#The Brutalist explained

[latestnews-now]

Dive deep into the world of "The Brutalist" and discover the fascinating blend of fact and fiction behind Adrien Brody’s latest film. We unravel the real inspirations and fictional elements that make this movie a must-watch. Don’t miss our detailed breakdown!

[msclaritea]

UGLIFICATION: WHY EVERYTHING IS UGLY NOW

Caveat: I grew up in a church, moved away from it, and have been looking into learning the truth about it, off and on, ever since. There is nothing wrong if you choose to be Athiest. The entire struggle we're being put through are powers, trying to force us into choosing Church or Satanism and just as Scientologist, Neil Gaiman showed in the first Good Omens, the two sides always work together. That said, I agree with dude 1000%

We are under attack.

[1o1percentmilk]

every university needs at least 1 brutalist building for 99% of the student body to hate with a passion the other 1% will imprint on it and love it love it love it

[germanpostwarmodern]

The built manifestations of Brutalism, despite their omnipresence on social media, remain controversial: especially in Europe they are loved by some and hated by many. In other parts of the world opinions aren’t as polarized and Brutalism simply a part of the built environment, e.g. in Japan. Okinawa-based photographer Paul Tulett has been exploring the Japanese brutalist heritage for years and in his new book „Brutalist Japan“, recently published by Prestel, points to the particular appeal concrete had in postwar Japan: it offered seismic safety, was resistant to termites and easy to pour in form and via the shuttering boards also left room for the skilled Japanese wood crafts. At the same time the Japanese tradition for leaving natural materials rough and raw played in the hands of „béton brut“ that, as Tulett explains, became „béton nécessaire“.

The former’s gradual aging and the acceptance thereof agains roots in Japanese tradition, i.e. the concepts of „wabi sabi“ and „mono no aware“ which embrace the beauty of imperfection and describe the ambivalent awareness of the fleeting nature of beauty. Against this background and Tulett’s introduction to Japanese philosophies it becomes easier to understand why Brutalism is a lot less controversial in Japan than it is in other parts of the world and never disappeared. Accordingly the buildings gathered in „Brutalist Japan“ date from the 1950s to the present day and offer a comprehensive panorama of Brutalism in Japan: in brilliant photographs Tulett shows classics like Kenzo Tange’s Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum (1955) and Setagawa Ward Office (1959) or Le Corbusier’s National Museum of Western Art (1959) but also a plethora of little-known buildings. And they are compelling: the fortress-like Tanimura Art Museum (1983) by Togo Murano, the Keihan Uji Station (1995) by Hiroyuki Wakabayashi or the Okinawa Prefectural and Art Museum (2007) by Ishimoto and Niki Associates demonstrate the masterful use of raw concrete while also dealing with Japanese history and traditions.

This beautifully crafted mix of buildings makes the book a great read and an eye-opening survey of Japanese Brutalism. Highly recommended!

[allurilove]

I can't believe we went from being scared of yandere husband baby trapped us to literally everyone is bullying this same man now, keep bullying him girl💀🙏

“So… what is it that you do again?” Henry asked his father. His feet were off the ground as he leaned deeper into the cushion of the loveseat. The kid opened his notebook and grabbed one of his father’s fountain pens off the desk. Henry looked around his father's study, taking in the sight of his collection of old books, the dimly lit lamps, and the reliance on the natural light from outside. His father loved brutalist architecture. The soulless, simple, and cold-looking interior suited his father perfectly.

The man ignored his son at first, his fingers still typing on the keyboard and occasionally adjusting the glasses on his face. He'd been busy ever since the company he worked at decided to absorb another branch. Now, he had about double the amount of work for the same pay. “…I'm an actuary."

“So, you do boring stuff…” Henry mumbled and shook his head. He didn't really understand what that meant, no matter how many times his father tried to explain it to him. All he heard was science or risk, blah blah blah, and he immediately clocked out. “How am I supposed to compete with Zach, who is doing his report on his astronaut father?”

Henry's father closed his eyes, sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of his nose to find the strength to deal with Henry. “It’s not supposed to be a competition. All you have to do is make a presentation about your parents' careers.”

“Yeah, and I should have gone with Mom.” Henry crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at his father. “Is it too late for you to quit? Maybe buy the moon so I can rub it in Zach’s face.”

“No one can own the moon.”

"I beg to differ. Have you watched Despicable Me? Gru steals the moon. You should do the same."

"And why would you do your presentation on your mother? She doesn't—"

“She does work,” Henry cut in. If his father even tried to argue that being a housewife wasn’t work or wasn't "hard," Henry wouldn’t hesitate to put him in his place. Henry saw you running around doing chores, picking up after him and his father all the time. When his father wasn’t home, you were the main person who was taking care of him. Henry gave him a glare that suggested his father to "keep his mouth shut."

“I… yes, yes, she does,” Henry's father nodded and cleared his throat. “I suppose your mother is the better candidate.”

[boizandgurlzinthehouse]

𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐁*𝐓𝐂𝐇 (𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐑𝐀)

; 𝐆𝐔𝐍-𝐖𝐎𝐎 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈. 𝐍𝐎 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐒, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐒.

summary: killing kim myeong-gil would bring many people satisfaction. as hyeon-ju, gun-woo, woo-jin and the others begin to plan on how to do it, choi knows that there's someone in seoul who would take part in it with much pleasure.

wordcount: 3.348k (i got a little bit excited, the other chapters gonna be shorter don't worry)

tw: swearing, almost-fighting, so just plain bloodhounds-things (i update this section with every new part of the story)

author's note: i watched the k-drama in one day, it's wonderful. a little explaining for the "y/h/c", i wrote it with creme-blonde haired character so i'd recommend some extreme or light color. other than that, it's free for every hair color!!

in the burger shop, the pregnant silence after gun-woo's confession about the loan and his mother's café shop was broken by the arrived burgers, brought by woo-jin. hyeon-ju's face became hard again.

"as you heard, my grandpa is no longer a loan-shark. he provides zero-interest loans to people in need. but we occasionally come across punks who try to take advantage of his good heart. yang jae-myeong was one of them. he lied about his mother needing to get an operation. he borrowed ten million won and vanished. it took me half a year to track him down. i saw him begging in front of a train station. at first, I thought he had really become homeless, but i noticed how clean his teeth were as I was passing by. so i tailed him, I found out that he and his goons were pretending to be homeless and stealing IDs from actual homeless people. they use the IDs to create shell corporations and open bank accounts. then they con loan sharks and take out loans anywhere from tens to hundreds of millions of won. this tactic was so professional, we thought there could be someone behind yang jae-myeong. i heard that this person had connections to yang jae-myeong. do you know him?"

after the photo was shown, they talked about how to follow yang jam-myeong's gang, but before the trio stood up from the table, hyeon-ju nodded to the guys to stay sit. digging into her jacket's pocket, she took out a piece of paper that seemed to be like a photo.

"before you begin stalking the gang, i want you to find this girl. i didn't have the time to talk to her, since i was searching for yang jae-myeong, but now i want you two to talk to this girl. gun-woo, tell her about the loans your mom signed and what happened after. she's hard-headed and kind of keeping to herself."

"fine, but who's she?" woo-jin asked, as gun-woo looked at the picture. long y/h/c hair, the mask was on her face, but she had wide, clear speaking eyes. ones like woo-jin's, the ones you look in and can read from them without a loud word.

"she's y/n. i heard my grandpa talk about him on the phone, this was the only picture i could get about her. she doesn't have instagram, facebook or any of these apps, i took this from my grandpa's office. it's possible that she won't open up to you, but it's a must to talk to her."

"yeah, i get it. but why do you want us to find her?" gun-woo was also interested about this question. was she an enemy? young kids can also be stolen by criminals and raised by them, to be as loyal as a dog can to do anything for theirs.

"y/n is good, don't worry. as far as i know from what my grandpa said on the phone, she is someone whose parents were close to my grandpa. she followed her father's track and trained herself in the most brutalist martial arts, like the israelite krav maga, the russian systema or muay thai."

"aisssh, i wouldn't want to confront her in any way", woo-jin said. gun-woo thought about these fights; he only saw muay thai on tv, and that seemed really dangerous in itself. he knew that as soon as they begin to track the girl, he's gonna search up the other two martial arts on his phone.

"yeah, me neither" gun-woo added.

"will you two do? and asking for her phone number?" hyeon-ju asked, the guys nodded.

"yes, of course. but i'll bring a white flag just in case", woo-jin answered as they stood up from the table.

a few hours later, gun-woo and woo-jin were on the streets, wandering around buildings.

"fuck, how can we find someone in a town where nearly ten million people lives?" woo-jin asked. gun-woo looked at the picture. 

“hyeon-ju said that she’s a pro in martial arts. maybe we should look in the gyms?” 

woo-jin patted his chest, “look, a real genius here.” 

going to every gym around the town, gun-woo and woo-jin began to lose hope. 

“maybe she’s working today or just doesn't feel like coming down to train.” gun-woo began to think about what to tell hyeon-ju if they don’t find the girl. she sure will be pissed or angry, but this is a really difficult task. 

“aish, gun-woo, don’t be like that! would you say something like this? people like us, people who train daily, their safe place is the gym. feeling sad? go to the gym! feeling happy? go to the gym! did your date went well? go to the gym! you just broke up with your girlfriend? go to the gym! look, for every problem, there’s a solution, and the solution is called–”

as woo-jin talked and talked, gun-woo thought he’s hallucinating. on the other side of the crosswalk, a girl tapped on her phone. same (y/h/c) hair, same (e/c) eyes, the same way she dipped her shoulder as she looked behind her, even the black sweater was the same. she wasn’t tall, the arms of her sweater weren't puffed from muscles. maybe she isn’t y/n, but they can try. 

“woo-jin, look. do you think that is her? y/n?” he asked, cutting off his friend. woo-jin looked at the picture, than at the girl, than at the picture again, and the girl again. 

“honestly, how could we know if we don’t ask her?” woo-jin smiled, just as he always does when he’s in some doubtful situation. they began to walk behind the girl. she wore earphones. woo-jin went to tap her shoulder, but when he touched her shoulder, the girl turned around, grabbing woo-jin’s wrist to keep him still so she could punch him in the face, gun-woo hurried to stand beside woo-jin. the girl took out the earphones with her free hand. 

“what the fuck do you want from me?” she asked, looking up from under her eyebrows, looking from one second to another at each of them, like she waited for some attack. she really was a pro, gun-woo said to himself. gun-woo had to admit that she was quite pretty. not like pretty girls from clubs or his high school and university, or the nurses at the marine, but some pretty girl that his mother would like to date him. he bent deep down. 

“we are sorry to disturb you, but we have a question. we don’t mean harm, we don’t intend to hurt you” he said fast, and the girl let go woo-jin after looking at the guy, and making sure he nodded. the girl turned, pointing to one of the restaurants. 

“can we talk while i eat? i just came out from training, i’m starving.” woo-jin and gun-woo nodded, following the girl. 

“so, what did you want to ask?” the girl began eating. woo-jin looked at gun-woo, who watched her dainty fingers grabbing the utensils. he sighed and took out the photo, placing it down to the table so the girl could see, she stopped eating instantly. pulling up her eyebrows, she distanced from the table a little bit. before any of the guys could talk, the girl began to speak fast and stark. “are you from the police? the secret service or some fucking spy-bullshit? what the fuck do you want from me? it doesn’t matter, i shouldn't talk to any of you, i’m not gonna do this shit. how did you get this photo of me?” gun-woo wanted to talk, but the anger in her eyes made his mouth shut. “doesn't matter, i hope i'll never see you again.” she began to pick up her things. gun-woo thought about hyeon-ju, sir choi, her mother, and the ugliest guy that beat him up that night in the coffee shop. 

“we just want to ask you about your name,” he spoke clear. “we’re just curious if you’re y/n or not. anyway, my name is gun-woo, and he’s woo-jin.”

“yeah, why? you probably know this because you have every information about me.” she replied, her chest rising and falling a little bit faster than usual. 

“no, we don’t. we… so, well… we know a man who’s name is sir choi. and her granddaughter… her granddaughter told us to meet you.” 

y/n looked around herself, like checking if someone else was there as a spy or some third wheeler, but when everybody was lazily chomping down on their dinner, being on their phone with some boring video or tweet, she slowly sat back down. sir choi’s name moved something in her, because she leaned closer to the guys. 

“if that’s what about i think it is about, then this is some serious shit. really, maybe the most serious shit in seoul’s money and business history, so if you truly mean sir choi’s name, than i really recommend you two to turn around and walk away from all of this. understood?” gun-woo sighed. 

“i think that i’m deeper in this than i wanted to”, he replied, the girl looked at him from under her lashes. 

“what do you mean? is this about loans?” gun-woo nodded, the girl looked up to the ceiling, sighing, letting out a long whisper of swearings. “then we aren't talking about the price of my dinner, aren't we?”  

“we don't talk about money, we talk about catching the men who are behind this.” woo-jin continued, y/n looked up at him, smiling sadly. 

“i hope that you are alright in the head, so you can understand that this is nearly impossible.” 

“it is not, believe us. we gonna find a man who’s in contact with them.” y/n sighed, looked to the side, looking at her phone. 

“how can i trust you two? really, anyone can talk to me about this, anyone who took loans from the old man.” “we found this photo of you in sir choi’s office.” 

“you two? how did you get into sir choi’s office? not even his closest people could get there.” gun-woo looked at woo-jin, sighing. 

“well, not us, but his granddaughter. her name is hyeon-ju, we are her so-called bodyguards.”

“i don’t know anyone who’s name is hyeon-ju. so, summing up, not sir choi, but his granddaughter wants to talk to me? why?” 

woo-jin looked at gun-woo. “can we talk a little bit?” 

“sure.” y/n responded, turning back to her food. woo-jin gulped. 

“should we tell her about the plan? yang jae-myeong? but what if hyeon-ju wants to tell her this?”

“i think she would understand it better if we told her. she doesn't know who we are, and sir choi’s name means something to her, but in this case, sir choi doesn't know about our mission.” woo-jin shrugged his shoulder, turning back to y/n. 

“it’s about catching a man who’s in connection with the loan-sharks, and the one smile capital. since hyeon-ju told us to find you, we think that you’d be interested to catch these guys.” 

“this is real, they have some repayments for me.” gun-woo somehow knew that this wasn't about money, but how could he ask when they knew each other for two hours? 

“so, are you in it, or not?” woo-jin leaned forward, offering his hand for a handshake. y/n pointed up her forefinger. 

“one talk. only one session with hyeon-ju, and then i decide whether i'm in or not.” she stated, woo-jin and gun-woo nodded, while they smiled lightly. looking at each other, they shared the ‘we made it’-look, making the girl scrunch her eyebrows. “okay then, where and when should we meet tomorrow? i guess this can't wait, if that’s so important that you found me.” y/n brushed her hair behind her ear, gun-woo didn’t miss the tattoos on her fingers, and the 

“maybe… tomorrow at noon? here, in front of this restaurant.” gun-woo offered, the girl nodded. 

“deal. see you guys tomorrow!” she said as she stood up, gun-woo stood up too. he didn't know why, he just felt that he needed to accompany the girl, no matter where she went home. 

“wait, y/n!” the girl turned around, woo-jin looked at him like he had some shock or something. “where… where do you go home?” 

‘to yongsan, and you?” she asked, gun-woo’s eyes lighted up. 

“me too. would you mind if i… so, maybe we can go home together?” he asked, hoping that the girl wouldn't mind. 

“yes, we can. goodbye, woo-jin!” she answered easily, bidding goodbye to the guy beside gun-woo. after she went out of the door, woo-jin began to lap gun-woo’s back. 

“aye, gun-woo! did little y/n just trickle some love into your heart?” he asked grinning, gun-woo shook his head. 

“no, it’s just… what if she gets into trouble at night? it’s dangerous.” gun-woo answered innocently, making woo-jin do a little ‘tsk’ in the corner of his mouth. 

“by her grabbing on my wrist before he almost punched me to death, the one who needs protection is me!” woo-jin dramatized the situation, pointing at his wrist. 

“she didn’t do anything, and she won’t again. she seems��� peaceful.” 

“yeah, well, stopped beating me because she found his prince.” woo-jin continued the teasing by adding some eyelash flutter that girls do when they find someone really handsome, making gun-woo roll his eyes. “okay, well, just go. and tell me everything when you get home. or… if you haul up at hers. or i hope that your house has thick walls and your mother doesn’t mind the constant whining noise!” he giggled, having fun. he could tease his friend forever, now that this girl was in the picture. 

“woo-jin-ah! don’t do this!” gun-woo replied, making woo-jin laugh. 

“okay, okay! have fun, and bring her too! don’t forget to ask for her phone number!” 

“goodnight, woo-jin.” 

stepping out into the chilly night air, y/n waited for him. they began to walk to the bus station. gun-wo thought about what he should ask from her. family? no, that's too personal, and they just met today. he wasn’t good with girl stuff, only had one girlfriend and she dumped him after two months, when he applied to the marine. 

“so, since when do you box?” she asked, making gun-woo looking at her wondering. 

“how… how did you know that i box?” y/n snapped with her tongue, looking at him. she had pretty eyes, and although her mask was on, she seemed like this was the easiest question in her entire life. 

“when your friend grabbed my shoulder, his grip was firm, his palms are not too big, but they are strong. he lifted his other arm, just in case he needed to protect himself. i think i even saw your friend on the tv. you two are muscular, it can be seen from under jackets, but your legs’ aren't as muscular as your torso. in other martial arts, you need to train your legs too, to kick as strong as you can, but in boxing, you only use your arms. oh, and bodyguards are most of the time professional agents, but you two are young. or am i wrong?” 

gun-woo didn’t know how to respond, he wanted to tell her how cool it was to deduce what they did, just from looking at them. 

“no, you are right. and… hyeon-ju told us that you are a pro in many martial arts, so… since when do you train?” 

