we want a gauntlet with him that’s likely familiar to plenty of black folks traversing white spaces. There are the soft come-ons about your appearance (“aren’t you a handsome one” one partygoer remarks as she delicately squeezes his arm); the desire to validate blackness as a commodity (“black is in again”, intones another attendee as he curries favor); or as a means of intellectually engaging him, Chris is asked in front of a throng of the white guests to speak on the progress of African-Americans; have things gotten better or worse? As he makes his way through the crowd, you experience a lot with Chris: the exhaustion of literally navigating white spaces; the delicateness and calculations of how you choose to respond to commentary intended to be innocent and well-intentioned but ultimately still steeped in ignorance and, at times, fetishization.

The scene features Lakeith Stanfield, “Darius” from Atlanta and his inclusion in this particular section of the movie serves a couple of purposes. His presence actually evokes a call-back to Atlanta’s “Juneteenth” episode, which in many ways saw the realization of this movie’s social scene. As a collection of Jack-and-Jill styled fanciful black people mingle about the sprawling mansion of a high-minded black woman and her awkwardly liberal white husband who aggressively displays how “down” he is to everyone around him, especially Earn, who the husband likely senses is skeptical about his authenticity. The two parties present inverses of one another; as Earn and Chris both get sized-up, evaluated, chastised and patronized as much for what their blackness is and for what it isn’t, there’s the illusion of a gateway being opened to another world. Atlanta’s “Juneteenth” represents the illusion of a black bourgeois that feels like they’ve “made it” and the implicit message that they, if not have become “white”, have certainly escaped being “black”. On the other side “Get Out” has a phalanx of white people yearning for the cool side of the pillow of blackness; wanting to retain the power of their whiteness while acquiring aspects of blackness a la carte.

This sort of racial power bartering is the underlying horror at the heart of both pieces, as both make the case that one of the greatest fears of wading too far into a white world is the loss of identity, something made clear with Chris’ relationship, to blacks living in the suburbs, to a change in dress and language, to maintaining a sense of village or community whenever you come across another person of color—that silently telegraphed, telepathic two-word message we transmit in those moments: “you good?”. “Get Out” unearths this uneasiness, neurotically aware of a white culture that’s quick to consume aspects of the black culture, and the movie gets a lot of mileage out of the issue of appropriation as it looks at the most obvious ways that white mainstream culture steals things: entertainers, artists, athletes, and bodies. The black victims in “Get Out” are analogues for all these situations and it’s worthwhile to consider the real world examples and implications when it comes to this sort of continued white theft. There are the obvious ones: Three years ago on an MTV stage, Miley Cyrus, twerked on stage surrounded by black women props; months later, Macklemore wins over Kendrick Lamar at the Grammys.  

The movie also adds to the ongoing paranoia about black mobility and identity. Several times in the film, the issue of staying black is a literal and metaphorical dilemma. Chris’ decision to be with Rose, their decision to go to her parents’ house in the bucolic suburbs, and the roles of the landscaper, housekeeper and Andre (Stanfield) are all familiar echoes about the recurring nightmare of losing your black self in white settings and culture. It’s a familiar question of trespassing and authenticity that shares roots both historical in the “paper bag” tests and passing, and pop cultural, too.

“Get Out” was obviously made decades later, but “Chris” would have been the perfect role for a 90’s-era Will Smith to have played. As an actor whose work during that period often negotiated outing race and class identities in unpredictable spaces, this film would have been a natural inclusion to his resume then. In 1993’s “Six Degrees of Separation”, Smith plays the lead role in the true-story film of a black gay con artist who worms his way into a New York area white high society, by pretending to be the son of “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner” actor Sidney Poitier, likely in-joke for the con artist and certainly for an audience that gets the messages and paranoia in “Get Out”.

What makes him especially relevant to this film though is his six-year run on “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” from 1990-1996. The entire series was about Will’s struggle to maintain his particular blackness in a community where he felt everyone around him had already been snatched, from rigid, authoritarian Uncle Phil, to Valley Girl Hillary, Smith navigated a fun house of black misshapen mirrors. The pinnacle was his sometimes foil; Ribero’s “Carlton”, the Tom Jones swaggering, uptight cousin was an everyday mirror that terrified and tortured Will with its galling feeling of whiteface at times. Much of the series positioned Will not only as a fish-out-of-water but an exorcist of sorts, too; constantly using his values, his culture, and his body to wake up the Banks family. To Will, his family wasn't just strange; they appeared to be brainwashed and inadvertently, the show took on this racial dilemma too, body-swapping the darker-skinned Janet Hubert-Whitten’s “Vivian Banks” for the fairer-skinned Daphne Maxwell Reid midway through the series to play the same character. That sort of swapping set-off age-old concerns and injustices around the penalties of being black in issues that “Get Out” also provokes discussion about: colorism, opportunity, mobility, and acceptance. Smith’s first movie after the “Fresh Prince” was 1997’s “Men in Black”; a sci-fi action series where he and Tommy Lee Jones took on cases to reveal the true identity of people living amongst us by using a device armed with a flash.

Yet our most complex example of this negotiation and the vampire-like nature might be the ongoing vexing saga of Rachel Dolezal, whose presence and journey serves as an embodiment of the angst, anger, and anxiety that “Get Out” is about. In Rachel, there’s everything ranging from appropriation to passing, privilege to theft, politics to intimacy. Her decision to identify as a black woman is steeped in a racially political American context that has a sordid history around whites finding ways to comfortably and conveniently adapt blackness as it suits them. Her own story is one of continued consumption; from altering her appearance, to her academic and career decisions, to most recently, her official name change: she is now “Nkechi Amare Diallo”. It’s Nigerian in origin. Her story is an example of both how true life is stranger than fiction and also how art imitates life.

Both Diallo and “Get Out” tread into the uneasy way we mine our racial traumas into devices and identities, becoming keys to get to the other side. Catherine Keener puts Chris under by first empathizing with and then manipulating his emotional trauma around a very personal loss, and the tumble to the sunken place becomes something Atlanta, “Jungle Fever”, Rachel/Nkechi, Kanye, “Do the Right Thing” and even the currently running Kalief Browder documentary “Time” all share in common: when you tumble into that dark space, no one can hear you scream.

https://www.philadelphiaprintworks.com/blogs/news/invasion-of-the-body-snatchers-get-out-and-the-everyday-horror-story-for-blacks