#banshee writes

[leviathansyearning]

(wip) woe outsider angst be upon ye

[g4ll0wd4nc3r]

school of the viper headcanons

these are not edited and probably not canon compliant but fuck it we ball

they can’t regulate their internal temperature as well as other witchers, so they have to soak up warmth from somewhere else. you’ll often see vipers curled up as close to their campfires as possible when traveling or taking a nap on a nice warm rock.

gorthur gvaed is filled with era-equivalent space heaters

an older viper some centuries back developed hand warmers. it’s a necessity when traveling.

vipers aren’t outwardly affectionate to each other. you’ll know if one trusts you if they offer to make your potions or food (i like you enough to not poison you) or if they turn their back to you

on the rare occasion that they are more affectionate, they will huddle for warmth or wrap around one another. they may also rub their heads/cheeks together, but not often.

on the whole, vipers are loyal and protective of one another, but have difficulty showing it. vipers on the path tend to avoid one another

building immunity to toxins started as soon as you were recruited. trainees (read; children) would be required to drink poison and identify toxic plants, often running the risk of getting severely ill or dying. older witchers were instructed to slip poison onto food or drinks too

you learned pretty quickly to either smell out whatever was on your food or be tough enough to ride it out

vipers will never eat food they haven’t seen prepared. they go hungry more often than not.

vipers who can get away with it conceal their status as a witcher. a lot of people have crossed paths with one and never known

someone made a hc that vipers will wear other schools’ medallions before an assassination and i love that

vipers are smaller than wolves or bears but more built than cats

the cats and vipers are sister schools. they hate each other and need each other. it’s very strange to see. toxic yuri

cats and vipers are known to trade or buy things off one another, with vipers being able to make quality potions and cats being able to procure harder to find ingredients. they also had similar training so on the rare occasion they work together, they mesh really well

however they will most likely attack one another when out in the wild — cats and vipers both take human jobs, and cats especially are known for poaching jobs that vipers may be interested in

a relatively new practice is “getting your teeth”. after a hard hunt, vipers will have a procedure to get retractable fangs in their mouth. they can load poisons and tear through pretty much anything at the cost of being extremely close combat. vipers without fangs are sometimes called “nibbles”.

maybe also split tongues. is that too quirky

best eyesight among all witchers, which makes it even funnier that vipers keep going blind/get eye trauma

like cats but opposite — their mutagens dulled their emotions to an extreme, so young vipers tend to be extremely blunt and rude. older vipers have learned to fake their emotions to “normal” levels, but will drop the mask as soon as they can

expect your viper to be extremely to the point. they expect the same of you. good luck!

cold and mean and weird about affection BUT. but. after ivar and the old guard died people started adopting animals that were left on the base of the mountains / on the path back for winter

gorthur gvaed is filled with animals that are so so loved and spoiled. it’s atonement for the animals that were killed during training and healing for the vipers that are left

vipers can usually whip up their potions and elixirs while on the road, but much prefer the fully outfitted alchemy labs at gorthur gvaed and *will* complain. loudly.

its not winter unless someone explodes something while experimenting

if an experiment goes particularly wrong it’s not unusual to see a viper face down on the floor. floor time. it’s like a reward

all vipers are fucking nerds. they have an extensive library (added on to after ivar’s death) and many of them learn additional skills (languages, math, other sciences, even music) when out on the path.

most horses don’t like vipers

that tweet that’s like i’m probably nonbinary but i have a job so i can’t worry abt that rn. yeah thats the whole school

[starry-bi-sky]

"Uhp-uhp-bup-bup." Danny says loudly, cutting off the crime lord bleeding all over his living room. He presses a finger to his lips, despite knowing that Red couldn't see it, and stifles his rage behind a playful smile.

He's lucky he's facing the kitchen, his back turned to Hood. He can see the fury green of his eyes reflecting back at him in the chrome of the sink, he's threatening to crush the rag in his hands. His vision is futzing out in the corners of eyes.

"We don't speak the 'J' name in this household." He says in almost a sing-song, because if he doesn't, then the Gotham oil sitting, boiling, behind his teeth and coating his tongue will spittle out and Danny's already haunting his apartment just by his mere presence. He doesn't want to haunt it more.

He can hear the whine of the lightbulbs, threatening to burst like a popped balloon. He turns the water off and and rings the rag out tighter than he perhaps should.