“since my childhood. it’s not that difficult, many movements and styles are similar.”

“did you fight competitively? like, in championships?” 

y/n shook her head. 

“no. only in gyms, i don’t like championships. you can get burned out easily. but i guess, since you asked that, you do championships. what is it like?” 

gun-woo smiled under his mask. y/n was really cute as she asked about him. otherwise, maybe he could never tell her these things. he wasn’t a man of words, and only a few times he knew what to say. 

“you would like it, really much. before covid, the arenas were filled with people, and the energies, the mood was really high and good.”

y/n hummed as they got on the bus, sitting beside each other. gun-woo protested that he should sit on the outer seat, and as y/n didn’t sense any dangers from him, she accepted and sat down. 

“i hope that this hyeon-ju girl is cool, because i had some cat fights with others in the last weeks. girl fight in the gyms, you know.”

“cat fights? with girls?” 

“yeah, but it wasn't so serious, i wondered where all the girls were, who'd ripped each other apart. a year ago, those fights were brutallic, like some freaking mma-cage fight, and now… at there, we say about these lazy gym-championships that there were no claws, but only strokes.” 

gun-woo snickered. 

“and these gym fights, do they pay well? or… do you work somewhere?” 

the girl looked at him, scanning him from bottom to top while leaning to the glass window, leaning on her elbow, tilting her head. “you don’t look like a drinker, so i don’t think we would meet at my workplace.”

“you're a bartender? woo-jin would like this! he likes to drink, sometimes, always saying how good he can bear alcohol.”

y/n laughed. 

“yeah, he looks like the typical tough guy who grew up on the bad side of the river, but when the two of you constantly looked at each other, i knew that he’s just as rookie as you.”

“yeah, that’s right. we began to work recently at sir choi, we are his granddaughter’s, hyeonju’s bodyguards. but she said she don’t need bodyguards.”

“but if she doesn’t need you, then how did you stay?” 

gun-woo sighed. 

“i… i begged for her to stay. i have a debt to work off to sir choi.” 

“oh, so you work down the loan sir choi gave you, and this is the way you are affected personally by these loans?” 

gun-woo thought about that night. when in-beom beat him up, when the boss threatened him not to call the police because his mother would end up dead, when he felt like he can’t do anything. looking at y/n, he didn’t want this girl to get involved in this business. gulping, gun-woo nodded. 

“yeah. my mother too.”

“you work for your mother and her protection? you take life danger upon yourself so that she doesn't get hurt?” y/n asked, pulling together her eyebrows. 

“we could say so.”

y/n sighed, looking forward, leaning back on the seat. looking at her hands, picking at the tattoos she had on her fingers. after a few seconds, she bent closer to gun-woo. she had dauntlessness and bravery in her eyes, without a blink of her eyelashes. her lashes were longer than usual, giving her the attitude on the outside as on the inside. pressing the get-off button of the bus, she gathered her bag in her lap. 

“i understand it now. in this case, count me in, too.” 

gun-woo looked at her. 

“why? you doesn’t even know what is this about, this is serious danger, y/n.” 

y/n shrugged her shoulders as gun-woo let her out from her seat, as they stood, y/n gave her a piece of paper. 

“because it’s personal for me, too. see you tomorrow, gun-woo.” 

gun-woo bent deep down as the bus stopped. 

“thanks, y/n, for talking to us, and not beating up woo-jin.”

y/n giggled, and bent slightly down too. 

“thank you for giving me an opportunity.”

as she got off, gun-woo sat back, folding out the paper. it was her number, they didn’t even ask for her number and she gave it to him! on the paper, there was a little message too. 

show this to hyeon-ju. you guys forget everything. make sure she notes my number. and don’t worry, we are going to figure this out, one way… or another. y/n. 

𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃.

author's note: i hope you liked the first chapter. sorry for my english, it's not my first language, and i just got back to writing after a looong break. leave a like or comment if you liked it!! by babes

ask for taglist in comment or here

[alwyn-at-noon]

The Brutalist was a genuinely spectacular film. For something that lasts almost four hours, it definitely did not feel as though it was unnecessarily dragging on. In fact, it felt shorter than the last film I saw in cinema which was half the length. I remained fully engaged throughout, even opting to stay seated during the 15-minute intermission.

Exceptional performances across the board. Adrien Brody, as László Tóth, did an amazing performance, I genuinely could not imagine anyone else in this role. He showcased a sense of sadness, hope, love, and betrayal that I've never seen an actor portray so well. Felicity Jones was beautifully restraint in her performance, showcasing a woman torn from her life multiple times in multiple ways. Joe Alwyn's acting ability was prevalent specifically in the climatic parts within Part 2: The Hard Core of Truth. He's once again playing an asshole American, a role which he aces at every turn.

For a film set in dark realism, the lighting was never upsettingly dark - which is annoyingly common in film nowadays. The camera shots were reminiscent of brutalist architecture, a wonderful homage to the muse of the film. Honestly, the cinematography was amazing from start to finish in a way that's somewhat difficult to explain.

it feels ridiculously annoying to say but it truly feels like a modern-day cinematic masterpiece.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

Okay now you got me really interested SO here's the itwall prompt: cphil and cdream doing scar care

well if you insist..... (context)

/dsmp /rp

"On your stomach, lad."

Dream chuckled at the gentle command, his robe hitting the ground as he shrugged it off. Commands like these were casual and comfortable between the two of them; Dream knew that he could disobey if he wanted. He usually settled on a bit of playful back-talk. "You could take me to dinner first?"

"I cooked your dinner myself three hours ago."

"Okay, fair."

Slowly, Dream lowered himself to the mattress, gathering a pillow in his arms and placing it beneath his chest for a bit of extra padding. The candlelight danced across the dramatic valleys of his skeleton and the rips and tears of his skin, casting uneven shadows across his pale back. The sun dropped below the treeline a while ago, and the arctic enjoyed a peaceful and windless evening. Philza proposed that they try a bit of anti-scarring treatment before bed, and Dream agreed to give it a try.

Philza removed a bit of dressing-- a piece of gauze taped over a fresher wound on Dream's side-- and Dream could feel Phil's weight shift on the mattress as he leaned back and observed.

Feeling eyes on him, Dream peaked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"You'd think I'd be used to seeing your scars by now." The lid of a container popped open. "But it still hits me sometimes."

"Do they gross you out?"

"Nah. They're just scars. I have them, too." From his limited vantage, Dream saw Phil's blonde hair spill over his shoulder, pooling at his collarbone. His hair was loose. He was dressed for bed. "I'm just... always surprised by how deeply humans can hate."

Dream didn't hate his scars. Well, he hated some of them. The worst of them were on his back. A bracket smile, drawn with unsteady lines. The word "bitch," written in a broken, brutalist font.

"I'm going to massage some silicone gel on the scars," Phil said, "in little circular motions. It might take a while, mate."

"Mm-hmm."

Dream flinched when Phil's fingers, cool from the silicone, touched between his shoulder blades. The temperature simply surprised him. Phil whispered a quiet "You alright?" before proceeding, and upon getting permission in the form of a nod, moved his fingers firmly across the expanse of a scar. It might've been the bracket smile. Dream didn't quite remember its placement.

"The pressure will help the edges flatten," Phil explained in a low voice, "and the jelly moisturizes it to help the discoloring."

The skin was sensitive. As Phil pressed his fingers in, the nerves responded by breaking into chills. Dream's next exhale was shaky.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"No-- No, you're not. I-- fuck, it's just sensitive."

Philza recognized the effects of pleasure when he saw them. "Mm."

It took twenty minutes to finish the massage. Twenty long, vulnerable minutes of squirming and sighing, fighting back the urge to groan. Something about it was so primally satisfying. His skin has been begging for gentle treatment for months. Begging for Philza's fingers along his ribcage, his stomach, his chest, his hands. Even the deep scar along the edge of his jawline got Philza's attention. The slime of the silicone was cold in the winter air, but not uncomfortable.

The candlelight illuminated Phil's golden eyelashes. "Still alright?" he asked, his fingertips on a long scar across Dream's lower abdominal muscles.

Dream nodded, a small smile on his lips.

[feyd-meowtha]

So I saw Dune 2 the other day and obviously I loved it but I have so many thoughts on why the look and characterisations of the Harkonnens (and especially Feyd) actually took a lot of the complexity and interest out of the characters and the house in general.

Like I've been saying it since the first film but the decision to make them so bald and monochrome and almost alien looking really undermines the eventual point (which they do stress in the second movie) that the Atreides and the Harkonnens are the same family. There is no house Harkonnen Vs house Atreides really because they're all related and doing essentially exactly the same thing as one another (with an 'honourable' coat of paint on the part of the Atreides.)

Having the harkonnens be so visually distinct and inhuman looking muddies that point a whole lot. Like in the book Jessica, the baron and alia all share the visual tell of that copper hair and that link is so much visually weaker in the movies.

I totally understand why they did it, it's already complicated enough for the viewers to keep track of the houses and characters and the bleak harkonnens aesthetic makes that easier. Don't get me wrong, there are aspects of the look that I really like and I think it would have been great to incorporate some of that dark, brutalist aesthetic without going quite so far to dehumanise them. But yeah.

And that's without even mentioning the changes to Feyd Rauthas character that, for me, really go against the whole point of his being a foil to Paul. In the new movies theyve seemingly gone in for him being the anti-paul in that he is totally amoral and viscerally cruel and ambitious but in the books I always saw it much more as him being very similar to Paul, his fate just being what would have happened to Paul if he was put in the same position. They've both been bred for the same date, but Paul was raised by a loving family while Feyd was taken from his (more on the parents thing being changed in another post) and cared for by a pedophile, a sadist and a brother who hates him and killed his parents. That'll fuck you up for sure, and is a much more interesting point of comparison that just making him a 'sociopath'. I will explain all of this better in another post maybe.

I just feel like it was a missed opportunity to present another side of the 'young person pushed into fucked up role' thing that was flattened a lot by the edgy psychopath angle they went for. And that's without removing the poison angle from his character and making his driving motivation honour which could not be further from the truth.

Gonna have to write some fuckin fic to straighten this out that's for sure.

[shisasan]

Споменик Космајском партизанском одреду The Monument to the Fallen Soldiers of Kosmaj Mount Kosmaj, Serbia Designed by Vojin Stojić and Gradimir Medaković, 1971 Ph. Jovana Mladenović

Scattered across the landscapes of the former Yugoslavia, monumental sculptures rise in silence. They are remnants of a vision that once unified a region through art and remembrance. Designed by modernist architects in the mid-20th century, these striking brutalist structures were commissioned to honor the sacrifices of those who perished in World War II. More than memorials, they embodied a futuristic aesthetic, symbolizing strength, unity, and a forward-looking optimism. Serbian photographer Jovana Mladenović revives these forgotten relics in her series Monumental Fear, capturing their haunting beauty and enduring presence. “The idea is that it is the story inside the monument, representing all of those dead soldiers,” she explains. “A lot of people died in the war, but there are no records.” Among her most striking works, ballerina Milena Ogrizović, draped in red beside the Monument to the Fallen Soldiers of Kosmaj, forms a chapter Mladenović calls “The Star.” The juxtaposition of movement and monumentality embodies both fragility and defiance.

[dicapriho]

can someone explain to me how the fuck did the film industry go from striking over AI practises deligitimising art, to fucking nominating a film that has said it openly uses AI to enhance performances and production???????? yeah I'm fucking looking at you the brutalist

[zhongliologist]

If All is Lost, What Then?

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader Genre: SMUT (18+) Words: 5.9k Sypnosis: If all hope you had was lost, what then? You sought a certain gambler for a specific need and purpose. You don't know how it will end up, yet it's not like it matters. It was all transactional anyway, and you'd get what you want. But what you haven't considered was how fate works in inexplicable ways. Warnings: implied suicidal tendencies, loss of virginity, creampie, self-destruction A/N: Hi! this is the promised Aventurine fic! It may be a little heavy, any I didn't go into the specifics so everything is a little vague. But I do plan for this to be part of a larger story! Everything will probably be explain there! Please pray tho that I finish that one...

THIS IS AN 18+ FIC. BY CLICKING THE READ MORE BUTTON, YOU HAVE UNDERSTOOD AND ACCEPTED THAT YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED AND LIABLE FOR THE DECISION YOU MADE.

 The night was young in the golden district.

The lights, the laughter and the silent laments of its numerous guests and residents encompass the gilded capital of the Corporation. As if they had all gathered there at a single point where all the greed, the glamor and the glib were all contained in a single drop. And the planet’s skies seem to glow in response, its dark purple-red hues become a tantalizing backdrop against the shimmering visage of the city underneath. 

If Penacony was too far of a dream for the mundane and the ordinary, Pier Point would come close to second in the list of places to create superficial dreams, waste money and shatter futures. Unlike the planet of festivities however, Pier Point does not dwell with pretentious marketing--the fact that it is the headquarters of the most lucrative business in the cosmos is enough to gather personalities attracted to power and wealth like moths to a flame. 

And that sort of reputation was the reason why you were there. It didn’t care who you were as long as you had a pretty penny on your name, and you had a lot of it. Your clothes seem to reflect this casual display of wealth--not too ostentatious to be deemed a wannabe nor too ordinary to be looked down on. A black silk dress draped over your body like some forlorn goddess of some faraway planet and adorned by miniscule gold chains which accentuate your neck and framed your face in sultry perfection. It was simple yet elegant. 

Despite its beauty, your clothes felt like armor against your skin--an efficiently calculated strategy, a means to an end. You were no different than the people who pollute the alleyways of Pier Point, searching for something, anything the city could give in exchange for credits.

Paying for a cab to take you to the more lavish parts of the city, the scenery gradually transitioned from grimy streets to immaculately trimmed lawns and dimly lit hotel lobbies. You almost scoffed at the gradation. Leave it to the IPC to visually demonstrate a massive wealth gap. 

Yet you shook your head at the thought. Tonight you didn’t care and you didn't think. Thoughts become spiraling steps towards the dark depths of your being, and you didn’t want to go there again. Right now, you have to do everything you can just to keep your head above the waves. 

Your ride casually dropped you in front of a formidable-looking façade. Its massive brutalist columns and large windows seem to reflect the concept of the Preservation--the patron saint of the IPC. But there were various iterations of what the Aeon Qlipoth represents, and you were sure Pier Point, and therefore, the IPC represented the gluttonous and selfish need for safety and stability. Yet this building seemed out of place, even reminding you of Jarilo-VI architecture, a different variation of the same path. It would have sparked your curiosity on any normal day, yet your spirit was exhausted, down and beaten. You couldn’t even bring yourself to ask why. 

Amber Gardens: Hotel and Casino. You smiled as you climbed the concrete steps. How fitting.

The ongoing party was your target. Just like many parties in Pier Point, it attracted the right people you needed, and they will not consider refusing your request. For the next few moments, you sat at the bar in the hotel lobby, sipping a sallow-hued cocktail which seemed to taste faintly of vanilla and lemon drops. It was a much-needed remedy to numb your frayed nerves and to silence dark imaginings. As you drank the bubbling liquid, it burned the stubborn demons still lingering in your thoughts, washed away by the alcohol as easily as the tide. What was left was an impulsive drive strong enough to leave everything you built burning and wasted.

It was no question if what you had in mind will succeed or not. The fish will take a bite no matter what, you mused. Much to your surprise however, it didn’t take that long for something to come back reeling. Who would’ve thought the fish was that eager to take the bet?

“Look who’s wandered around here.” A drawl echoed beside your ear, too close in fact that it almost made you jerk away.

“I expected a warmer welcome, Senior Manager,” you replied with an arched brow and a jaded look which was only responded with a light chuckle. 

You gave him an immediate once over. He was the same as ever--still extravagant, still cocky and still as handsome as ever. He may have donned a simpler white suit over a teal dress shirt now, yet everything from his shades to his accessories screamed he had money to waste. You could only grimace at his wardrobe choice. 

As a senior manager of the IPC, Aventurine was talented in doing business, yet to him, that business seemed to look more like a game of poker than anything. You had initially met him at a random work-related function, similar to the party you had tonight, and you were right to assume that he was every bit crazy. In any normal day, you wouldn’t dare approach him for your wellbeing, yet tonight, you needed that devil-may-care attitude to lay everything to waste. 

“So? What brings you here, little miss--“ 

“Y/N. Right now, I’m just Y/N.” You interrupted, eyes daring him to challenge you.

Aventurine hummed at your sudden interjection. Interesting. 

There was something different about you tonight--a little derailed and out of bounds. Aventurine always had a keen eye on these things, it helps with the gambling, and he could immediately tell that you are in need of something. You who always seemed so put-together, so full of promise, so unlike him…yet right now, you look like you were only held together by one piece of string, and if snaps, who could tell what will become of you.

“You didn’t come here just to taste some drinks, did you?” he asked with a sly smile, nothing betraying the tone of his voice. “Can I help you with something?” 

You leaned your head to the side, allowing him a view of your bare neck adorned with glimmering gold chains underneath the dim lights of the bar. 

“You could say I’m in need of something only you could give.”

“Oh?” he grinned, his bright eyes shining even through the cover of his shades, as his fingers began to trace yours on the champagne flute you were holding. Without you going into details, he could already tell what it is you wanted. It’s not a bad trade-off, in fact, he might actually gain something here. 

“Are you sure though? Once it’s done, you can’t do anything about it.” 

You didn’t try to move your hand away. Instead you allowed him to play with you, teasing your fingers with light touches. 

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” you replied. “I have nothing else to lose.” 

Aventurine smiled at your now intertwined pinkies. “I admit, hearing you say those words gave me a little shiver.”

You smirked. “Do they suit me?”

Aventurine chuckled, removing his shades and placing them on the table. “Never in my wildest dream did I imagine you’d approach me like this, but…” 

Leaning towards you, he easily seized your hand and entangled his fingers on yours. “I would be a fool to leave you like this.” 