"You don't like the clown?" Hood asks him, and Danny's not sure if he's mocking him for it. There's a knowing lilt in his voice that throws back Danny to their first meeting on that balcony. If he were anyone else, Danny might've just punched him.

His heel turns sharply towards him, a tight smile on his face and an even tighter look around his eyes. At least he knows that the green has faded because the pounding behind his eyes are gone, his grief-born, death-made rage sizzling back beneath his veins. "I think you already know why, Ridin' Hood."

A grief like this don't stay buried, after all.

[takemetomyfragiledreams]

This is a wip about banshee!Tim gradually adopting all the bats and keeping them alive. It has the possibility to be an eventual Robin pile but I haven't fully decided on where it'll go. The original intention was to eventually have it be damitim but honestly it could go jaytim, dicktim or just robin pile. If you have a preference I'm all ears.

Talia becomes aware of her father’s shadow at the age of five. A boy with skin so white she half expects him to be translucent and eyes so frigid they put the winter sky to shame. He lingers in shadows and darkened corners, ever silent and ever watching. Her father never mentions him, not even when he perches on the arm of his throne or steals bits of meat from his plate. She half thinks she’s crazy for the first thirteen years of her life but doesn’t once dare to ask. Secrets get you killed in this world and this is one she’s not willing to die for.

He never speaks to her. Never seems to speak to anyone. He’d be an afterthought if his presence wasn’t so alien. 

At the age of thirteen, the night before her first solo mission, she wakes to find him sitting on the edge of her bed. No scream comes; she’s learned the only one she can depend on is herself. 

He touches a finger to his lips and she remains silent as the guards outside walk past. When the lights from under the door fade, he speaks for the first time. 

“Tomorrow, you’re going to die.” 

Talia’s hand curls around the blade beneath her pillow. “Is this a threat?” 

“A fact.” His face is cold, emotionless. It’s like looking into the depths of a still pool; all she sees is herself staring back. “You will die many times in this world and you will pay dearly for your return.” 

“The pit,” she understands. 

“If you’re smart, you’ll start saving what pieces of yourself you have left. You’ll need them one day.” He stands. Instead of opening the door, she watches as he finds tiny handholds in the stone of her wall and begins to climb to the ceiling. There’s a small hole six meters up, where the smoke of her fires can escape. It’s barely big enough for his head.  

“Who are you?” She calls as loud as she dares. 

“When the time comes, I will scream for you. Follow the sound back.” 

He vanishes out the hole like smoke, body contorted into impossible shapes. Talia lays down and stares up at that dark maw of space until her eyes blur and droop. 

Three days later she can’t stop the sword from cutting through her chest. She slices through her enemy but it’s too late. Her knees fall out from under her as her mouth opens in a silent cry. 

Across the room, she sees a boy’s eyes turn from icy blue to black as his mouth contorts into the shape of a horrific scream; the sound rings in her ears long after it’s over. 

It’s the last thing she hears as she dies and the first she hears as she comes gasping from the Pit, naked and shaking as her heart restarts in her chest. 

He stands in the shadows when her father holds a hand out. Always watching. Waiting.

This repeats twenty times in the span of a hundred years. Twenty times in which she dies to a scream and returns to one. And then it stops. 

He’s sitting in front of a machine, eyes big as he presses his palms to the glass. She feels something sick in her stomach but cannot place just what it means. Motherly instinct? The desire to whisk her growing child out of sight and away from this creature no one ever seems to talk about. 

“His name,” he says, “what will you call him?” 

The last thing she wants to do is tell him. Still, she cannot stop herself. 

“His name is Damian.” 

“Damian,” he sighs, croons, growls. “Damian Wayne-al Ghul.”

She never told him who the father was. 

The day Damian is born is the day she loses him, if she ever had him in the first place. It’s in the way he looks past her to stare into the shadows; the way his nose scrunches and his lips curl in delight; the way he waves his grasping hands and the way she cannot stop him from leaving her arms. 

“Tim,” he babbles up at the monster that has dogged her life and death. She didn't even know he had a name to give.

Damian giggles and pats at a pale cheek with his own colored fingers. “Tim!” 