Without even waiting for you to respond, he then brought your hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of your hand as a romantic gesture. At that moment, you realized how effortlessly he could enchant anyone he wishes. It scared you for a moment, but Aventurine was exactly the man you were looking for. Even with fatigue and apathy seeping through your bones, he made your frigid heart skip a beat with no trouble at all. 

“You sure have a talent for this…” you muttered mindlessly, earning a smile from the blond gambler. 

“Isn’t that why you approached me in the first place?” He replied as he stood up and offered a hand to you. “C’mon. Why don’t we continue this in a more private space?”

*

Never in your wildest dreams had you imagined it to happen like this. 

It was so easy for Aventurine to set every vein in your body ablaze with simple nips and bites, so easy to set shivers down your spine at every slight and wanton touch. You could only cling to him for dear life as he ravished you against a wall of a dimly-lit hotel room. 

“Is this…what you had in mind, YN?” he asked, smirking as he assaulted your neck with kisses. 

“I--nggh!” 

It was already impossible to reply at that point. You, who was never held like this before felt incredibly overstimulated; each touch foreign and arousing. It was like having a taste of drugs for the first time, and you were easily becoming addicted to the novel pleasures he was introducing you to. 

“Come on, princess,” he teased, as he enjoyed tracing his lips on your bare neck and shoulders. “Is this all you can handle? We haven’t even started yet.”

“Aven…turine…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

He could barely manage to control himself, yet here he was saying things. Your half-lidded eyes, your wonderful curves draped over by messy clothes, and your sweet, sweet sighs whispering his name as if in prayer--it was as if everything about you was made to arouse him. Aventurine already had his fair share of sexual partners yet something about you made him feel like it was the first time. 

He brushed his cold fingers against your ear, making you squirm so adorably. It was so easy to tease you—he could plant kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose—and you reacted just enough to make him want to bully you. 

Oh, Aventurine…you got lucky once again. 

“Y-You…stop playing with me…!” you scolded him, brows furrowed and frown deepening. 

“How can’t I?” Aventurine chuckled. “You’re so cute.”

“Ughh…flattery will get you nowhere…” 

He laughed again, but this time, his swift fingers effortlessly divested you of your dress, allowing it to pool at your feet. Immediately, you squealed and tried to cover your now almost-naked body with minimal success. 

“Is this funny to you?!” 

Seething, you glared at him despite how flushed your cheeks were. What made you more annoyed was when he thought of lifting your chin with a finger, and leaned close; just stopping short of kissing you. 

“You’re not used to this, are you?” he asked with a grin. 

“…ugh,” you scowled further, but refused to say anything more. It seemed to have amused Aventurine further. 

“Sorry, I won’t tease you anymore,” he conceded with a defeated smile, brushing a thumb on your lips.

In that moment, the both of you stared in silence; waiting for a beat to pass by. You finally had the chance to explore those deeply vibrant eyes he usually kept covered, and in those depths you have found no light—like an ocean with neither sun nor moon. How ironic, you thought. A person who seemed to flash and gleam like a jewel actually had no light of his own. In those brief moments, the playful mood had died down, only to unravel a somber truth that the both of you may perhaps be in need of the same thing. 

“...kiss me, Aventurine,” you dared, coming out as a low growl. 

Again, the blond only smiled at you solemnly. He held your cheeks with both hands; so gentle that you almost thought he was holding his lover. 

“I’m not that cruel,” he replied, leaving kisses all over your face except your lips. “Let someone kiss you out of love, not out of desperation.” 

Ah. You smiled bitterly.

“Alright, I understand,” you replied, your fingers clinging to his arm. “Just…help me forget all of it.” 

“Don’t worry, princess. I never disappoint.”

With those words, Aventurine pushed you back to the wall, pinning you so you can't escape while returning his lips to your neck and collarbone. Everything after that felt like a flurry of bodies moving against each other, of lips exploring every nook and cranny, of hands caressing each curve and dip. In the process, he had divested of his shirt together with your underwear. 

He refused to take your first kiss, but Aeons…did he take everything he could. At this point, you were leaning against the wall while he was kneeling in front of you, arms circled around your thighs to keep you from moving. You were so dazed, your brain unable to keep up with his relentless ministrations. 

“W-What are you…” 

“Just stay still, princess. I’ll show you a good time.” 

Suddenly, Aventurine buried his face at the apex of your thighs, taking a swipe at your already drenched cunt. He kept at it mercilessly, stimulating your sensitive nub until your knees felt weak and you had to hold on to his shoulders to keep you from falling. It was a totally novel sensation—you never thought it would feel this way, not in your wildest imagination. Even though you had played with yourself numerous times, someone eating you out was definitely something else. 

“A-ahh…w-wait! Aven..turine…!” 

The stimulation was too strong, and you were scared where you’ll end up if he doesn’t stop now. However, it seems Aventurine had no intention of stopping even though your hands were pulling on his hair. The pain, the sweet taste of your juices, plus the sound of you screaming seemed to only make his pants tighter. 

“F-fuck…! I can’t…!”

He always thought there was something innocent about you, even during such dirty acts; and he can’t help himself from bullying you further. So even though you were screaming for him to stop, he only slipped his tongue further into your hole, as his nose brushed against your clit. Your subsequent sobs made all of it worth it. 

“Hnghh…!! I c-can’t hold it…Aventurine…p-please!”

You could hardly keep your eyes open anymore. The stimulation was too much that you were already seeing stars. Every time he would press a thumb on your clit, an electric shock would shoot right up your spine, winding you up right until you were at the brink of climax. 

“Don’t hold back, princess.”

The rumble of his voice plus a flick of his tongue on your clit were all you needed to come tumbling down; moaning his name over and over again as your body shook and quaked. You have never experienced an orgasm like that in your whole life—so if this was what it felt like when he was only eating you out, what more would it feel like if he was buried inside you to the hilt, filling you to the brim with his cum?

In Aventurine’s eyes, there was no better view than watching you come, all flushed and shaking, while he was squeezed between your plush and soft thighs. If the Aeons permit, he’d love to spend hours just down there pleasuring you over and over again until you pass out. 

But that was a thought for another day. For the meantime, Aventurine released you from his confines and caught you in his arms before you fell to the carpeted floor. Even through the mists of post-orgasm, you were entranced by his bright eyes as if they were beckoning you closer. And you nonetheless allowed yourself to be enthralled—kissing his stained cheeks; kissing him anywhere and everywhere you could reach. 

And even your kisses seemed so innocent, he thought. An awful guy like him who had taken advantage of you during your moment of weakness does not deserve such kisses. Yet, even though racked by guilt, he couldn’t stop you nor himself. Perhaps he should think like you, pretending this was something fated, something deserved. For tonight, you were lovers.

“Hey…um…” you suddenly pulled him out of his reverie. “I want to…return the favor. Can you…um…teach me how?” 

Aventurine was almost too stunned to speak, but he thanked his wit for being able to recover as quickly. Seems like he has chewed more than he could swallow. 

“You don’t need to, princess,” he smiled, once again cupping your cheek and brushing a finger on your lips, imagining what dangerous things these lips could do to him. “The pleasure was all mine.” 

“No…you don’t understand. I want to…uh…learn how to do it, so to speak…” 

He signed internally. Who would have thought little miss Y/N could do this much damage to him? Who knew that cold and frigid little you could affect him so much? 

“Then who am I to say no?” he replied with an easy smile. “Let’s start by going on your knees.”

Immediately, you did as you were told. Like an obedient student, Aventurine thought. You were never going to make this easier for his self-control, will you?

The sight of you kneeling, looking at him so innocently did wonders to his brain. It was as if he had stumbled into a power trip—if he wasn’t careful, he’d scare you for life. At the same time, he wasn’t keen on stopping. It was already too late to stop.

“What a good girl,” he remarked absentmindedly, placing a thumb on your lips. He closely watched his thumb press and prod your soft and plush lips, thinking how it would feel around his cock. He thought of you looking at him in anticipation, these lips pressed on the tip of his shaft. He shivered. 

Finally, pushing beyond, his thumb was only greeted by your warm tongue. 

“That’s right. Imagine it’s my dick. Use your tongue. Suck it, play with it…lick as much as you want.”

You followed his instructions down to the dot. Everything he asks of you, you did perfectly and diligently. Considering who you are, it would be embarrassing to be accused of not following instructions, wouldn’t it?

“Seems like you have an aptitude for this,” he snickered. “Not that I’m surprised.” 

In no time, he had three fingers in your mouth—nudging and playing with your tongue, mesmerized by how you wrapped around him. Aventurine couldn’t help but think of his cock in your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down just like how you did with his fingers. He’d bet your mouth would be so warm and tight; he’d come right away. 

“Am I doing good?” you asked as you looked up at him, voice muffled by his fingers. 

Fuck…

You might’ve not noticed but Aventurine was close to imploding. The naive look on your eyes, your flushed cheeks and how erotic your tongue was wrapped around his fingers—everything about you seemed to be designed to break his self control. He doesn’t fuck like an animal, but Aeons forbid he might as well if you were going to be like this. 

“Alright. That’s enough. I think you’re ready,” he pulled out his fingers from your lips and licked them, tasting you as he gazed right into your eyes. 

The effect was instantaneous. You shivered in anticipation as you took a nervous gulp. You never imagined anyone would look so sexy while licking their own fingers, but here you were, flushed and bothered. Your core was already drenched since earlier—your sticky juices dripping down your thighs to your legs. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his belt unbuckling. Once again, anticipation exploded in your gut and made your heart race. You never imagined you’d do something like this, but here you were. Watching as he unzipped his pants, he finally took out his hard cock from its confines. Eyes widening in surprise as you realized how big and hard he was, you suddenly weren’t sure he’d fit in your mouth. Practicing with his fingers seemed like a huge understatement. 

“Don’t worry, princess,” he reassured you with a grin on his lips, cupping your cheeks once again. “I’ll be sure to help you out.”

Aventurine then held his hand out to you, which you took immediately.

“Now, I want you to hold me,” he told you, as he placed your hand on the base of his cock. You could feel your heartbeat on your throat, waiting patiently for further instructions.

“You can lick me just like you did with my fingers,” he said, fingers lifting your chin up. “You can take me in nice and slow. I’ll be patient.”

Ignoring the thunderous sound of your heart racing, you tentatively licked the tip of his cock, watching his every reaction with such attention. With every moment passing, you gradually became bolder and more excited, until you earned a growl from Aventurine after swiping your tongue from the base to the tip. 

“Hey, easy there, princess,” he chuckled with bated breath. “You’ll make me come in no time.”

For some reason, his breathy groans encouraged you further. There was something so addictive and so enthralling to the sound of his sultry voice, which made you want to please him more. Every time you would trace a vein with your tongue or whenever you suck on his tip, he would hold your hair tightly and try to resist the urge to climax so early. 

If Aventurine was honest, he could tell it was really your first time. You were sloppy and slow, and there were times he thought you were teasing him by not going any further. But inexplicably, he was so hot and bothered at that moment. His cheeks were flushed and heated and that certain look on your face whenever you glance up to him for validation could easily snap his sanity into two.

Perhaps it was because he had never expected this side of you. The contrast between your regular self and the you right now was massive, and that certainly had a different appeal in and of itself. The image of you sucking him off, mouth full of his dick will definitely be etched into his mind forever. Whether or not this will happen again, who knows? But he definitely landed on a jackpot once again. 

You admit this wild and bothered look on him was something you loved, partly because of how carelessly handsome he is, partly because this was your own doing. You made him become like this, and perhaps you could get him to give you more. Finally gathering the courage, you took him to the hilt, filling your mouth and throat; surprising him with the sensation. 

“S-shit…! Y/N!” 

Choking out a cry, Aventurine pushed you away and scooped you up over his shoulder. Something definitely snapped in him, you recalled thinking as he tossed you ungracefully to the nearby bed and pinning you on the spot between his legs. 

“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a menace?” He chuckled darkly, brushing his messy blond hair with his fingers. “You see, I don’t want to come in your mouth first thing tonight. Rather, I’d like to make a mess here…”

Spreading your legs wide, Aventurine pressed a finger on your wet and sensitive clit, making you cling to the sheets instantly. He easily turned you into a screaming, sobbing mess with his fingers rubbing your drenched folds. 

“A-aven…mmnh!! W-wait…ah—!”

The blond didn’t allow for any rest as he smoothly inserted two fingers inside, rubbing your gummy walls until you had trouble spreading your legs. You had no time to think, no time to ruminate on what was happening to you. Aventurine was relentless in his assault, sending waves upon waves of pleasure from your lower part towards the rest of your body. You could hardly keep your eyes open at how intense his fingers were, both attacking your pleasure point and your clit. 

It feels good…! It feels so fucking good…

Aventurine chuckled; his eyes almost glowing. “So pretty…my pretty little slut. Are you going to come? Here, let me help you.”

Without stopping his fingers, he leaned forward and started circling his hot tongue around your nipple. He nipped and bit at your soft and supple flesh yet he refused to give you any respite. 

“N-no…no…it’s too much! I’m going to…!” 

Knowing you were close, he suddenly bit your nipple and pushed his against your g-spot at the same time. Of course, you shuddered and screamed his name as you fell down the peak of your climax. He could only grin at your messy and enthused form, with your thighs drenched with your own juices, your lips stained with drool and tears and your skin littered by marks of his own creation. However, that wasn’t enough. Not enough at all. 

“Who would’ve thought this was your first time?” he remarked, fishing out a condom from his pants. 

“W-wait…!” you manage in between breaths. “You…don’t have to…I-I came prepared…” 

Arching a brow at you, the blond was greatly amused at how far you’d take all of this. “So you really came for the whole experience, huh? My princess is rather diligent.”

Placing himself between your legs, Aventurine began to rub his hard cock on your folds, lathering his shaft with your own juices. On the occasion of his tip brushing against your clit, you would beg and sob for him—unsure if you want to continue, but missing his presence when he decides to pull away. 

“A-Aventurine….wait! I just came…nghh!! P-please…!” 

“Isn’t this what you asked for, princess?” he taunted, threatening to enter you but suddenly slipping away. “I’m going to fuck you now, are you ready?”

It was the million dollar question; the whole point of tonight. Everything about this encounter was out of desperation and there was definitely no turning back, yet in the end, does it even matter? 

Without hesitation, you nodded your head, and repeated your words. “Just help me forget…”

Aventurine scoffed. “Don’t worry. You won’t be able to think of anything but me.”

Not waiting for a reply, Aventurine slowly inserted his cock in you, careful not to be too harsh. You anticipated the pressure, yet you seemed to have grossly underestimated how full you’ll feel as he gently pushed in and out. It was totally different and definitely overwhelming. If he hadn’t made you come twice, you’d probably be crying out in pain now. Leaning over, the blond attempted to distract you from the uncomfortable feeling by assaulting your neck and chest, leaving more love bites in his wake. Finally, with much effort, Aventurine was now fully inside you, yet he still waited for you to get accustomed to his size before doing anything. 

“How does it feel?” he asked in a low voice as he bit and licked the underside of your ear. 

“Hnnghh….I feel so full,” you managed to reply even though you were breathless. “You’re so big, Aventurine…” 

“Here, hold me,” he offered as he directed your arms to circle around his neck. “Just relax.” 

You never imagined Aventurine to have this side of him. Even though you could tell he was trying to resist the urge to move, he was being gentle and patient with you. It was as if he was concerned you’d be in pain rather than chasing his own high. It might’ve moved your frigid heart for a moment. 

“I…I think I’m fine now…” you finally told him as the discomfort toned down. “Please make me feel good…” 

“Anything for you, princess,” he chuckled, nuzzling on your neck as he steadily picked up his pace. 

Thank the Aeons you finally allowed him to move. He was almost at his wits’ end, as he struggled to keep himself calm while wrapped around by your warm and tight walls. Even as he gently rocked back and forth inside you, the only thing keeping himself from coming was how he distracted himself with pleasuring you. Amusingly, he also wondered why he was acting like this was his first time. 

“Oh god…there! A-ahh! Harder please!” you screamed beside his ear, your hands brushing through his hair at the nape. 

“You dirty girl…” he grumbled, thrusting sharply into you. Noticing how you both had finally settled on a rhythm, Aventurine decided to switch positions—now leaning back and holding your hips as he rammed ruthlessly into you. 

You immediately saw stars every time his cock pushed against the sensitive spot inside of you, arching your back at the intensity of the pleasure. This was different, so different from the other kinds of pleasures he had shown you tonight. This was primal, this was true and actual mating. You could feel him thrust against the entrance of your womb, intent to fill you up with his cum. 

“F-fuck…” he whispered, sensing the closeness of his climax. He could only endure so much, but of course, if he’s going down, you’re going down with him too. 

With his thumb, Aventurine began to stimulate your sensitive nub again, rubbing and flicking it, and enjoying your wild screams. The room was filled with your filthy noises—your sobs and cries, his cursing and growls and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It was dirty and obscene, and something you’d remember forever. 

“N-No! I’m…coming…a-ahh! Aven…I’m…!” 

“Y-yes, come with me, princess. I’ll fill you up with my cum…”

You could feel his movements become erratic, an indication that he was close. You, on the other hand, was no different. Your head was filled with electrifying shocks of pleasure as he drove into you over and over again. You could feel yourself teetering close to your climax, as you begged him to fill you up over and over again. 

Finally, in one sharp thrust, both you and Aventurine came. You shook, shivered and screamed as you felt his warmth fill you inside; tightening around him as you continued to ride out your orgasm. Meanwhile, he toppled above you, kissing your face over and over as if in a delirium. He then continued down your jaw, worshipping everywhere his lips could land on except on yours.

“Fuck…” he growled, pushing his still hard cock in you. “Can we do it again?”