Tim smiles a ghastly, jagged sort of smile down at him. It’s like watching someone learn how to feel for the first time; unnatural, yet impossible to look away from. There’s color in his face for the first time, a light in his eyes like the first thaw of spring. 

“Damian,” he says like it’s something reverent, something holy. It’s the level of devotion a prince deserves but she cannot find it in herself to be pleased. 

It’s then that she acknowledges the bitter truth: Tim scares her in a world where she is not meant to be afraid of anything. He’s the only being she fears save perhaps her father and he’s looking at her son like he hung the stars.

What bitter irony. 

For the first time, she comes to him. He’s standing just outside Damian’s room, looking in like there’s nothing he wants more and less than to go inside. 

“Normally you’re inseparable. What is it?”

He’s silent for so long that she half convinces herself he’s an illusion. 

“I’m leaving.” 

Talia blinks. He’s never left once; not that she’s aware of. “Leaving?”

“If I stay, he won’t turn into the boy he needs to be to survive what’s coming.” Tim turns almost human eyes on her. He looks drawn and tired. “I won’t be able to let you hurt him.” 

“I would not—"

“You would. You know nothing else.” 

They stand together, staring at the closed door in mutual contemplation. Finally, Tim sighs. 

“You’ll do your best to kill the good in him, but remember death is never permanent. Not for an al Ghul. Do more than that and I’ll come for you. I don’t care what destiny says.” 

Talia’s hands itch for her knives, but she does not reach. She knows better. “When will you return?” 

“When I’m needed.” He turns to meet her eyes, small but oh so fierce. “Teach him well, Talia. Show him what he needs to know to survive.” 

He’s gone before she can respond. They both know she will do nothing less. 

(Still, he scares her; Talia al Ghul is not meant to be afraid of anything.) 

[banshees-martin]

thinking about… daryl coming back to alexandria with a pretty little necklace for his girl, probably has his initial on it too. sigh. i love him so much. could i perhaps get a little drabble involving something like that?

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT!

tysm for the request anon! :)) im not the best at writing drabbles or one shots but enjoy anyways, sorry this took a while but i love this idea sm! 🎀

You and the group had arrived at Alexandria and just about finally settled in, after being on the road for so long normal things like hot running water for showers and baths was considered luxury. So it took a while for everyone to settle in, especially for your boyfriend daryl..

It took him time to get used to it all but he's slowly easing up. He had the job to recruit people for Alexandria with Aaron.

It does worry you since he's gone for days but you know he can take care of himself.

You were in your guys room folding clothes when daryl walked in biting his thumb nail almost nervously? "hey, you okay?" you asked him softly walking up to him wrapping your hands around the back of his neck giving him a quick kiss.

"Yea.. i uh gotcha sumthin" he said pulling a beautiful gold necklace that had a fancy little 'D' in cursive on it out of the inner pocket of his vest"y-ya don't gotta wear it though. jus' thought it'd be nice i dunno.." he said sheepishly scratching the back of his neck the tip of his ears were red.

You smiled. "i love it" you held it gently in your hands "help me put it on?" you asked moving your hair to one side and looking in the mirror letting him clasp it on you.

"i love it Daryl..thank you" you said while turning to face him holding the little d, "eh it's nothin" he grinned.

You had his initial on a chain around your neck :))

[trialsofsaint14]

mini acrylic charm designs

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - masterlist.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc

NOTE: this fic is undergoing a rewrite. i'll keep up all the old chapters until i'm ready to release the new ones, but keep this in mind!

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! the timeskip between driftmark and lucerys' inheritance hearing is now about ten years. there will be some major canon differences here!

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot.

this will be a semi-long fic. i am not sure how long exactly, but it is my goal to make it long enough to book bind it at the end of the year. enjoy! all links under the cut!

shera tag shera and aemond tag story playlist shera's voice claim banshee's lament art tag new valyria: modern club au

act one: chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6 chapter 7 chapter 8 chapter 9 chapter 10 act two: chapter 11 chapter 12 chapter 13

posting schedule: tbd

[inkpot909]

First Love Headcanons: Noriaki Kakyoin

↳ Fem!Reader with she/her pronouns. Reader is written as being on the shy, gentle side. Reader’s backstory, stand, and reason for joining the crusaders is left up in the air.

A/n: This was so self-indulgent. I hope it shows how much I’ve thought about this. I hope y’all enjoy! <3

Warning(s): Canon-typical swearing. Mentions of canon-typical violence.

Before being on the receiving end of a mind-altering flesh bud, Kakyoin would’ve raised an eyebrow at the prospect of falling for someone within the span of 50 days.

Experiencing romantic love? Him? Maybe in another lifetime.

Hell… simply making friends within that same span of time seemed absurd. Not because he deemed himself incapable of making connections, but due a lack of desire. No need to grow close with people he assumed wouldn’t ever fully understand him.

It’s a difficult concept to wrap his head around, without a doubt. Seventeen years of numbing isolation will do that to an individual.

That’s not to say he hasn’t daydreamed here and there.

Kakyoin’s certainly let his mind wander down a road paved with hopefulness. Looking to his parents and wondering what it’d be like to form such a strong connection. His thoughts growing indulgent and jumping on a particular train. Leading eventually to… whatever plane of existence lovers live on.

Okay, so Kakyoin didn’t even know how fully contextualize romance within his own mind.

It’s a difficult thing to grasp when you merely see it from a secondhand perspective… usually from one’s own parents, of all things.

At least his mother and father offered a positive idea of how relationships should function. Mutually supportive; partners through and through. It’s what he’s come to expect and wouldn’t dream of settling for less.

Experiencing the actual feeling involved? Not at all. He’s always been known as a ‘pretty’ guy, but that doesn’t mean much when he’s remained wholly uninterested.

At the very least, he harbored a general idea of what he wanted.

Beyond hoping for a mutually supportive dynamic, he’s confident over his preferred type. His likes and dislikes, whether it be shallow or far more personal.

Regardless of his own preconceived notions in regards to his own future, he does end up forming meaningful connections. While not under the most unconventional circumstances, he does form a tight nit group of friends.

And even more than that, he meets you:

Tower of Grey was the priority at hand… the first of DIO’s followers encountered after leaving Japan. The safety of sleeping passengers filling the seats being far more important than anything else in that very moment.

But just as Kakyoin laid stomach-first on the floor of the plane’s narrow walkway… blood trickling down his forehead and his expression stern… the bug-like stand boasted on. Believing in an assured victory, as if it had already won.

The gears in Kakyoin’s mind chug intently, his stand’s tendrils moving unseen beneath the seats. His eyes widening when he feels something in particular.

A stranger… who makes themselves known a second later. An observer watching silently from across the isles, jumping to action.

There was no time to wonder if you understood what was going on- no time to even warn -before you lunge forward. A stand fazing into sight behind you. Geared up and ready, almost taunting the bug with the shock of its own existence.

Your heart pounded against your chest when the bug directed its attention to you, the distraction proving to have worked.

Just being there was more than enough to catch the egotistical personality off guard for a moment, letting out a profanity. Merely a second or two of hesitation, but enough to offer Kakyoin a quick opening for a finishing blow. Finally getting the drop on the particularly fast-moving stand.

With the stand user fallen limp, his tongue split down the middle and eyes rolled back, Kakyoin turns his head to finally get a good look at you. His lips kept together, but his eyebrows raised.

Your own eyes have grown wide, fully turning towards the group of imposing men.

Just from quietly examining your raised eyebrows and agape mouth, you’re visibly just as startled as they all are. As far as they can tell, you’d merely witnessed the fight going down as an initial bystander. Assessing it quickly and not hesitating a moment further once you saw the shortest of them get hurt. To their credit, it was pretty much what had happened from your perspective.

The men size you up blankly, and without much to immediately say.

To tussle with a stand user so early into the trip, high above a body of water within a plane, is a heart-pounding situation. With hindsight, though, it’s to be expected. Taking such a public and compromising mode of transportation was mistake with absurdly dangerous consequences.

But to discover another… who’s seemingly detached from either side of the DIO conflict- now that is cause for surprise.

Your eyes gloss over the men. Flickering between each of them, until landing on the redhead you’d just assisted. Blood is still drying on his forehead. But his expression has shifted to a more thoughtful one… violet eyes looking at you in a way that makes you feel small.

Merely a moment passes before the oldest of the group takes initiative. Stepping forward, he lets out a huff of hesitation before saying, “Thank you… erm-…?”

“Y/n… L/n…” you responded, shifting your attention to him and taking a step back. You’re on gentle guard; hesitant. A contrast to your determined initiative moments ago.