It wasn’t everyday that he was this insatiable. He couldn’t understand why but something about you drove him feral, as if he had to breed you several times to feel satisfied. He couldn’t understand where this possiveness came from, but he wanted you so much that it ails him not to hold you. 

“W-wait…!” you rasped, arching your back as he once again descended on one of your breasts. “I just c-came…please…” 

Aventurine sat back up, watching you as you tried to regain your breath. He could feel his cum inside you, almost dripping out of you, and the thought seemed to entice him to keep you pressed against him. 

Lifting you up without pulling out, he turned you around. You landed on all fours as he unrelentingly continued to leave marks from your neck down to your back. You could feel his tongue tracing your spine as he descended down, while his cock continued to go in and out of you. 

“A-Aven…turine…! A-ah fuck…!” you cried out, unable to do anything but enjoy what he has to give you. 

You honestly felt like you couldn’t come anymore yet the mixture of pain and pleasure was so enthralling that you had to continue. You wanted to be driven up to deliriousness and insanity further, you wanted to know up to what limits he could take you. 

Unlike the first time, this round was the purest form of fucking. The both of you were trapped in a haze of lust, unable to stop yourselves from yearning for each other. He was rough and feral, as if he had only one last chance to do whatever he wanted with you, and you allowed it. After all, this was the kind of sex you were asking for—a sex so mind-numbing you stopped thinking altogether. All that mattered was the chase for pleasure and the final thunderous climax. 

“Oh Aeons…you feel so good, princess. I don’t want to stop…” he growled as he seized both your wrists and thrusted from the back, roughly going in and out of your hole until his cum began dripping out. 

“Please…harder!” you begged, “Fuck me harder…Aventurine…!” 

He chuckled in between low grunts. “What a dirty little princess…I’ll make sure you’ll never forget tonight…”

Right when you were so close, Aventurine pulled you to his lap facing him, his cock sinking into you and reaching even deeper places than before. His grip on your hips were bruising as he jerked into you sharply. His mouth was once again on your pulse point, and snaking towards the crook of your neck and then your jaw—if he can’t have your lips, might as well have everything else. 

“A-Aventurine…!”

As you moaned out his name, he glanced at you and watched as your face contorted in pleasure, memorizing how you looked in case he will never have the chance again. At that moment, both your lust-laden eyes met and locked both you in place, capturing you in an inescapable spell. Even as he continued to bounce you on top of him, your gazes never wavered. 

“Oh Aeons…I want to kiss you so badly…” he growled, eyes half-lidded and lips just a hair’s away from yours.

“Then kiss me…I want you to kiss me…p-please…” you pleaded in desperation. 

Yet he only smiled at you somberly. 

He wanted this to be real. He wanted to see you, to spend time with you again, not only just for tonight. Yet at the same time, Aventurine knew that if he gave you everything, you’d really have nothing else left to hold you back. He knew why you came to him tonight, why you wanted him to take your first time. He could see it in your eyes—the despair and the hopelessness, and how you didn’t care anymore. But he does, against his better judgement. He does, because he sees that same hopelessness reflected in his own eyes. So even if he wanted to taste those sweet lips now, he'd hold off.

“Focus, princess,” he ordered, thrusting into your g-spot to numb your head. 

To distract you, he pinched your clit and relentlessly pounded into you. He knew that was any easy ticket to your orgasm, though he was not spared. Your walls would tighten like a vice around him whenever you were close, and he himself couldn’t hold off that long. 

With all his ministrations going on at the same time, you could no longer think about anything except your pleasure and how you were so close. But in one stroke against your sensitive spot, Aventurine had you coming down from your high in a disastrous tumble, with you shaking on his laps as you squirted on him. He followed soon after, unable to deny himself any longer. Ropes of cum filled you once again, savoring a feeling of warmth in your womb as you teetered at the edge of consciousness. The last thing you remembered was the sensation of his lips on your forehead, bidding you good night and promising to clean up after you. 

By the time you woke up, you could see slits of light peeking from the heavy curtains. You were definitely clean as promised, but now you were alone. Of course you were. It was a transaction after all. 

Cursing at how sore you felt, you spotted a note on the nightstand as you moved to stand up. You could only chuckle after reading. 

Ask me to kiss you if we meet again. -A

P.S. I’ll treat you to dinner if you do. 

[coopigeoncoo]

The Cardinal Rule

Pairing: Hawks/Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: Teen+

Tags: Romantic Comedy, Bird Puns, Ritual Blood Letting, Blood and Injury, Descriptions of Surgical Procedures, Vomit, The Teachings of Karl Marx

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A story where Hawks learns that while humans might be awed by his flying skills, the bird population is decidedly less impressed.

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"The birds are refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed.

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip.

"They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes."

Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly.

"My what?" He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

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Continue Reading below or follow the link to Ao3!

The air inside the studio was stifling; hot from the numerous bodies crammed into one room and the too-bright spotlights shining down onto the immaculately styled set pieces.  The entire thing looked like something your Art History Professor would have gushed over, the words ‘Brutalistic’ and ‘Industrial’ echoing through your head in their booming voice.  And you understood this set design just about as much as you understood that entire unit in school- pretty much not at all.  

But it wasn’t your job to understand the aesthetic appeal of the bone white pillars jutting out from the concrete floor at harsh angles.  Your job was to mind the birds.  

You liked your job at the bird rehabilitation center well enough and found it soothing most days.  Getting to spend your days caring for sick and infirmed birds was emotionally rewarding as well as lucrative.  It turns out that Ornithologists were very willing to shell out the big bucks to have someone with an Avian Communication Quirk on their payroll.  You had cemented yourself as an irreplaceable employee when you single handedly turned a failing breeding program around by informing the lead scientist that the female bird wasn’t receptive to the male’s advances because she thought he didn’t groom himself well enough.  One emergency bath later and the courtship proceeded without a hitch.  Last you heard the endangered pair was happily raising their forth successful brood.     

The only part of your work you didn’t like was what you were forced into doing today; accompanying the birds on sojourns outside of the rescue facility.  Schools loved to have the birds visit as they were a good distraction for the children that allowed the harried teachers to catch their breaths and chug a cup of coffee while your feathered companions dazzled the students with their aerial acrobatics.  And even though those bouts of public speaking absolutely wracked your nerves, you would happily subject yourself to a dozen school assemblies if it meant escaping the hell that was waiting stand-by at a Pro Hero photo shoot.

Pro Heroes, by the nature of their work, had unpredictable schedules at best and were unreachable at worst, leaving the support and PR people who orbited around them in a perpetual state of limbo.  In general, you found lateness to be deeply inconsiderate of everybody’s time and energy, but it was a social faux paus to call Heroes out on their tardiness.  They were usually late due to being called out for emergencies and rescues, so chiding them for missing appointments was a surefire way to come off looking like an absolute jerk to the public at large.  

But internally you can, and often do, curse them for keeping you waiting in a sweltering studio for hours as your birds grew increasingly agitated and your stock of treats ran low.  

“Hot," a brilliant red cardinal complained, hopping into the bowl of water you had placed at the bottom of his cage. 

“I know, buddy.  Hold on just a little longer, okay?”

“Too many suns,” one of the hawks complained, ducking her head beneath her wing to block out the blinding glow of the stand lights.  

“There sure are.  Do you want me to put a blanket over your cage?”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, shifting her weight from foot to foot in irritation as pulled out a dark blue blanket and draped it over the side of her cage that faced the lights.

A frazzled looking assistant darted your way, hand pressed to the earpiece of their headset as she took in the newest bout of information being relayed.

"Hawks is on-site now.  He's just about done in wardrobe and then he'll make his way here," the assistant said, her eyes frantically scanning over the clipboard in her hands.

"Thank goodness," you sighed, turning to the cages that housed the birds.  "Are you all ready?"

"Leave?  Leave now?" The cardinal chirped, bouncing excitedly in his bath.

"Unfortunately, no.  We still have work to do."

"Not ready then," the cardinal huffed petulantly, puffing up his bright red body as he sank down into his pool. 

"C'mon, it won't be too bad!  If you all follow directions I bet the photos will go really fast and we'll be out of here in no time!" You assured the tiny red bird, crouching down to give him your full attention as he flapped his wings too fast and sent water sloshing out of his pool.  

"Treat would make me ready," the cardinal said slyly, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to distract you from his manipulations by reminding you of how cute he was.

"Treat?" The overwhelmed hawk inquired, peeping her head from around her shroud.

"Treat?" A dove cooed, nudging its friends awake who immediately joined in with the call for snacks.

"Treat! Treat!" The birds chirped and squawked, hitting their wings against the side of their cage and creating a loud enough ruckus that people were beginning to send irritated glances your way.

"Okay!," you hissed in capitulation, pulling a handful of dried crickets out of a paper bag.  "But this is the last of the treats I brought with me, so you all need to behave and make it through the rest of the photoshoot.  Got it?"

"Yes, yes," the cardinal readily agreed, bouncing along the bottom of his cage and picking up the grasshopper in its beak, chomping happily.  "Be good.  Promise."

The cardinal was a dirty rotten liar.  

Snacks had bought you a tentative peace that lasted until the moment Hawks arrived on set.  The birds took one look at the Hero and promptly began screeching, startling everyone in the studio and causing more than one person to drop their cup of coffee in surprise.  Hawks took to air, landing on top of one of the pillars and artfully arranged himself according to the Photographer's instructions while your birds went wild; hurling insults his way.

"Rude!  Rude bird!" The cockatoo called, flairing his crest in displeasure.

"Bad flier!" The doves chastised together with sharp clicks of their beaks.

"Miscreant!" The cardinal called, easily the most wound up of the bunch, fluffing up his feathers to look threatening.  "Criminal!"

"Hey, guys!  Shhhh, you have to quiet down!" You begged, aware of all the judgemental glares settling onto your back like a physical weight.  "You promised you'd behave!"

"No behave!  Need justice!" The cardinal called, hopping up onto his perch and opening his bright orange beak to let out a high pitched chirp. " JUSTICE!"

"Justice!" The rest of the birds echoed. Justice!  Justice!  Justice!"

"We're ready for the birds on set!" The assistant informed you as she motioned over her shoulder to where the photographer circled around Hawks, snapping a few last minute test shots.

"Right," you coughed nervously. "About that."

"What do you mean the birds refuse to work?!" The photographer roared in your face, his cheeks colored a splotchy red.  "They're birds! "

"Yes, they are.  And they refuse to take pictures with Hawks."

"All of them?" The photographer scrubbed a frustrated hand down his face, a vein at his temple pulsating in time with his thundering heartbeat.  

"Seems like," you admit with a sheepish shrug. "It's pretty unusual for them to agree on anything like this.  The raptors and the songbirds are almost always at odds with each other."

"I'm so glad they've managed to achieve bird peace instead of doing, oh, I don't know;  WHAT I'VE PAID FOR THEM TO DO!" The photographer bellowed through gritted teeth, pulling out fistfuls of his already thinning hair in frustration.  

"No price on honor!" The cardinal chirped boldly, the other birds supporting their tweeted proclamation with chirps of their own.  

"What's going in here?" A passing member of the crew asked, hoisting a coiled extension cord up onto his shoulder.

"The birds are uh- unionizing, apparently?  And have decided to go on strike," you explain.

"Really?" The man said, eyes wide in astonishment as he gave the birds a thumbs up and a wide smile. "Right on, little dudes!  Fight the power!"

"Yes!  Fight!  Fight!" The cardinal called.

"Fight!" The birds chorused.

"Bite!  Bite!" The cardinal screeched as he snapped his beak in demonstration.  

"You uh, might want to get away from the cages," you warn the photographer.  "They're starting to call for violence."

The photographer turned away from the cages and appeared to take cleansing breaths before he noticed the crew orderly filing out of the studio.

"Wait!" The photographer called out to the workers. "Where are you going?"

"Sorry man, but we don't cross picket lines," the man holding the extension cord explained as he grabbed a soggy donut from  craft services table on his way out the door.  The crew's act of solidarity seemed to please the birds, who let out  joyous calls in return.  

"We are flock!" The cardinal cheered.  "The flock is strong!"

"I'm so going to get fired for this," you mutter despondently as the birds began flipping over their feeders, spilling seeds and slices of fresh fruit across the studio floor.  

"So what's the excitement over here all about?" Hawks asked, finally curious enough about the disruption your birds were causing to come over and investigate.  

"So, um.  The birds are upset, " you begin warily, hyper aware that the birds were screeching louder and louder with every step Hawks took towards their cages.  

"I can see that," he smirked as he twisted the lid off of a bottle of water, the lopsided grin perfectly at home on his scruffy face.

"And they're refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed.  

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip.

"They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes."

Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly.

"My what? " He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

"Crimes!  So many crimes!" The cardinal squawked.  "Criminal!"

"Villain!  Bad Hawk!" The hawk supplied, eager to distance herself from this other hawk's misdeeds.  

"You seem to have acquired a terrible reputation amongst the bird population in the city.  They're calling you a Villain," you explain ruefully, desperately wishing that you had woken up dead this morning so you could have avoided this entire mortifying ordeal.  

"Tell me- tell me everything, " Hawks sputtered, staring intensely at the rioting birds with wide golden eyes.

Since you were the only person who could understand both human and avians, you were selected to mediate by default.  The birds, unsurprisingly, chose the rabble-rousing cardinal as their representative.  

"I'm going to let you out of the cage now," you told the cardinal, unlocking the door to his enclosure.  "No funny business or you're going right back in, understood?"

"Yes," the cardinal groused, hopping up and down to psych himself up for confronting the number one bird-sona non grata.  

"That means no biting."

"..."

"Agree not to bite or I'm leaving you in the cage."

"Fine," the cardinal agreed, puffing his feathers up in irritation.  "No bite."

"Took him a while to agree to that rule," Hawks murmured uneasily, eyeing the cardinal's sharp orange beak.  

"Yeah, they made up a song about biting you earlier and I think it got him really excited about the prospect."

"Oh, wow," Hawks said, a genuine thread of amazement lacing through his words.  "They've really put a lot of effort into hating me."

"Yeah, they really have.  It's super impressive, right?"

"No chatting!" The cardinal admonished, squeezing your finger with his tiny feet; talons prickling your skin.  "List his crimes!  Prepare for judgment!"

"Right, okay.  So, their biggest complaint is that you're an inconsiderate flier," you begin, keeping an eye on the cardinal perched on your finger as he nods along to your words.

"Inconsiderate how?"

"For starters, you often fly through a flock.  That makes them consider you a predator and unnecessarily stresses them out.  It's an especially big deal during the spring when the females are incubating."

"I see," Hawks murmured, scratching his chin thoughtfully.  

You listened closely to the clarifying chirp of the cardinal before addressing Hawks once more.  "He says that you will also position yourself at the front of a flock, putting yourself in charge of navigation and end up leading them wildly off course."

"I had no idea," Hawks admitted with a sigh, grimacing under the beady glare of the cockatoo. "I was just enjoying their company while I flew."

"And that's kind of the underlying issue here," you point out, running a calming finger over the fluffy crest of feathers atop his head.  "You're playing on their field but totally ignoring the rules of the game and just sowing chaos everywhere you fly."

"I feel like a complete jerk," Hawks admitted, moving his head so he was face to face with the feisty cardinal.  "I'm sorry for causing trouble and making such a mess of things.  I'll be much more conscious about how I fly in the future."

The cardinal was quiet on your finger, mulling over Hawk's words thoughtfully.

"Tell him more."

"Really?" You groan.  "Can't you just accept his apology and move on?"

"Hear all crimes!  Then retribution!"

"Okay, so are you ready to hear the rest?"

"There's more? " Hawks asked incredulously, staring at the cardinal with wide eyes.  

"You better grab a seat," you advise him with a sigh.  "It's a long list of complaints."

To his immense credit, Hawks sat through the translated tongue lashing with rapt attention, taking in each and every criticism with a solemn nod of his head.  He was accused of everything from taking up all the best perches to not sharing the snacks he brought up onto rooftops with him.  That one seemed especially egregious in the eyes of the birds, as the mere mention of unshared snacks past sent them into a wild screeching fit it took you minutes to calm them down from.

"Last crime," the cardinal proclaimed grandiosely, as though he was delivering a sermon from a pulpit and not yelling at an increasingly despondent man while perched on your finger.  "Duck got head stuck in fence.  Hawks took picture and laughed!"

"You laughed and took a picture of a duck that got its head stuck in a fence?"

"Yeah," Hawks winced, fingers running across the grooves in his water bottle nervously.  "I freed them afterwards though!"

"After you laughed at them and took a picture, you mean?" You huffed, completely siding with the birds in this particular instance.  

"Crimes done.  Retribution now!"   The cardinal chirped, sending the rest of the birds into an uproar of wildly flapping wings and agreeing squeaks.  

"What's he saying?"

"He's, uh, calling for retribution."

"Feathers and blood!" The cardinal demanded.

"Feathers and blood!" The doves warbled in agreement.

"They're calling for your feathers and blood," you informed the Hero.   

"And snacks!" The hawk added, the rest of the birds silent as they considered the added request.

"Yes, snacks!" The cardinal chirped in triumph as the rest of the birds joined him in his chant. "Snacks!  Snacks!  Snacks!"

"Feathers, blood…and snacks," you clarify, watching anxiously as Hawks' brow furrowed deeply in thought.

"I agree to your terms," Hawks said, holding out his extended index finger in front of the cardinal.  "Blood and feathers now, with snacks to be delivered later.  Deal?"

The cardinal, being a legitimately good representative for his species, turned to briefly confer with the rest of the birds before hopping from your finger onto Hawks'; the closest approximation to a handshake as they could get.  

"It's a deal," you smiled brightly to Hawks, who returned your brilliant grin with one of his own that set off sharp pangs of nervousness in your belly.  It had been easy to ignore how handsome he was while you were busy trying to quell a feathery uprising; but now that the panic that had been crashing through your body was abating, your brain had apparently decided you had more than enough brain cells free to contemplate how pleasing Hawks' appearance was.  