Surely you’d seen a good chunk of what the group was capable of? That would be cause for cautiousness. None of them knew just how much you had seen before stepping in…

“Joestar, dear. Joseph Joestar,” Joseph smiles gently, a gleam present in his eyes. Hoping to defuse anxious thoughts creeping into your skull, if only a little. But your expression stays the same.

“I think… we could offer each other an explanation,” he suggests in a trying manner. His head tilts to the side, appreciative of the fire proved to be present behind eyes so apparently soft and hesitant on the regular.

Stand or not, the situation is overwhelming. Examining Joseph’s demeanor, and his two gloved hands held up in peace… you eventually nod in agreement. Answers… yes, you’d certainly like to know whatever the hell that was.

The old man opens his mouth again, preparing to make an attempt at a short explanation, only to be cut off by a stomach-dropping tilt of the plane.

You had your own reasons for being on the plane that day… the specifics of which were totally lost on Kakyoin and the others for a good while.

Discussions with Joseph after safely making it out of the plane wreck, Hong Kong’s hustle and bustle in the background, lead you to realizing you and the group held a common goal with the pursuit of DIO. Whether or not you’d even heard the name before the old man spoke it. In regards to your own pursuits, going after DIO was the answer.

That revelation prompted you into asking if you may accompany the group on their way to Egypt. A suggestion only disapproved by Jotaro.

And from the moment he saw you that day aboard the plane, you’d already earned respect from Kakyoin.

He holds himself to a high standard… something he holds others around him to as well. Sure, he’s a naturally polite individual, but he’s not exactly shy calling it how he sees it.

He harbors too much self-respect to think of settling for people he can’t trust or who hold no dignity.

The specific circumstances in which you joined the crusaders… helping a group of strangers with powers like your own in order to ensure the safety of both them and the passengers…

Safe to say he had no hangups about you accompanying them, to say the least.

Being a generally soft-spoken, pretty girl definitely helps too. Not that he’s inclined mention it out loud. He’s not that socially maladjusted. Mostly. He’d like to believe.

He is thinking it, though.

You were just so quiet that first day in Hong Kong. Every time he pointed something out to you and Jotaro, you nodded along gently with a soft smile. Even asking for elaboration once or twice.

It’s a lot better than the huffs and puffs coming from Jotaro.

Kakyoin eventually starts dropping facts from his bag of random trivia on you specifically. Immediately, you’re responsive to his informative brand of talking at you. Likely hoping to get past any initial awkwardness you feel throwing off the established dynamic.

All while you go along agreeably with the group’s decisions beyond his casual information dumping.

From deciding to tackle the journey any way other than by plane, to Mr. Joestar’s order of food in the restaurant the group ate at… you politely nodded along.

Your facial expressions are enough to pick up on how you’re feeling. Kakyoin can’t help but find it nice. Putting the pieces together inside his head on where you stand. Knowing when it’s best to let others take the helm in decisions you’re unfamiliar with.

So you’re situationally flexible too… that’s good.

As observant of a guy as Kakyoin is… he notices almost instantly that you gravitate towards sticking by him or Avdol. In both calm and stressful situations.

Mr. Joestar… his boisterousness makes you flinch. Even more so is the case with a guy like Polnareff, despite the Frenchman making a point to be gentle with a ‘nice little lady like yourself’.

And Jotaro… well… you’re expression sours, failing to hold back cringe each time the two of you interact. Acutely aware he doesn’t like you at all at the beginning.

Heh… so be it, Kakyoin thought.

If sticking close to him or Avdol is what you prefer, Kakyoin’s not about to complain. You’ve already proven yourself to be adaptable… and only more opportunities will arise from here on out. With each passing stand encounter, he grows more and more convinced you’re a really reliable individual.

Even more so, you begin involving yourself in conversations. Something that opens the door to less small talk and discussions holding more substance.

It’s freeing to feel less in the spotlight, despite it being as natural of a thing as talking. But with someone as unused to it as Kakyoin, the smaller things really get to him early on.

That’s what first floods his chest with warmth, genuinely enjoying a comfortable air developing through casual conversation. Not just that, there’s fondness in the tiniest input from you. Smiling at the others’ antics or laughing lightly when Kakyoin bickers with Polnareff.