He was a bit more disheveled than he was at the start of this entire debacle, hair tousled from where he had run his hands through it in bouts of sheepishness; but he still looked put together and expertly coiffed.  You, on the other hand, could tell that an entire day spent in a sweltering room hadn't done you any favors by the way your uniform polo clung to your sweat-dampened skin.  Suddenly self conscious and desperate for a shower, you puff your chest out in a false show of bravado and do your best to move things along.  

"Alright, which do you want to do first?  The blood or the feathers?"

The birds, by and large, considered giving up feathers to be the most important act of contrition and agreed that the request for blood was mostly just a ceremonial inclusion for traditions sake.  But Hawks, determined to repent, ran one of his sharpened feathers across his forearm with no complaint; dulling the blood tipped feather and presenting it to the cardinal with a deep bow.  

The cardinal accepted the offering with a pleased chirp, taking the feather in his beak and carefully tucking it in amongst his tail feathers.  Hawks' plume, being about twice the length of the entire cardinal, trailed out comically from his tail and made him look like a far more exotic bird than he actually was.  

"Atonement!" The cardinal cried, shaking his new tail feather for his comrades to see.  

"So red!" A dove praised.

"Very shiny," the cockatoo nodded.

"Well, that's one down," Hawks said as he curled his left wing in front of his body, hands already running through his feathers as he carefully selected his next offering.  "Who's next?"

"Me! Me! Me!" The birds chirped in unison, a great many hopping up and down in their excitement to possess a colorful new treasure.  

"You don't have to give them all feathers, Hawks," you assured him as you frantically calculated how many birds you'd brought with you versus how many feathers he could probably surrender while still retaining his ability to fly.  "I know you need them for your job."

"That's true," Hawks nodded as he plucked out another feather and presented it to a brown-headed thrush.  "But I also need to hold myself accountable for my mistakes.  The birds have very generously offered me a way to make things right, and I won't take this opportunity for granted."

You didn't know what to say so you opted instead for silence, watching intently as he methodically worked his way through the collected cages; respectful and solemn as he repeated the feather presentation for each and every bird.  

The photographer had been thrilled when he returned to set and found Hawks in place on set, lounging bonelessly across the pillars with a collection of raptors perched around him.  That excitement faded quickly when he saw the bare patches in Hawks' normally full wings, a far cry from the picture perfect style he'd be envisioning.

Hawks had simply run an admiring finger across the bright red feather tucked into an eagle's wing and proclaimed that 'He liked it better this way' and that was that.  The photographer began barking orders and the crew jumped into action, adjusting light positioning and turning on a wind machine to ruffle everyone's feathers just so.  

The rest of the shoot went by smoothly, and in no time at all you were refilling water dishes and loading up the cages into the back of the large box truck with the bird rescues' name and phone number stenciled onto the back.  You cranked the AC up to the highest setting and sank down into the faux leather driver's seat, enjoying the merciless onslaught of frigid air on your overheated skin as you buckled up.  

Peering into your side mirror, you were startled by the presence of the Number Two Hero illuminated in the red glow of your taillights.  He was leaning out of the studio exit, a small smile tugging at his lips and a hand held up in farewell while you shifted the truck into drive and rolled out of the parking lot.  The sharp shrill of birds complaining as you hit a pothole pulled your attention back to the road and away from Hawks' golden eyes; glowing brightly from the shadows.     

It was hard not to think about Hawks as you cruised along on the empty highway, so you allowed yourself a brief flight of fancy; reminiscing about the scant distance between your bodies and the tangy redolence of his cologne.  

It would be a good story to regale your coworkers with over drinks and to pull out at parties when you needed to impress someone; the tale of a bird rebellion and how Hawks managed to both literally and figuratively soothe the birds' ruffled feathers.  A once in a lifetime meeting that you would think back fondly on, made ever more precious by the knowledge that such a thing would never occur again.

It wasn't like you to answer your personal phone at work, but it also wasn't something that had honestly ever happened before.  Your family knew your work schedule and your friends all belonged to the very reasonable school of thought where they would rather drink poison than talk on the phone, so any communication from them would arrive in text form.  Curious, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket and swiped to answer; stomach plummeting to your feet when your camera booted up and you belatedly realized you'd accepted a request to video chat.  

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, " you swore, reaching to press the disconnect button as Hawks' beaming face appeared on screen.

"Hey there!," he greeted cheerily, face disappearing from view as he momentarily fumbled with his phone.  

"Hawks? " You croak in disbelief, quickly examining your appearance in the small facecam and hurriedly knocking a chunk of dried mealworm out of your hair. 

"That's what they call me!"

"Are you- is everything okay?" You manage to stammer out, impressed that you managed to say actual words and not a series of confused grunts.  

"Everything is fine!  I was just calling to thank you for all your help a few weeks back," he explained, the camera drifting off to the side to show off the sprawling city skyline.  Wherever Hawks was, he was up high.  "Word has been getting around to all the birds around the city and I've noticed a definite shift in their demeanor."

"Oh?  How so?"

"Well, for starters, they've stopped dive bombing me mid-flight.  And they aren't pooping on that statue of me downtown nearly as much as they used to.  Oh!  And a couple days ago a crow brought me a couple of soda tabs," Hawks said proudly as he reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled out a leather cord with some aluminum pieces tied into the middle.  "So I turned them into a necklace!"

"Very stylish," you complimented sincerely, thinking about the box of bird gifted trinkets you had at home and how much each of those shiny bits of metal meant to you.  

"And I've taken to carrying around some food for them- bird seed and raisins, mostly; so we can all hang out and eat together!"

"It really sounds like things have turned around for you.  I'm glad."

"They really have," Hawks nodded eagerly, phone tilting off-kilter once again as a particularly strong gust blew by.  "And it's all because of you."

"I think you're definitely downplaying that cardinal's excellent negotiation tactics," you reminded him as you shuffled a few papers across the top of a nearby desk, trying to distract yourself from the sense of unease you felt under the weight of both his attention and gratitude.

"Speaking of negotiations, did the treats I sent arrive safely?  I would hate for this tentative peace we've achieved to crumble due to shipping errors."

"They did!" You assured him, spinning your phone around to point the camera at the large stack of express shipped boxes in the corner.  "The birds were very excited when they arrived, but now that they know we have such a huge backlog they just keep bugging me about getting snacks all the time."

"Sorry about that.  But sacrifices must be made in the name of peace," Hawks shook his head sadly.  

"I think you're a bit more knowledgeable about sacrifices than I am.  Are your replacement feathers coming in alright?"

"They've already fully grown back in, see?" He tilted his camera to landscape and extended one wing out to the side, fluffing his feathers to show off how nicely they'd filled in.

"Woah," you whistled in appreciation, cutting off the sound abruptly when you saw his cheeks flush, realizing how inappropriately he had taken your display of awe.  "That's ah- really fast for full regrowth."

"That's sort of my thing, you know.  Being fast," he smirked proudly before he suddenly froze, cheeks reddening even further as he seemed to sink his face down into the collar of his coat. "Well, uh- most of the time at least.  Sometimes I'm slow though.  When I want to be.  I can be reeeeally slow."

Deciding to ignore his floundering since he had so graciously let your own bout of verbal idiocy pass unmentioned, you frantically gazed around the room and found the perfect segue to shift your conversation back into neutral waters.

"Do you want to see what they did with your feathers?"

"They kept them?" Hawks asked, voice hitching in excitement.

"More than that; they made art with them," you cheerfully explained, flipping the phone around to show off the wreath hanging in the window a handful of weaver birds had worked together to craft; Hawk's brilliant red feathers tucked and woven amongst reedy pieces of grass and straw.  "Since there weren't enough feathers for every bird here at the rescue, they thought that displaying them publicly was more fair."

"Wow," Hawks breathed, impressed by both their craft skills and sense of equitability.  "They're really taking this union thing seriously."

"You have no idea," you laughed dryly. "They're starting to talk about collecting dues. "

It was strange how quickly you became accustomed to communicating with Hawks.  Calls were a rare occurrence due to how overwhelmingly busy he was pretty much every moment of the day.  There were multiple instances where you would be texting, sending funny memes back and forth to each other, and then mere moments after his last message was sent you would see him flash across the screen in a live news broadcast.  A blur of red and beige swooping in to pull civilians out of harm's way or expertly apprehend Villains without breaking a sweat.  

Knowing how full Hawks' schedule was made you even more appreciative of that evening he'd spent with you and the birds all those weeks ago.  You had thought that the feathers were the most valuable thing he had given up that day, but you now knew that his time was an infinitely more precious commodity.  

So you treasured each moment that he chose to share with you, regardless of the form it took.  Snapshots of cute birds he'd seen on patrol, lengthy personal reviews of what had to be every fried chicken restaurant in the city, and picking up the phone whenever he was free to chat. 

Even when that call came in at four in the morning, like today.  

"You should try to eat breakfast before you crash for the night," you reminded him, tone a touch scolding because this was not the first time you'd had to remind him to make time for a meal.  

"I don't like breakfast foods," Hawks grumbled, lip stuck out in a deep pout as he trudged towards his kitchen.  

"You don't have to eat breakfast foods, you just have to eat, " you huff in exasperation, grabbing a box of cereal from your pantry, hoping that a healthy dose of peer pressure might tip the scales in your favor.  "Cold pizza was invented for pretty much this exact purpose."

"I don't think I have any pizza," Hawks muttered, prying open the double doors of his fridge and examining the contents critically.  "I think I have the stuff for a sandwich though."

"Sandwiches are good.  They meet all the necessary desperation meal requirements."

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he shoved a packet of lunch meat into the crook of his arm and sent a couple of feathers in to grab condiments so he wouldn't have to set down his phone.

"They contain calories and don't dirty up too many dishes," you explain, hip checking your own fridge closed as you grab a carton of milk.  "Handfuls of cheese you eat over the sink are also a classic choice."

"What are you eating?"

"Cereal," you say, holding up your bowl of puffed grains next to your face for his inspection.

"Ugh, gross," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"I'm going to toss some berries on top."

"That doesn't make the cereal better, that just makes the berries worse, " he complained as he squirted a generous serving of mayonnaise across a slice of bread, paused, and then squeezed on some more.

"Hey, now!  If I wanted this level of judgment before the sun came up I would talk to my Grandma instead," you huffed, shoving a spoonful of cereal into your mouth and bringing the microphone closer to your jaw to subject Hawks to the loudest crunching sounds you could manage.  

"I- sorry," he sighed, shoulders drooping in exhaustion.  "I didn't mean to be so prickly.  Today was…really rough."

"I know," you said soothingly.  "I saw the News.  Even went to bed early because I thought you might call."

"Thank you," he says, voice small so it could slip past the emotions welling in his throat.  "For picking up." 

"Anytime, Hawks," you assured him, eyes darting to the time displayed in the upper corner of your phone screen.  "Literally."

You, 11:45am

"Hey, Hawks?  I have a question."

Hawks, 11:52am

"Of course!  What's up?"

You, 11:53am

"I've been wondering for a while now- how did you get my phone number?"

Hawks, 1:15pm

"I saw the rescue logo on the back of the truck when you were leaving the photo shoot."

"Called them up and told them how impressed I was with your professionalism and how I wanted to thank you personally."

You, 1:18pm

"And they just gave you my number?!"

Hawks, 1:20pm

"Yep.  Major breach of confidentiality.  You might want to look into that, actually.  

"They didn't ask me to verify my identity or anything!"

You, 1:22

"Gotta go.  I need to send a strongly worded letter to HR."

Hawks, 1:25

"Make sure to start it with a 'To Whom It May Concern'; let them know you really mean business!"

The familiar jingle of Hawk's custom ringtone only sounded for a moment before you were able to swap which hand was holding onto your grocery basket and fish your phone out of your back pocket. 

"Hey, there!" Hawks greeted, smile strained as he waved his arm around frantically at something off screen.  "Can I- Ugh!  Ask for a favor in a- argh!  Professional capacity?"

"Uh, sure?" You agreed, re-shelving a can of soup you were having second thoughts about.

"Great!" Hawks shouted in relief, pulling a flailing pigeon into frame, reeling back momentarily as he took a wing straight to the face.  "This little cutie has been following me for hours , trying to- oof!  Get my attention and I'm starting to get very curious as to their underlying motivation."

"Maybe she just wants an autograph?" You joke, snorting in amusement as Hawks dodged another hit from the distressed bird.

"I'll give her whatever she wants if she just- ugh ! Stops hitting me!"

You whistled shrilly, gaining the attention of nearby shoppers and the pigeon on Hawks' end; the bird stilling in his hands at your call.  "Hey, little pigeon.  What's going on?"

The pigeon launched into a series of urgent coos, head bobbing along frantically with her cries. 

"Are you sure?" You asked, eyes wide as she cooed in confirmation, heaving a relieved sigh that her message had been successfully conveyed.  

"What?  What is it?" Hawks asked anxiously, cradling the bird snugly to his chest now that she wasn't a thrashing mass of beak and talons.  

"She says, ah-," you pause, looking around at all the shoppers lingering about you with prying eyes.  Flashing them a wobbly smile, you quickly shuffle off towards the other end of the store, dropping your voice to a whisper in a bid for some level of confidentiality.  "She says that she knows where they're hiding all the drugs?" 

It's quiet for a moment as Hawks peers down at the pigeon in his hands with comically wide eyes before he shifts into a more professional demeanor; shooting a too-bright smile at you through his phone.  

"I've gotta' go now!  Bye!"

Your phone kicks you back to your home screen as he hangs up, leaving you staring at your phone; dumbfounded by the abrupt turn of events.  

A few days passed before you heard from Hawks again, and when the next call came in he wasn't alone.

"This is Cookie," he beamed as he proudly introduced the familiar pigeon perched on his shoulder.  "Get it?  Because you can't spell 'Cookie' without 'coo'?  And she's a pigeon? And pigeons-"

"-pigeons say 'coo'. Yeah, I get it," you groan miserably.  After years working at the rescue you had limited patience for bird jokes and were pretty sure you had heard them all hundreds of times by this point.  Unfortunately for you, Hawks seemed to have acquired puns as a second language and was determined to impress you with his fluency.  

"Anyway, it turns out Cookie has a real knack for surveillance.  She led me right to a massive distribution center that was operating right under our noses."

"Is it okay for you to be telling me all of this?"

"Probably not!" Hawks laughed, bringing a finger up to give Cookie an affectionate scratch at the side of her head.  "Anyway, I hope you weren't too attached to that dim sum place downtown.  It was totally a drug front."

"Wait- the one with the little ginger dumplings?" You gasped in dawning horror.

"The very same."

"And the chef-?"

"The ringleader of the entire operation, I'm afraid."

"God dammit!"

"So they pack me up, ship me across the country to some far flung zoo to talk to their penguin in person because he's, and I quote, 'camera shy'.   And do you know how that little gremlin thanked me?" You ranted into your phone, freshly clad in an old pair of pajamas with your skin still dewy from your flesh-searingly hot shower.  

"He threw up on you, didn't he?" Hawks said, poorly disguising his restrained laughter with a forced cough.

"He threw up on me !" You screeched, throwing your hands up into the air as you fell backwards onto the couch, accidentally smacking yourself in the face with the corner or your phone during your uncontrolled plummet. "Ouch!"

"You alright?" Hawks asked, voice muffled from your speaker being pressed into the couch cushions.

"Yes.  And no?" you sigh, rubbing a fist across the rising welt on your temple while you propped your phone up on your stomach, providing Hawks with the most unflattering viewing angle of your face as possible. "Just wishing things were different, I guess?"

"What sorts of things?" Hawks asked quietly, the distant beacons on airplane wings blinking methodically in the night sky behind him; false stars in a pollution filled sky.  

"I don't know.  Everything?  I wish I had a different job, one where penguins didn't vomit on me.  Or a different Quirk.  Just- an entirely different life, sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I thought," Hawks paused, allowing himself to carefully select his words.  "I thought you liked your job?"  

"I do.  Most of the time, at least.  But it also feels like I never really have a choice, you know?  Like, what else could I really do with a Quirk like mine?"

"You could always not use your Quirk," he said, gaze intensely focused away from his phone on some distant point on the horizon you couldn't see.  "Get a job doing something entirely different."

"I didn't want to when I was a kid- use my Quirk, I mean.  I wanted to be a doctor.  And a best-selling author.  And a ninja."

"Quite the triple threat."

"Yeah," you chuckled, thinking back on all the crayon drawings you had made, scribbles of a distant future that would never come to pass.  "But everyone said it would be a waste to not use my natural-born talent, especially since it's a moderately useful one."

"I've always wanted to be Hero.  For as long as I can remember, that's always been my dream," Hawks stated flatly, with the same lackluster affect of someone discussing the weather; an automatic response honed through years of systematic repetition.  "But I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he swallowed thickly, focusing his attention back onto you; eyes glistening strangely with reflections of the city lights.

"It's hard being… pigeonholed into a profession."  

"Hawks, noooooo," you groan piteously.  "We were having a moment!  And you ruined it!"

"I'm sorry!" He lied, head thrown back as he cackled.  

"I'm hanging up now," you grumbled, more amused than you were irritated but determined not to let Hawks know that.  

"Don't go!  I'll be lonely without you!"

"Cookie will keep you company.  Won't you, girl?" 

At the mention of her name, the pigeon poked her head out from where she was nestled inside of Hawks' collar, cooing her agreement.

"I still can't believe you commissioned a tiny visor for her," you snorted in delight at the miniature replica of Hawks' headset perched on top of Cookie's beak.  

"What?  She needed it!" Hawks defended, drawing his collar shut and pulling Cookie in more snugly towards his chest.  "Her eyes were drying out when I flew too fast!"

"Uh-huh.  Sure they were."

"They were!  And besides, she likes wearing it," he insists petulantly before he is carried away by a sudden wave of uncertainty.  "Right?"