Friendship is a necessary foundation to be established for an individual like Kakyoin to grow even remotely romantically interested.

And how long did it take for that to happen? For him to silently consider you a friend? Two weeks at most… it must’ve been. God, Kakyoin feels lightheaded just thinking about what that means to him.

You mean something to him already. How weird is that?

Kakyoin’s not necessarily avoidant of how he feels, merely perplexed. A rather new, but internally exciting position to be in.

His care for you making his heart race faster with each passing stand encounter.

There’s vigor in how he stands up for you if you’re hurt or are unable to fight for yourself. He keeps his temper, not the type to lose it, but his eyes speak to the emotions guiding his proaction.

And to his delight… you react the same whenever the role is reversed.

Now… yes, he knows you like sticking by him. And now that he’s thinking of it again, when was the last time you stick by Avdol too? You certainly don’t stand this close to anyone else. The physical distance having been growing smaller and smaller. You’re damn near hanging off his arm.

Kakyoin’s such an enabler, letting you do so without complaint. Head held up high.

Honestly… it takes weight off his shoulders. He appreciates the ease of recognizing mutual fondness. It furthers the comfortable air between you two.

All while Kakyoin’s kicking his past self for avoiding something that comes naturally to him when gazing into your eyes:

“And here I thought we’d finally be able to sleep in a bed.”

Kakyoin’s voice sounds gently, standing between you and Jotaro. The three students of the group… he often acted as a physical buffer you and the grump. There is reason for you to act cocky, considering Jotaro finally accepted the fact that you are even there just a few days ago.

You know better than to let it get to you, though. Especially since he still remains outwardly apathetic pretty much everything leaving your mouth. But he’ll listen when you speak and acknowledges your existence! Now, we’re talking.

Late into this particular night… none of the seethe radiating off him is directed at you.

The three of you are turned towards the lake before you, standing in a row. Conveniently looking away from both Polnareff and Joseph. Moonlight reflects against the water’s surface pleasantly. The smell of the cigarette Jotaro had smoked still lingering in the air, and invading your nostrils.

As sweet of a sight as the water may be, the scene doesn’t do much to ease any lingering wariness… only making eyelids feel heavier, if anything.

You glance downwards to your left, Polnareff still sulking by himself on the ground a few paces away. You felt a pang of pity looking at him. Just a moment of consideration later and you neglect to speak to him. Practically feeling the gentle annoyance of the two to your right. Not that… you don’t understand the sentiment.

Especially Kakyoin’s sighing mutter in particular.

“If the old man hadn’t screwed up,” Jotaro speaks up, his arms crossed as he responds. “We wouldn’t be out here hiding from the cops.”

Your gaze shifts away from Polnareff to nothing in particular a moment or two, your brows gently furrowed. Without contemplating it first, your head moves. Peering over at Kakyoin beside you.

“Least Mr. Joestar’s not in custody,” you comment lightly.

Just the idea of it is stressful… your heart hurting at the thought. Even more so, your brain stresses just from knowing how much precious time it would waste. Knowing full well by now you don’t even need to point that out to someone like Kakyoin. He just… gets it.

“Hmph…” Jotaro huffs, nearly a grunt.

Kakyoin’s eyes travel to meet yours, disregarding Jotaro’s dismissal of your trying optimism. The ghost of a smile appears on the redhead’s lips.

“Haven’t crossed the border yet,” he reminds you. His tone lacking the exhaustion it holds when pointing something out to the likes of Polnareff or Mr. Joestar. His pleasant smile… it lingers as well.

“Heh-…” you let out a lighthearted sigh and your trying expression fades a little. Not completely deterred by his words, your tone remains on the sweet side as you retort, “Way to spike my worry back up.”

To your relief, your lighthearted response only seems to amuse Kakyoin. The exact reaction you had hoped for.

“Mr. Joestar said he’s handling it… he owes us as much,” Kakyoin replies.

“Hmm… even after today?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. “Giving him that much credit now, Kakyoin?”

He hums softly, trying to momentarily suppress his smile while rubbing his chin with his index finger. Moving his hand away when he sarcastically figures, “Well… he managed to grab us a car.”

“Small victories…?” you giggle lightly, raising your eyebrows in a playful manner.

“Small victories,” he nods in agreement, allowing his grin to grow wider.