"She does," you assure him. "Cookie really loves being with you, Hawks."

"Really?" He whispered, staring down at the bird in awe, who cooed happily and nuzzled her head into his chin.  

A quiet moment stretched on between you, silent except for the sound of your breathing and the distant wail of a car alarm.  

"For the record, I think your Quirk is amazing," Hawks said sincerely.  "You have this entire extra world you get to communicate with.  That's pretty special."

"I guess," you say with a sigh, pushing up into a sitting position with the naive aspirations of mustering up the energy to make it to bed in the next hour or two.  "But it's not like they're particularly great conversationalists.  Once Spring rolls around I just have to deal with listening to hundreds of voices outside my window screaming about how horny they are for weeks on end."

"You prefer a more subtle seduction method then?" Hawks asked, tone playful and also somehow entirely inappropriate.  

"Just a smidgen," you laugh nervously, steadfastly ignoring the frantic beating of your heart.  

"I'll make a note of that."

You had grown so used to looking at Hawks through your phone screen that seeing him in person, bursting through the doors of the rescue, was as startling as having ice shoved down the back of your shirt.  And that feeling of alarm was quickly upgraded to absolute panic by the fact that he was covered in blood splatter and cradling Cookie's limp and twisted body in his hands.  

"HELP!" Hawks yelled, eyes darting wildly around the room as he searched for assistance.  There wasn't even time for a single breath between Hawks spotting you and then him suddenly being at your side; a gust of air heralding his arrival before your eyes could even begin to try to focus on where he had been.    

"Please!  You have to help!  Cookie she- she's hurt," Hawks pleaded, his eyes wild as he cradled his injured friend to his chest.   

"Let me see," you ordered firmly, prying open Hawks' shaking hands to get a better look at the bird.  

"Cold," Cookie warbled weakly when Hawks' hands were pulled away from her body.

"Shh, I know sweet girl," you said soothingly, lifting her as carefully as you could into your own grasp.  

"Hawks hurt?  Hawks okay?"

"What is it?" Hawks asked anxiously.  "What's she saying?"

"She wants to know if you're hurt."

"No," Hawks assured her, voice cracking as he ran soothing fingers across a patch of disheveled feathers between her eyes.  "I'm just fine, thanks to you."

"I need to take Cookie now, Hawks," you informed him gently, "I'll take good care of her.  I promise."

"I know," he sniffed, wiping damp cheeks onto the sleeve of his coat. "I trust you."

It was hard witnessing Hawks' desperation; seeing someone who was normally a paragon of strength so visibly shaken.  It made you scared, having to be strong and brave; to help when a Hero couldn't.  

But you could be brave, just this once.  

For Hawks' sake.  

Just like you, the rest of the staff at the bird rescue had been cherry picked to provide the highest level of Avian care possible.  So while Cookie had been grievously injured with an absolutely staggering number of blunt force fractures, there was likely no better place in the city she could have been brought to for treatment. 

Cookie had made it through numerous scans and a long operation, but you knew that was only the beginning of her struggle.  Her road to recovery would be a long one, and she would likely never be able to fly as well as she did before after having the bones in her left wing nearly ground to dust.  But you couldn't bring yourself to feel too discouraged by that bit of bad news in the face of Cookie's near miraculous survival.  

There hadn't been anything for you to do during the surgery since you didn’t possess any sort of veterinary license, but Hawks had entrusted Cookie to you and it felt wrong to just leave her.  You knew your coworkers well and had the utmost faith in their capabilities, but you'd been determined to stay there beside her should the worst have come to pass.  

So you'd tucked yourself into a corner, already overwhelmed and ready to leave before the scalpel had even made its first incision. You’d watched as they cut and tugged and stitched; blood running and bones popping and Quirks glowing.  And dear lord, the smells-  

It was the absolute worst thing you’d ever witnessed in your life.

But Hawks had trusted you with this; to be where he couldn’t.  

And you wouldn't let him down.  

Hawks sprang up from his stolen chair behind the reception desk as you stumbled back to the front of the building, heartbeat thundering as images from the surgery clung to the inside of your eyelids; replaying with gruesome clarity every time you blinked.

"How is she?" He asked breathlessly, eager to hear the news but dreading the likely outcome.  

“Cookie made it through surgery,” you said, voice too loud as you attempted to make yourself heard over the ringing in your ears.  “She’ll survive.”  

“Oh, thank God,” Hawks gasped in relief, his words distant and muffled.  “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, waving off his gratitude right before you bent forward and threw up all over his boots.  

You, 2:14am

“Once again: I’m so sorry about the vomit.”

Hawks, 2:15am

“I told you, it’s fine!  Stop apologizing.”

You, 2:15am

“Never.  I am going to be apologizing about this for the rest of my life.”

“Every time we meet I’ll be like, ‘Hey, Hawks!  How are you?  Sorry about horking on your boots that one time.’”

Hawks, 2:17am

“Listen, at least this time you were the one throwing up on a bird instead of having a bird throw up on you!"

You, 2:18am

“You’re not a bird though.”

Hawks, 2:20am

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

You, 2:21am

“I want you to be ASLEEP.” 

Hawks, 2:23am

“Best I can do is propping up my feet and chugging an energy drink.”

You, 2:24am

“That isn’t even remotely close to an acceptable substitute.”   

Hawks, 2:26am

“That’s all you’re getting.  Take it or leave it.”

You, 2:28am

"Fine.  But I'm going to tell Cookie you're not taking care of yourself."

Hawks, 2:28am

"Oh, that's low."

You, 2:29am

"I literally threw up on the Number Two Hero yesterday.  I cannot possibly get any lower than I already am.  I might as well just double down and enjoy the perks of my new bottom dweller status."

You were changing out the bedding in Cookie's cage when she saw it.  

"Hawks feathers?" She warbled excitedly at the sight of the brilliant red wreath hanging in the window.  

"Oh!  Yeah, those are Hawks' feathers all right.  Good eye."

"I see?"

"Do you want to perch there while I finish cleaning out your cage?"

"Please," Cookie cooed eagerly, practically vibrating with excitement.  It was the most energetic you had seen her since her operation and you were happy to indulge her whims.  

"Here you go," you said, lowering her gently into the inner hollow of the wreath.  Mindful of her injuries, Cookie nestled down happily into the tangle of grass and feathers.  

By the time you had sanitized everything in the cage and tucked a warm water bottle into her bed, Cookie had fallen fast asleep in the cradle of feather wreath.  Heart melting, you crept closer on silent feet and took a dozen pictures at various angles and filter settings to send to Hawks later. 

You felt a familiar weight settle on your shoulder, needle-like nails scraping for purchase against your skin as the cardinal joined you in observing Cookie's rest.

"Is this okay?" You asked, knowing how important the wreath was to all the birds in the rescue and unsure if napping spot was one of the agreed upon uses for it.  To your immense relief, the cardinal bobbed his head in affirmation. 

"From each by ability, to each by need," he chirped firmly.

"'To each by need '…?" You echo suspiciously with narrowed eyes.  "Has someone been reading Karl Marx to you again?

"The proletariat has nothing to lose but chains!"

After many weeks of worried video calls and unapproved after hours visits that your boss chose to turn a blind eye to after Hawks made a hefty donation, Cookie was ready to be released back into Hawks' care.  

"So I need you to sign these discharge papers," you tell Hawks, tapping multiple spaces on the cover page that required his initials and signature.  "Mostly just standard release stuff, detailing the treatment plan listing the dates for follow up visits, etcetera, etcetera."

"Got it," Hawks agreed, having one of his feathers sign for him since he was loath to stop cuddling with Cookie for a single instant.  

"This one says that I've informed you of all the recommended follow up care."

"Uh-huh," he grinned, happily nuzzling his nose against Cookie's beak as his feather kept scribbling.

"This one says that we cannot be held legally responsible for anything that happens to her once she leaves the rescue."

"Sure," he agreed, chuckling as Cookie nipped playfully at his jaw; feather still dutifully signing away.

"And this one is the list of demands drawn up by Cookie's union."

Hawks paused, brow furrowing as Cookie continued to pluck at his beard scruff. 

"The what now?"

Hawks paced as he read through the notes you had typed up on Cookie's behalf.  As much as the pigeon adored Hawks and couldn't wait to get back to working alongside him, the cardinal had proven himself to be an incredibly persuasive orator and managed to convince Cookie to submit a list of demands.  

"'The Union of Working Birds, henceforth to be referred to as 'The Birds of Pay'', " Hawks snorted in delight. "-'formally submit the following requests.  Number one: guaranteed housing'.  Done."

"Didn't figure you'd object to that one," you said, having helped Hawks painstakingly pick out supplies to house and care for Cookie in his apartment.  

"'Number 2: food will be provided in compensation for labor and will be appropriately calculated by bird weight and provided daily'.  No complaints there-," he murmured, voice trailing off as he continued reading as he strode around the room; drawing to a sudden halt about five pages in.  

"The demands seem to shift a bit around number forty-tree," Hawks said, clearing his throat dramatically before he began reading aloud again.  "'The Birds of Pay retain exclusive rights for requesting avian-based employment with the Hawks Hero Agency'."

"Influence works both ways, Hawks.  Just like Cookie was swayed by the cardinal's talk of worker's rights, a lot of the other birds were really impressed by the stories Cookie told about you," you explained.  "At this point, you could employ an entire flock of birds if you wanted to."

The air inside your office was the perfect temperature, the thermostat set to exactly where you liked it and not a single degree higher or lower.  The furniture selection was a bit too fancy for your liking, polished marble and smudge proof glass where you felt tile and laminate would have sufficed for a fraction of the cost.  

But it wasn't your job to understand the aesthetic design choices of Heroes.  Your job was to mind the birds.  

"Songbird 2, do you copy?" You spoke clearly into your headset listening closely to the responding chirps; eyes glued to the live video feed playing across your screen.  "We have all the footage we need.  Return to the Aviary, over."

You breathed a sigh of relief as the blackbird chirped in acknowledgement, the video feed shifting from the inside of an abandoned warehouse to a wide expanse of sky as they began to make their way back toward Hawks' agency.  It had been a long day of staking out the area of an upcoming Hero Commission raid, but Songbird 2 was the last of the scouts still deployed.  The blackbird's return would herald the end of your workday, and you were excited to finally be able to go home indulge in the carton of ice cream you'd been fantasizing about for hours.  

"Home safe," the blackbird announced as it flew in through the window that had slid open automatically at their approach; the mechanism responding to the proximity sensor built into the standard Hawks style headgear each bird was equipped with.  

"Thank goodness," you smiled, pulling off the tiny headset and visor and setting them to the side for cleaning later.  "Your food dish is filled up and waiting."

"Corn?" The blackbird asked, fluffing up its feathers in excitement.

"Why don't you go check and see?"

The blackbird flew quickly towards the cubbyhole it had claimed for its own, one of many set into the large back wall; each filled with lovingly crafted nests and bright wooden toys.  You heard the distant cry of 'Corn!' followed by a chorus of shushing sounds from the birds that had been pulled from sleep by the blackbird's delighted cry.

Shaking your head with an amused snort, you move to return to your desk to log out for the day, only to run headlong into Hawks' chest.  

"ACK!" You screeched, reeling back in surprise from the impact.

"SHHHHH!" The wall of irritated birds hissed.

"Sorry!" You whispered sheepishly, channeling your embarrassment into making the glare you leveled at Hawks extra piercing.  

"All done for the day?" Hawks asked, unmoved by your display of irritation.  

"Yep.  Everyone is back safe and sound, the surveillance footage has been submitted for review, and now all that remains is for me to clock out and head home," you said as you wandered over to your desk, dropping down into your swivel chair to exit out of the last handful of open programs you had running.  "Do you need anything before I leave?"

"Can we chat?  For just a little?" He asked as he leaned against your desk, putting far more faith in the structural integrity of the tempered glass than you do.  "We haven't really had time to talk recently."

"I know," you groaned, heaving a deep sigh as you shoved your empty water bottle into the side pocket of your work bag. "I've just been so busy getting set up here and making sure the birds are acclimating well.  And then this big stakeout dropped into my lap and it's just been so crazy-"

"Is that- are you okay here?  I know Hero work is a lot sometimes and I just-," he paused, letting out a quiet huff. "I just want to make sure you're happy here."

"I am, I think.  It's definitely more stressful than working at the rescue, but I feel like I have more purpose here?  Like I'm more than just the person who talks to birds."

"Now you're the person who talks to birds with spy gear. "

"Exactly!" you laughed.  "It's totally different."

"I'm glad you're happy," Hawks smiled, one of his real ones that crinkled his nose and made your knees a little weak.  "I've been thinking about making some personal changes myself."

"Oh? What kind of changes?"

"Something like this," he mumbled heatedly, the shift in his tone prompting you to swivel both your head and chair in his direction.  

And then suddenly, his lips were pressed to yours.  Hopelessly chapped from hours of constant flying but oh so warm against your own.  It was short and sweet, a simple sort of kiss; but it stirred up so many complex feelings you were used to keeping caged up inside your chest.  

"That's quite the change," you whispered against his lips, trying to remember the exact sequence of steps required for breathing.  

"It's been a long time coming, I think."

"I wholeheartedly agree.  But I'm ah- not so sure I should be kissing my boss?" You remark apprehensively.  "I really like both you and this job and don't want to risk losing either."

"We set you up to work as an independent contractor, so technically you're your own boss," Hawks assured you, hands clasping your waist as he moved to pull you in for a second kiss. "And even if it isn't allowed, I'd absolutely commit some bluebird- collar crimes for you."

"Hawks!" You huff, swatting at his shoulder in reprimand.  "I can't believe you just ruined our first kiss with a bird pun."

"A kiss?  No, that was just a peck ," Hawks chortled at your pained groan.  "This is a kiss."

With a firm tug Hawks pulled your body flush with his as his lips descended, and with the fresh addition of his tongue and teeth you couldn't bring yourself to mind the puns all that much anymore. 

[candiedspit]

In the afternoons, I taste blue.

A deep itch in my mouth as the hills roll back their beautiful white eyes, the lashes of hay are vibrant and young. A young girl in the bay hales and grabs ropes of straw, full of dreams. Another swig of ale. The soft breaststroke of sunlight against the canvas as my hand goes numb, the dumbest horse on the racetrack, the palest of moons. I await sunset that atomic soundless bloodbath, a weightless aria of reds and the high tone of orange mingled in the stomach of the big mother; the vast spectrum of colors awash in heat. I reach for the beer again. I dazzle the stripes.

A portrait of the scene, the afternoon plastered there like a photograph of which does not exist yet.

I can’t explain it. There are no words. But sometimes, I can see beyond the plains, beyond the fragrant sweeping hills, beyond the mumbling skyline into a world built around a tweaking electric pulse, the shimmering and crackling blues of the future. So many colors there. Here, a sleepy cabin lost in the tendrils of deep yellow and the sirens of green.

At times like these, I think about Sien; her deep brood, the fragility of her movements, even the fabric of her dress weighing her down as did everything. She was an angel lost to the elements, her head burning like a candle. We had that fire in common. When I would paint, she would sit across from me knitting and hunched into her own personal void. I favored her company over the brutalist scoundrels at the bars, slinging paint like axes, hoping to make pictures but never getting the angle quite right. The ghettos of black and the righteousness of lilac. The dark roast of red. How red can speed.

Once, a thunderstorm passed through. The rain fell like commandments. I wrangled my things and tried to capture the fits of grayed, violent clouds that seemed to grow enormously into massive, angered knots. The grumbling of thunder following attacks of white striking the ground.

I always wondered what would happen if you got struck by the bolt. If perhaps for a moment, as the light punctures your naked flesh, made an artifact of you, you might realize the smallness of your gifts, the rudeness of your light, the littleness of your love.

You loved her and it was not enough; the river held her in ways you could not and perhaps, you realize, God would not take you. Perhaps you could be an angel, pristine and kind and unmoving and modest and still, the light would not take you. Christ would not save you. And you were to be left on Earth, to witness the buds and knolls and dark bunches of dirt. You were the witness and the lifts of mood and descents were all for the goodness of your witnessing, necessary even. To see the arches in the grass, the folds in the skies, the gorgeous kneeling of the clouds.

And perhaps it was you all along. You, the servant of the marigolds. You, the alcoholic florist, the smeared man, the scream in the street, the tender criminal. You, the man soaked in his clothes, living on granules of tobacco and green ale and infrequent toasts. When the incoherent passages of blistering madness come over you and when, at long last, the world makes some sense and when the strangers conform to pretty blurs and the pictures come as fists come in fluorescent and exact, absolute clarity and when the words rain out of your livid mouth and when you are standing in a field reciting verses and feeling the great vibrations of songs in the ground and all around you and when you are alone and the walls begin to shrink and wobble like drunken sailors and when the fine and perfect colors combat your vision, rapture your pupils and replace your void, when the love grows larger than what you are capable of holding—you must turn to the brush, you must keep the details, you must be witness to what it is you are seeing! — Time passes like grazing sheep; the days are long and the nights are cold.

You hum along to the persistent conversations. You drink ale. You smoke pipes. You meander to the bars when the grouch of loneliness hangs on your back like a spider monkey; you mother the loneliness. Sometimes, you cannot understand what it is you are doing on Earth. You grind your fingernails down. You swallow the pulp. You beckon the sunrise like a maestro and the process is laborious and difficult. But the colors keep you awake.

Theo worries, lingers in the doorways and lays in your bed, touches your cold sweat, calls your childhood names. He knows the storms you stand in. But he also sees the colors, too. Sometimes, a mere glance. Other times, he is swarmed by the metallic and operatic blues and the sullen orange.

It is winter when you lose your ear; all the snow outside erases the buildings and hides the architecture. The wind is brittle. And you are lost in a white current. The hospital calms you. A few days afterward, you know not to fiddle with the bandage. Sometimes, you do not understand a thing. — A motherhood of daisies. — The gun is a horrid black. The boys are young, still pink and bird-like but brimming with a meanness. A hard shove. A toss of limbs. And I am on the ground where I remain when the shot brims out, as my body braces for the impact. I merge into the strange light as the blood urges from my side.

I saw the braids of stars, once. A collection of pinpricks. The same light I see when I see the future. I taste iron. The skies are tackled with a disease of huge blues. The grass is quiet.

I merge into the blood, the red like a stream of poppies.

[charliedawn]

Charlie, I don't know if you've watched it

But I've been binging House MD for a week now and I am curious

How would the slashers react to a nurse/doctor/caretaker that acts like House? Throw in the injured leg and popping painkillers if you want.

(course you don't need to do this, especially if you haven't watched it, but I suggest it, it's a really good show!)

(I love this show ! And I loved the idea. Maybe I went a little overboard, but I hope you’ll like it !)

Dr. Gregory House was not impressed.

He limped through the front doors of St. Louis Hospital for the Criminally Insane, his cane tapping against the marble floors, the sound echoing off the tall, institutional walls. The hospital looked like it had been plucked straight from a horror film. Looming in the shadow of a distant mountain range, the gloomy forest surrounding it, the structure was a mix of gothic and brutalist architecture, its jagged, imposing edges designed to keep people both out and in. The kind of place that whispered secrets in the wind and held darkness in its very bones.

House paused in the entrance lobby, taking in the security cameras, the reinforced glass, and the guards stationed at every corner like statues. A hospital, they called it. It was more like a fortress—a prison masquerading as healthcare.

"Well, this is cozy," he muttered under his breath.

Two security officers flanked him as they walked down the corridor, their eyes glancing nervously at every door. House smirked. Not even the staff feels safe here, he thought.

He had been transferred here after what his superiors at Princeton-Plainsboro had called "several breaches of professional conduct." To be fair, they weren’t wrong. Sure, he'd solved cases no one else could, but apparently there was a limit to how many patients you could verbally abuse, experiment on, or trick into revealing life-threatening conditions.

So now, after burning every single bridge out there, here he was—sent to St. Louis to deal with a different kind of patient: the criminally insane. Specifically, the violent ones. The ones who liked to stab, slice, and butcher. It wasn’t that they didn’t need medical care. They did—often after failing to finish the job on themselves or others. But these were the slashers, the ones whose names conjured fear and nightmares. Legends in their own right. And that made him excited.

"Dr. House," said a nurse as she advanced towards him with a smile. "Welcome to St. Louis."

He huffed.

"Really ? I feel like I should be checking in with my parole officer, not you," House replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He glanced at the directory on the wall: Intake, Ward A, Ward B, Ward C: Maximum Security. His eyes lingered on the last one. He bet that’s where all the "fun" patients were.

"Not many doctors survive long here," the nurse explained, ignoring his jabs. "Our patients... well, they have certain needs that require someone of your...unconventional skill set."

House raised an eyebrow. "Unconventional, huh ? Bouhou. You almost hurt my feelings."

He smirked.

She stared at him for a long moment before deciding to ignore him and continuing. "Your patients will be some of the most dangerous people in the country, Dr House. Murderers. Sociopaths. Many of them are mentally fractured in ways modern medicine still doesn’t fully understand."

House rolled his eyes. "Fractured brains, violent tendencies...sounds like a weekend with my ex-wife."

She smiled politely before gesturing down the hall, where a guard was stationed in front of a heavy steel door, the words Ward C etched above it in grim lettering. "This is where you’ll be assigned. Ward C—reserved for the most violent offenders." The nurse informed him and House tapped his cane on the ground, surveying the corridor. "And I get the pleasure of keeping them alive ? Lucky me."

He scoffed sarcastically and she nodded.

"They don't just need medical attention. They need to be understood. We need to know why they are the way they are, and more importantly, how to control it. Think of it as one long medical mystery, Doctor House. I know how much you love mysteries." She grinned—thinking he might take up the challenge and she wasn’t wrong.

House leaned in slightly, his face turning serious. "So, you're telling me I'll be working with slashers ? The 'legends' of the violent crime world ? Monsters who carve up people for fun ? Why, oh why, didn’t you lead with that ?" He grinned back.

Their lips tightened, unimpressed with his dark humor. "You’ll be given access to their medical histories and psychological profiles. If you’re good enough to figure them out."

He rolled his eyes.

"Toots, I’ve diagnosed people with diseases no one’s heard of and found cures no one believed in. Your little band of merry killers isn’t going to throw me off."

He didn’t hesitate before taking the files she handed him and leafing through them. His eyes widened on the little he was given to work with. Most of them were so classified all over that there was more black than white on them and House finally frowned before closing the files. Right. They were sending doctors in there with no idea about what they were supposed to do or what they were gonna face. No wonder they were short-staffed…

The nurse sighed. "Just don’t get yourself killed."

Too fast…, Dr House guessed she had left out by the way she looked away and bit her lower lip. Yeah. It seemed the cemetery he had seen on his way in wasn’t just early decoration for Halloween.

But, he still felt confide and smirked at her.

"Don't worry. I'm not planning on letting any of them get too close." He glanced at the guard by the door. "Besides, I always bring protection." He tapped his cane. "This thing’s more useful than it looks."

The nurse hesitated before sighing and nodding. A guard opened the door to Ward C, and immediately the mood shifted. The air inside was heavier, like the building itself could feel the presence of the patients it held. It was a long corridor lined with cells—each one sealed tight with reinforced glass, inside them dim figures pacing or sitting, their faces obscured. The sound of heavy breathing, the occasional murmur or maniacal laughter echoed faintly from deeper within. The first door they passed revealed a huge masked man hunched over on his bed, his eyes staring intently at Dr. House as he walked past his cell. His file—clipped to the door—read Brahms Heelshire, better known to the world as the ‘Nanny Killer’ or ‘Killer Doll’. Next to him was the infamous Freddy Krueger—his eyes fixed on him with a sleazy smile. Across from them was Jason Voorhees, his hulking frame slouched in a corner, his hockey mask reflecting the dim lights.

"This is like the slasher hall of fame," House mused, scanning the infamous names as if he were walking through a bizarre art gallery. "Do they give tours ?"

At the end of the hall was an empty room—empty except for a single metal chair, bolted to the ground, with heavy restraints dangling from the armrests. No patient. No file. Just an eerie, cold silence.

"Who’s this for ?" House asked, tapping the door with his cane.

"That’s for Michael Myers," the nurse replied flatly, the name hanging in the air like an ominous cloud. "He’s currently undergoing evaluation. It happens sporadically, but he always comes back."

House raised an eyebrow. "Ah, the Michael Myers. The boogeyman himself. I’ve read about him. The guy who never dies and never says a word. Sounds like an ideal patient—no complaints, no endless monologues about how their mother didn’t love them enough."

The nurse didn’t flinch at House’s sarcasm. "He’s unpredictable. Dangerous in ways you cannot possibly imagine."

House waved it off, still scanning the eerily quiet room with its empty chair. "Unpredictable ? That’s my bread and butter. Sounds like a normal day for me, minus the masks and machetes. Besides, I’ve been trying to kill myself slowly for years—alcohol, Vicodin, maybe the occasional slash-happy patient will speed up the process."

The nurse eyed him warily. "This isn't a joke, Dr. House. The patients here aren’t just disturbed—they’re lethal. You’re not dealing with people who want to be saved. They want to hurt. And they don’t need much of an excuse."

House rolled his eyes, tapping his cane again. "You don’t say. Well, considering this place looks like it could double as Dracula’s vacation home, I’m guessing safety measures aren’t exactly high priority. Where are the mood lights ? The potted plants ? You’re supposed to make hospitals inviting, you know. Maybe some soft jazz, something to make me forget I’m surrounded by lunatics."

The nurse ignored him, her patience visibly thinning. "You’ve been given full access to their records. Try to understand what drives them. They’re all damaged in ways that defy typical psychiatric diagnoses. If anyone can find out what makes them tick, it’s you.”

House sighed dramatically, the weight of the situation lost on him. "Fine, fine. I’ll crack open their skulls and poke around—metaphorically, of course—find out what’s rattling in there. Though I’d wager it’s mostly bad childhood memories and a fascination with sharp objects."

The nurse’s serious tone didn’t waver. "Be careful, Dr. House. This isn’t Princeton-Plainsboro. The rules here are different. These patients...they do not care about your brilliance. They won’t hesitate to hurt you if given the chance."

As they continued walking down the corridor, House’s eyes wandered over the slasher patients in their cells. He recognized many of them from headlines, documentaries, and whispered urban legends. The names alone would send chills down anyone else’s spine—serial killers who made a career out of violence, leaving destruction in their wake. But to House, they were just patients. Puzzles to be solved, however warped or shattered they might be.

House paused, his sharp blue eyes flicking down to meet hers, the smirk fading slightly. He let out a small, humorless chuckle. "You know, the thing about people like me ? We never really expect to survive."

The nurse ignored the comment. "These patients are unlike anything you've ever dealt with. Most of them are physically resilient, surviving injuries that should have killed them multiple times over. Their psychosis, in many cases, seems almost...supernatural."

"Supernatural ?" House let out a scoff. "That’s a fun word for 'We don’t know what the hell’s wrong with them,' isn’t it ?"

She didn’t answer, but her silence was telling. House could feel the weight of his new role settling on his shoulders, but it wasn’t the weight of fear. It was the thrill of the unknown. The mystery of minds so fractured, so broken, they seemed beyond repair. Seemed being the key word.

As they reached the end of Ward C, House stopped to study the doors once more. He tapped his cane on the floor, looking at the empty room reserved for Michael Myers. A shiver of excitement ran through him, though he’d never admit it. Whatever the slashers’ issues were, House lived for this—the challenge, the chase, the impossible diagnosis. And in this new place, with patients who blurred the line between reality and nightmare, he knew one thing for sure:

It was going to be one hell of a ride.

"You sure you’re ready for this, Dr. House ?" the nurse asked, her voice a little quieter now, as if she too had second thoughts. House smirked again, twirling his cane once before letting it tap the floor. "Ready ? I’ve been bored for years. This place might finally give me something to care about."

With that, he turned, making his way down the dim corridor, passing the locked cells of notorious killers, his cane echoing through the silent ward. Ward C, the place of horrors, home to the most disturbed minds in the world. But House didn’t flinch.

This was going to be fun.

He smiled.

That afternoon:

Dr. Gregory House stepped into the dimly lit room of one of the cells of Ward C, and his eyes immediately fell on the the broad bloke curled up on himself like a child. Sitting quietly in the corner was Brahms Heelshire, his face obscured by the mask of a porcelain doll, but this was no child’s toy. Beside him, placed with eerie precision on a small wooden chair, sat a life-sized doll—a spitting image of Brahms himself, right down to the carefully crafted clothing and unnerving, glassy eyes.

House smirked, his cane tapping lightly on the tiled floor as he sized up the room. "So, I guess this is what passes for family around here. Must be nice having a twin brother who doesn’t talk back."

Brahms didn’t move. His posture was perfectly still—like a statue frozen in place. The doll next to him—his other self—seemed to mirror the lifelessness of its owner. The room’s atmosphere felt heavy, as if the very air had been sucked out, leaving only the tension between House and the bizarre duo.

"Let me guess," House continued, walking slowly around the room, his eyes never leaving Brahms or the doll. "He’s the talkative one, right ? You’ve got the looks, and he’s got all the charm. Am I close ?"

Brahms’s head turned ever so slightly, just enough to acknowledge House’s presence, but he remained silent. His hand rested gently on the doll’s shoulder, as though it were a living thing—a cherished companion. The porcelain doll’s eyes stared back at House, empty yet somehow filled with something unsettling.

"You know, I’ve had a lot of weird patients," House continued, leaning against the wall, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "But this ? This is a first. A grown man hiding behind a doll. I’ve gotta say, your coping mechanisms are fascinating. Must be a hell of a childhood story to unpack here."

Still no response. House wasn’t surprised. He’d read Brahms’s file—how he’d spent his youth hidden away in a mansion, isolated from the world, how the doll had become both his protector and his proxy. House found the whole thing both tragic and ridiculous.

"So, what’s the deal ?" House asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is he your bodyguard ? Your best friend ? Your brother ? Or are you just using him to keep the world at a safe distance ?"

Brahms shifted again, his masked face still unreadable, but the hand on the doll’s shoulder tightened slightly. House caught the movement, his curiosity piqued.

"Ah, I see. He’s not just a doll, is he ?" House stepped closer, tapping his cane as he circled the pair. "He’s you. The version of you that never got to grow up, the one who never had to deal with all the nasty bits of being human—fear, loss, rejection. You made him your escape."

The room felt colder, the air thickening with the unspoken tension. Brahms’ silence was oppressive, but House was relentless.

"You’re not the first person to create a shield, you know," House continued. "You’ve just taken it to a creepy new level. Most people use alcohol, drugs, or a good old-fashioned mental breakdown. You ? You went full Pinocchio. But instead of becoming a real boy, you’ve stayed a puppet."

Finally, Brahms moved. He lifted his head slightly, his eyes visible through the slits of the mask, and for the first time, House felt the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t anger, nor was it fear. It was something darker—something far more broken.

"You think you understand me," Brahms finally said quietly, his voice muffled by the mask. "But you don’t. He’s not just a doll. He’s my protection. My family. My…other half."

House raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the response. "Protection from what ? The big, bad world ? Or are you just protecting yourself from the mirror ?"

Brahms’s hand clenched the doll’s shoulder harder, the tension in his body palpable. "He’s everything I’m not. He’s the part of me that’s strong. The part that doesn’t feel pain."

House leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And what about you ? The real you, hiding behind that mask ? You think this little doll can keep you safe forever ?"

Brahms’s breathing quickened, and for a brief moment, House could see the cracks in the facade. This wasn’t just a man with a doll—this was a man torn apart by his own fractured identity. The doll wasn’t just a comfort; it was a prison. And Brahms had locked himself inside willingly.

"He protects me from people like you," Brahms hissed, his voice suddenly sharp. "People who think they can fix everything with their words. People who want to take him away from me."

House’s smirk faltered for just a second, and he tilted his head, studying Brahms more closely. "I’m not here to take anything away from you. I’m just here to figure out why a man who’s clearly smart enough to survive in a world that’s abandoned him is still hiding behind a doll."

Brahms suddenly stood up, his height more imposing than House had anticipated. He loomed over him, his masked face inches from House’s own. "You don’t know what it’s like," he growled. "To be trapped. To be hated. He’s the only one who’s ever been there for me."

House didn’t flinch and he kept staring at Brahms. "Maybe," House said, his voice low, "but he’s also the one keeping you trapped. You’re not protecting him. He’s keeping you from facing the fact that you don’t need him anymore."

Brahms recoiled slightly, as though the words had struck a chord. His hand hovered over the doll, but this time, there was hesitation. House took a step back, letting the silence settle in.

"I’ll tell you what," House said, turning toward the door. "You keep your little buddy here as long as you need to. But one day, you’re going to have to choose whether you want to be the man or the doll. Because trust me, living your life through a puppet ? That’s not living."

As House walked out of the room, leaving Brahms alone with his doll, the man’s gaze lingered on the figure beside him. The mask on Brahms’ face remained as blank as ever, but beneath it, there was a spark of hesitation.

What if the doctor was right ?

Meanwhile, Dr. House walked to the next cell. He step inside, the heavy door closing behind him with a hollow thud. He was no stranger to unusual patients—Princeton-Plainsboro had given him his fair share of weirdos—but this was something else entirely. The man sitting in front of him, legs crossed and a smirk plastered on his burned face, was notorious in ways that even House couldn’t ignore.

Freddy Krueger.

The infamous dream killer lounged in his chair, his signature bladed glove dangling from his right hand, the tips of his claws lazily tapping against the metal armrest. The sound was grating—like nails on a chalkboard. His weathered fedora cast a shadow over his disfigured face, but House could see the mocking gleam in his eyes.

"Well, well," Freddy said, his voice raspy and filled with dark amusement. "They sent me the famous Dr. House. Heard you were good at solving puzzles. You gonna fix me, doc ?"

House limped closer, his cane tapping rhythmically on the floor. He met Freddy’s gaze without flinching, his expression one of bored detachment. "Fix you ? I am a doctor, not a miracle worker. I am pretty sure whatever’s wrong with your face isn’t gonna be solved with a little Botox and a facial peel."

Freddy chuckled, low and menacing. "Oh, I like you already." He leaned forward, his gloved hand stretching out, one of the blades grazing the surface of the table between them. "But you see, Doc, I'm not one of your typical patients. You think you’ve got me all figured out ? All those fancy degrees and medical jargon…they don’t mean squat in my world."

House arched an eyebrow, unfazed by Freddy’s theatrics. "Your world, huh ? What’s that ? A world where people are dumb enough to let a burn victim in a Christmas sweater kill them in their dreams ? Yeah, sounds terrifying."

Freddy’s grin widened, showing off his jagged, yellowed teeth. "Ah, see, you don’t believe in me. You think I’m just another psycho. But trust me, Gregory," Freddy’s voice dropped to a whisper, "I live in the space between thoughts, in that part of your mind where logic can’t reach. You can diagnose diseases, figure out symptoms, but me ? I’m the disease of the mind. I’m what people fear when they close their eyes at night."

House leaned on his cane, smirking. "So you’re a glorified bad dream. Lucky for you, I am an insomniac. Let me guess, unresolved trauma, probable schizophrenia, homicidal tendencies. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re just another patient trying to sound special. But in the end, you’re just a guy who likes to kill people in their sleep because you’re too lazy to do it while they’re awake."

Freddy's eyes narrowed, but the smirk didn’t leave his face. "You think you’re safe because you’re awake right now, don’t you ?"