Kakyoin’s smile… I’ve been seeing it a lot more lately, you note. I really hope it’s-

“Don’t fret, you two,” Joseph speaks up from behind.

He cuts the moment short and your stomach drops, making space for a familiar disappointment to pool inside. Your brows subtly furrow, and you biting your lower lip less you pull a pout. Not spiteful towards Joseph… just wishing the short talk with Kakyoin had time to continue.

You turn, only to see the older man casually gesturing to the aforementioned car he’d gotten his hands on. “I took care of things.”

Kakyoin doesn’t point it out less you sheep away in embarrassment, but the disappointment you think you don’t show… he notices.

Quietly allowing you to sit a bit too close beside him at restaurant tables, for example. That same look on your face when the spotlight shifts anywhere else… it’s totally worth it.

Or when you rest your head on his shoulder while taking a bus or car. Polnareff or Joseph will often prompt conversation that demands and derails attention. Even Kakyoin feels a silent sigh escape his nostrils.

Luckily, even more than explicitly mentioning it out loud, he wouldn’t dream of teasing you over it either. Win’t even throw you a knowing glance. Anything to keep you from hiding that cute expression away.

Wait, cute?

So… okay, he can work with that. Mhm. No need for concern or anything of the sort. It’s not like the descriptor popped into his head so fast he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. It’s just one little word… that crawled into his brain and refused to go to the back of it the majority of the car ride.

Well, this is happening, he distinctly recalls thinking.

Really, that’s about as long as it takes for him to come to terms with how he feels about you. The span of an overnight car ride.

Kakyoin may have purposely isolated himself for most of his life, but he’s too self-assured to think of pushing the feeling down.

More than that… you’re just so lovely.

When was the last time being this close to someone felt so right? Never? Good god… it all feels so natural when it comes to you, in and out of combat.

For a stand user… your generally pretty gentle as well.

Not there isn’t any mental strength in spite of or because of that sort of demeanor… Kakyoin just hadn’t personally experienced that before meeting you. And he really admires that.

Then again, Kakyoin’s the type to find beauty in practically everything in regards to the subject of his affections.

… is it weird to be thinking about one person this much? For Pete’s sake, is this what it’s like? Had his father felt like a moron like this too? Did Mr. Joestar think himself going nuts as well?

Perceived weirdness be damned, as soon as he’s fallen, he’s loyal and all in.

It’s similar to the natural progression of learning to enjoy the others’ company. Similar, yes, but the same? Not at all, of course.

And Kakyoin’s not the only one who notices the difference in your dynamic together; he’s most definitely got mixed feelings on that.

Avdol seemed to be the first.

Before Kakyoin noticed he’d caught feelings, Avdol would peer at the two of you with a tiny smile on his face. Kakyoin had thought back then he’d been amused on a surface level… which ended up not being correct with hindsight.

Damn it all… how could I let him notice before me? Kakyoin thinks, feeling more than a little foolish.

Kakyoin was lamenting over a look… god bless him.

Once the others start noticing, all hell has broken loose. They make Avdol look like a damn saint.

Joseph and Polnareff are a duo conceived in hell purely to torture Kakyoin. He won’t lie, he can get rather short with either of them in the face of their teasing. He’s really good at flipping the script on them and offering a harsh dig, which hasn’t failed in changing the conversation thus far.

“We have some time to kill after breakfast… you and Y/n should go out on a little rendezvous!” Joseph will suggest, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Ha! I caught you staring again! You think you’re so slick, don’tcha?” Polnareff will laugh, nudging his arm a bit too harshly.

“You can pair with her while we separate and search… we know how much you like her!” they’ll both exclaim, no matter how inappropriate might be in the given situation.

… screw their feelings, Kakyoin’s going verbally nuclear.

Kakyoin would really prefer it they wouldn’t be so obvious with their teasing right in front of you. Unfortunately, getting on their case directly has proven to only encourage them further.

Worse of all… he can feel the judgement rolling off Jotaro’s body. Constantly. Uncomfortably.

He doesn’t say anything, and frankly, he doesn’t need to. As if Jotaro would need to do that to drive home a point.

Getting all close to you right beside or in front of Jotaro leaves Kakyoin dealing with the stink eye for a good ten minutes.