House shrugged. "Awake, asleep, who cares ? Reality’s overrated, and I’ve got enough Vicodin in my system to numb me to just about anything. So if you're planning on scaring me into believing your little Freddy Krueger bedtime story, you're gonna need more than some cheap theatrics."

Freddy leaned back, his blades gleaming in the dark. "Oh, I don’t need to scare you. You’re already scared. You’re scared of the things you can’t control. The things you can’t fix. I know all about you. The pain you try to hide behind that cane, the pills, the genius bravado. The people you push away because you don’t want them to see you falling apart. You think you're invincible because you don't let people get close, but deep down ? You know you’re as fragile as the rest of 'em."

For a moment, there was silence. House’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. The truth in Freddy’s words was too close for comfort, but House wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing it.

"Great," House said dryly, "another psychopath with a god complex who thinks he understands me. How original." He stepped closer, leaning on the table, his face inches from Freddy’s. "But here’s the thing—you may get your kicks messing with people’s heads in their sleep, but you don’t scare me. I’ve already seen my demons. I look them in the mirror every morning. So if you’re trying to play mind games ? You picked the wrong guy."

Freddy’s eyes glinted with amusement, but there was something darker lurking behind them. "Oh, don’t worry, Doc," he purred. "I’ve got all the time in the world. You’ll fall asleep eventually. And when you do, I’ll be waiting."

House straightened up, giving a dismissive wave. "Yeah, yeah, I’m shaking in my boots. Until then, try not to claw up the furniture. I’m guessing the hospital budget doesn’t cover Freddy-proofing."

He turned to leave, his cane tapping the floor as he moved toward the door. But just before he reached it, Freddy’s voice followed him, soft and sinister.

"Sweet dreams, doctor."

House didn’t look back. He wasn’t going to give Freddy the satisfaction. But as he exited the room and the door closed behind him, a faint chill ran down his spine, despite his best efforts to ignore it. He wouldn’t admit it, but there was something unsettling about Freddy Krueger—a nagging sense that even in a world built on logic and reason, there were still things out there that defied explanation. Things that lived in the cracks between science and madness.

And House knew better than most how fragile the mind could be.

Still, he wouldn’t give in to fear. Not yet. Not until he had more answers. And he wouldn’t that half-burnt steak face scare him…

Dr. House shook his head and entered the observation room of Ward C with his usual limp and caustic wit locked and loaded, though this time there was no sarcastic remark that immediately sprang to his lips. Instead, he found himself staring at a massive, hulking figure sitting motionless in the far corner of a reinforced glass cell. The dim lights glinted off a dirty, weather-worn hockey mask, the only visible part of a man whose very name had become synonymous with terror: Jason Voorhees.

House stood there for a moment, letting his eyes travel over the patient’s enormous frame. Jason was unnaturally still, his hulking body more like a statue than a human being. The man’s breathing was slow, controlled, the sound barely audible over the hum of the hospital’s air system. His presence filled the room with a tension that made the hairs on the back of House's neck stand up, though he’d never admit it.

House tapped his cane against the glass, the sharp sound ringing out in the eerie quiet. "Hey, Leatherface reject. Got a minute ?"

Jason didn’t move. No flinch, no twitch. Just pure, unnerving stillness.

House sighed dramatically. "Oh, great. One who doesn't talk. Why is it always the big guys who never have anything to say ?" He tapped the glass again, louder this time. "What, you too cool to chat with your doctor ?"

Jason’s head turned ever so slightly, the hockey mask catching more of the dim light. House could feel the weight of those unseen eyes behind the mask, watching him. There was something unsettling about the sheer silence Jason exuded—it wasn’t passive like a normal patient, it was a charged kind of quiet. The kind that spoke of brutal, unstoppable violence lurking just beneath the surface.

House glanced at the file clipped to the door—full of the usual psych evaluations, medical records, and police reports detailing Jason’s infamous history. Brutal killings, seemingly unkillable himself, somehow always returning to life despite countless injuries that should have put him down for good. It was like reading a case file on a walking corpse.

"So," House said, leaning on his cane as he studied Jason through the thick glass, "you’ve got quite the reputation. A machete-wielding maniac with mommy issues. You know, I’ve met a lot of psychos in my time, but you ? You’ve really set the bar high."

Again, Jason gave no reaction.

House’s eyes flicked back to the file. "Let’s see…drowned as a kid, came back to life somehow, spent years haunting a camp, and then went on a killing spree. Then you died. Multiple times, apparently. But, like a bad case of herpes, you keep coming back." He looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You ever think about retiring ? Maybe trying out knitting or gardening ?"

Silence.

House’s smirk faltered slightly as he watched Jason, his eyes narrowing. He’d dealt with plenty of dangerous people before—hell, he’d even had patients try to kill him once or twice—but this was different. There was an aura around Jason Voorhees that felt less like insanity and more like inevitability. House could feel it, a raw, primal energy that radiated from the man’s massive form, a quiet promise of violence.

"What’s your secret ?" House asked, his voice a touch more serious now. "How do you keep coming back ? You get stabbed, shot, burned, drowned—and yet here you are, sitting pretty in your little glass box. Most people die once and they’re done. But you…it seems you refuse to stay dead. How do you do it ?"

Jason’s head tilted slightly, as if considering House’s words, but there was still no verbal response. House squinted, noticing something. The mask, weathered and cracked, bore deep gouges and marks—battle scars from years of violence—but Jason himself, beneath the mask, seemed untouched by time.

House stepped closer to the glass. "You’ve been through more trauma than any human body could withstand, yet here you are. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve found the fountain of youth. Or at least the fountain of ‘I don’t die.’"

Jason’s hand twitched, just barely—a subtle, almost imperceptible movement—but House caught it. He stepped back, a smirk returning to his face.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve ? Does the big, silent killer not like being called an anomaly ? Come on, talk to me, Voorhees. What’s it like to come back from the dead ? Do you remember it, or is it just one long nap before you wake up and get back to slashing ?"

Jason’s breathing seemed to deepen, the sound now audible through the glass, like a beast waking from a long hibernation. House raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Ah, there we go. I knew there was something in there. You’re not completely gone, are you ? You can hear me, you understand what I’m saying."

Jason’s hand flexed slightly, the faintest of movements, but House noticed it immediately. He pressed the point, staring directly into the blank eyeholes of the hockey mask.

"You know, it’s funny," House mused, "you and I aren’t that different. You hide behind your mask, I hide behind my cane and sarcasm. You’ve got mommy issues, I’ve got issues with just about everything. We both keep people at arm’s length, and we both…well, we don’t really die, do we ?"

The room grew colder, or at least it felt like it. Jason’s form loomed larger in the silence, and House’s smirk faltered again.

"You know what the difference is though ?" House asked, his voice lowering as he stared into the void behind the mask. "I know why I’m still here. I know what keeps me going. But you ? I’m not so sure. You’re just a blunt instrument, aren’t you ? You don’t have a reason. You just are. And that…that’s what makes you dangerous."

Jason shifted in his seat, the sound of leather creaking as his massive frame adjusted. House felt the weight of Jason’s presence bearing down on him like a storm cloud, but he didn’t back away.

"You want to kill me, don’t you ?" House asked, his voice calm but challenging. "But here’s the thing—I’m not afraid of you. You’re just another puzzle to me, another medical anomaly that I’ll figure out eventually."

Jason’s breathing quickened, and for the first time, House could feel a hint of the violence that lay just beneath the surface. He was playing a dangerous game, but that was nothing new. He lived for danger, for the thrill of the unknown. And right now, Jason Voorhees was the ultimate unknown.

"Well," House said, tapping his cane against the floor, "I guess we’ll see who figures out who first."

He turned, limping toward the door. But as he reached for the handle, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder at the motionless giant.

"And by the way," House added with a smirk, "if you ever feel like talking, just let me know. I’d hate for all this silence to go to waste."

With that, he left the room, his mind already working on the impossible mystery that was Jason Voorhees.

…But then, he was accompanied to that very special cell—the one at the very end of the corridor. He leaned heavily on his cane as he limped forward confidently. The security guard walking beside him cast a nervous glance at each locked door they passed, his hand hovering near the baton clipped to his belt.

"You sure about this ?" the guard muttered. "He's...not like the others."

House’s lips curled into a smirk. "They say that about every psycho I meet. They all have their quirks." He glanced up at the flickering lights. "Must be exhausting, constantly being terrified of your own patients."

The guard didn’t respond, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for a large key ring on his belt. They’d arrived at the heavy steel door, which creaked ominously when he unlocked it. A plaque next to the door read: Patient 1A – Myers, Michael.

"He's all yours," the guard said, stepping back.

House pushed the door open and walked in, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cold floor. The room was sparsely furnished, lit by a single, buzzing fluorescent light overhead. Seated in the middle of the room was a large figure, unnervingly still.

Michael Myers.

The infamous killer, clad in a worn, gray jumpsuit, sat motionless in a metal chair, his broad shoulders hunched and his head tilted slightly forward. The white mask he wore—blank and expressionless—was a stark contrast against the shadows that clung to him.

House raised an eyebrow as he observed Michael for a moment. "So...this is what all the fuss is about ?"

No response. Michael remained utterly still, like a statue carved from shadow and silence.

House let out a small sigh of mock exasperation and hobbled closer, flipping open the thin file he had been given before arriving. "Let's see. Killed your sister at six years old. Spent the next few decades in and out of psych wards. Then you got bored, broke out, and went on a murder spree in your charming hometown. Typical family drama. If I had a nickel for every time a patient had a screwed-up childhood…well, I’d probably no longer be a doctor."

Michael’s breathing was steady and slow, the only sign of life in the room besides House’s persistent sarcasm.

"Silent treatment ? That’s fine, I’m used to it after my little talk with Jason earlier." House circled Michael, tapping his cane lightly against the chair’s metal frame. He leaned in, staring into the black void of Michael’s mask. "So, are you the strong, silent type, or is this just an elaborate way to avoid social interaction ? I gotta say, there are easier ways to skip the small talk."

Still nothing. House leaned back, his expression mildly amused. "I’m guessing it’s neurological. No real emotional response. Nothing to explain why you don’t talk, but you seem to like violence. That’s gotta be fun at parties."

He flipped through the file again, shaking his head. "Shot, stabbed, set on fire…Yet here you are, still standing. I hate to admit it, but that’s impressive. Ever thought about teaching a class on survival ?"

As House made another pass around Michael’s chair, the room’s lone light flickered, casting the room into momentary darkness. When the light sputtered back to life, Michael was no longer seated.

He was standing.

House paused, his cane frozen mid-step as he turned slowly to face the now-looming figure of Michael Myers. The masked killer stood mere feet away, his towering form casting a long shadow over House, who looked up at him with a mixture of curiosity and defiance.

"Ah, finally," House said, his voice unfazed by the sudden shift. "For a second there, I thought you might actually be catatonic."

Michael’s hand clenched slightly at his side, the only movement he’d made since standing. House’s sharp blue eyes didn’t miss it, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he cocked his head, scrutinizing the infamous killer like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

"You don’t talk, but you do respond. Interesting," House mused, taking a half-step forward. "So what is it ? Trauma-induced psychopathy ? Genetic predisposition to violence ? Or maybe you're just really misunderstood."

Michael’s hollow mask tilted down slightly as if acknowledging House's proximity, but still, he remained silent. The tension in the room thickened, like the air itself had turned heavier. House could feel it, but instead of fear, his lips curled into a slight grin.

"You know, people keep saying you’re some unstoppable killing machine. Frankly, I’ve met interns scarier than you," House said dryly, gripping his cane a little tighter. He glanced around the room, noting the locked door behind him, the sterile, thick walls. "But I’ve got to admit, I didn’t expect you to be so...tall. Do you go to the gym ? Do they even have a gym around here ? Must have. Seems like most of you guys are shredded."

Michael didn’t move, but his presence felt suffocating, a looming storm about to break. House, ever the gambler, took another step closer, his eyes flicking from Michael’s mask to his hands and back again.

"So, what now ? You gonna try to kill me, big guy ?" House asked, his voice dropping in volume but not losing its edge. "Or are we going to stand here in awkward silence until you get bored ?"

There was a moment—a single, charged moment—where time seemed to stretch. Michael’s hand twitched, ever so slightly, as if preparing to strike. House stood his ground, his cane pressed firmly against the floor, his eyes locked onto the faceless mask before him.

"Look," House said quietly, his voice now laced with something almost resembling sincerity, "I’ve faced worse odds. Hell, I’ve faced death before. But you ? I am not scared of you. You’re just another problem to solve to me. And I love solving problems."

The lights flickered again, casting them both into darkness.

The room plunged into complete darkness, the flickering light casting eerie shadows across the bare walls. House felt the weight of the silence around him, his heartbeat steady, his breath controlled. He was no stranger to danger, no stranger to the edge of death, but something about Michael Myers was different—something primal.

The room plunged into darkness, the flickering light overhead extinguished entirely. For a moment, all House could hear was the sound of his own breathing, punctuated by the soft, rhythmic rasp of Michael Myers’ breath through his mask. The darkness was suffocating, thick with the weight of something dangerous lurking just beyond sight.

House stood perfectly still, his cane pressed into the floor, his senses heightened as he waited. Michael was close—he could feel his presence, the looming menace of the masked killer’s proximity.

Then, a single sound—a metallic scrape—cut through the silence.

The lights sputtered back to life, dim and buzzing, but enough to reveal Michael’s raised hand, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a large makeshift knife made from shattered glass. The blade gleamed in the low light, casting a sharp, menacing glint across the room. Michael’s mask, still blank and emotionless, tilted slightly as if considering his next move.

House, in typical fashion, remained unfazed. If anything, the sight of the blade brought a small, dry smile to his lips. "Ah, there it is," he said, nodding toward the knife. "I was wondering when the stabbing part of our little chat would begin."

Michael’s breathing remained steady, his grip tightening on the knife. He took a step forward, his heavy boots thudding against the floor like the ticking of a countdown.

House didn’t flinch. "You know," he said casually, "most people who resort to violence are compensating for something. Repressed emotions, fear, insecurity." He gestured toward the knife with his cane. "This ? It’s a crutch. But then again, who am I to judge? I have one too."

Michael’s body language shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders. He raised the knife higher, his body coiling like a predator ready to strike.

But House stepped closer, invading the killer’s personal space in a way no one else had ever dared before. His voice lowered to a near whisper, his blue eyes boring into the blank mask. "You don’t scare me, Michael," he said, his words deliberate, calm. "You know why ?"

For the first time, Michael hesitated. The knife, poised to strike, hung in the air, as if something deep within him was listening.

"Because fear is a choice," House continued. "And I choose not to give you that power."

Another beat of silence. Michael’s grip on the knife remained firm, but his hand didn’t move.

House tilted his head, his gaze never leaving Michael’s mask. "You’re not a force of nature. You’re just a man. A man with a lot of damage. Maybe I can’t fix that, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to run from it."

The lights flickered again, casting long shadows across the room. House could feel the tension coiled tightly between them, a fragile line that could snap at any moment. But he wasn’t backing down.

Finally, Michael lowered the knife. It wasn’t a surrender, not in the traditional sense, but it was a pause—a moment of stillness where the chaos that usually followed Michael Myers seemed to dissipate.

House exhaled slowly, the tension easing just enough for him to speak again. "See ? You can make choices too, Michael. You don’t have to be what everyone thinks you are."

For the first time since stepping into the room, House took a step back, his gaze still locked on the towering figure before him. Michael’s mask, blank as it was, seemed to follow his every movement, as if considering the words, weighing them.

"Don’t get me wrong," House said, breaking the silence with a smirk, "I’m not expecting a thank-you card or anything. But at least you’re proving you’ve got a little self-control left."

But then, Michael’s hand shot forward, faster than House could have anticipated. In a blink, his massive hand was wrapped around House’s throat, lifting him slightly off the ground. The doctor gasped, his cane clattering to the floor as Michael held him there, suspended, staring into the empty blackness of the killer's mask.

For a moment, House’s sharp blue eyes flickered with fear, but then—just as quickly—they hardened into something else. Defiance.

His voice was strained but unwavering as he choked out, "So...you do...have a...pulse after all."

Michael squeezed tighter, the air rushing out of House’s lungs as the pressure increased. House clawed at Michael’s hand, his vision starting to blur, but he refused to look away. He refused to let go of that connection, however thin, however dangerous it was.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, Michael released him. House dropped to the ground, gasping for air, clutching at his throat. He coughed, his chest heaving as he sucked in breath after breath, but even in his weakened state, he managed a hoarse chuckle.

"Guess...I hit a nerve," he rasped, his voice rough but still dripping with dark humor.

Michael stepped back, his breathing slow and deliberate, as if nothing had happened. The mask remained impassive, cold. But there was something there—something unspoken in the air between them. A connection. A challenge.

As if on cue, the door behind House creaked open, the guard from before peeking in with wide, terrified eyes. "Doctor...we need to get you out of here. Now."

House turned, glancing over his shoulder at the guard, then back at Michael. He gave a small shrug, his usual irreverence returning. "Well, this has been fun, Mike, but l guess our time is up."

Michael remained motionless, his gaze—or whatever lay behind that mask—following House as he limped toward the door. Before stepping out, House paused, glancing back one last time. "By the way, I wasn’t kidding about the gym thing. You’re in great shape. Keep it up."

The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, locking Michael Myers back into his cage of silence.

As House walked down the corridor, the guard looked at him in disbelief, shaking his head. "I... I can’t believe you just walked out of there alive."

House smirked, his cane tapping the ground rhythmically as they walked. "Please. Michael and I were just having a heart-to-heart. Nothing personal, just another day at the office."

The guard swallowed hard, clearly unconvinced. "He doesn’t have a heart, Doc."

House shrugged, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Maybe. But then again, neither do I."

He smirked.

Something told him he had chosen just the right job…

[wisteriagoesvroom]

pls reblog for sample size too !!