In all… it’s annoying, but not unbearably so. Nothing that warrants a conversation, anyway. You seem amused, at the very least.

What does make Kakyoin wary… is the situation you’re all in.

Never mind that in just the span of a month he’s got more people surrounding him than he previously thought possible. The circumstance in particular is what puts a strain on both his head and heart.

Definitely has an attitude of “Maybe after the journey…” for the majority of it.

You don’t seem to be the type to want to take much initiative, and he’s a touch too comfortable keeping things just the way they are. No need to rush when there are greater priorities.

Though, one could argue he’s procrastinating a little. Polnareff has certainly made the case.

The Frenchman couldn’t get him to budge… in fact, it’s a run in with a certain sleep-stalking stand that does.

The encounter solidified the update to his thinking the trip had been instigating, in more ways than one. It’s all to do with his returning confidence; growing fully reassured in himself once more.

Applicable both in and out of fights. As well as his approach to you, in particular.

The complete lack of control he had throughout most of the encounter… as well as how hard you tried understanding his position when no one else could… none of them are guaranteed to wake up the next morning, right?

And waiting…? Upon reflection, Kakyoin changes his perspective on it. How cowardly would that be?

He’s not about to face DIO again without letting you know how he feels first.

Too many possibilities could come from the inevitable confrontation, a good chunk of what he could think of not exactly being pleasant. He doesn’t want to plan for the worse… but he would prefer to step up and be there for you like he knows he wants to deep down.

Every day of the trip, as dangerous as it gets, were the better ones of his upbringing. That’s large in part because of you.

From assuming he’d never get close to wanting to speak about such a thing… to knowing he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t.

That being said, there weren’t many opportunities for a breather after crossing the desert. The boarder into Egypt moving closer and closer within the group’s reach with each passing hour.

And just as quickly as it was crossed… there was another attack- his very own sight put at risk.

In all honesty, he doesn’t remember much of the ordeal before waking up at the hospital with bandages over his eyes. He’d been going in and out of consciousness, enough to make his memory of the event rather hazy.

Kakyoin can recall the pain. That… and your presence at his side almost entirely throughout.

He didn’t know how to feel immediately about it.

Thankful for your presence, though not much could ground him in a situation like that one. Or guilt over you witnessing him in such a state.

He lands somewhere in the middle.

Fussing was pushed to the back of his mind the second his hospital room door was flung open not long after waking. Voices pooling into the clean yet bare space and footsteps making their way closer.

Booming and almost laughing, expressing relief to see him up and looking alive. Several hands patting him on the back or nudging his arm.

As well as a familiar hand gently touching his shoulder, a softer voice poking through the others.

He’s listened to it for hours collectively by now… but a part of him figures he could do it for days.

There’s a lingering warmth present, moral quite positive despite everyone understanding Kakyoin would be left behind for his recovery. Regardless… the fact that his eyesight wouldn’t be affected in the long run lifted a massive weight.

Kakyoin is too levelheaded to think otherwise, he knows you must move on without him.

But he finds himself hoping the moment will drag anyways:

“… I will catch up with you later,” Kakyoin assures with a smile. Bandages over his eyes… speaking to the group without the sight available to point his attention to anyone in particular.

Polnareff leaning forward, putting weight on his hands against the hospital bed mattress to his left. You sit facing him on his right, legs hanging off the side. The others circle around the bed as Kakyoin offers his words of encouragement in the face of his upcoming absence.

He’s too strong to sulk… you think, But it must sting to have to sit on the sidelines when we’re getting so close.

“It’s less than 800 kilometers to Cairo… and DIO,” he continues. “Everyone, you must be vigilant.”

Polnareff nods, giving Kakyoin a pat on the shoulder. The others give the redhead their well-wishes as the Frenchman offers you a glance before standing up straight, following Avdol and Jotaro out the door. The men shuffling towards the exit one by one.

You’re the last of the group to move, slowly sliding yourself off the hospital bed. Kakyoin’s head lowers, feeling the dip in the thin mattress vanish.

Joseph, taking up the rear of the group still diffusing out the room, pauses just before the doorway. Looking your way. “Y/n,” he mutters softly, halting you after taking only a single step.

“Hm?” you hum, biting your lower lip.

His lips curl into a smile, eyes glimmering with gentleness. “We’ll go and pay the bill. Could be quite the tedious process… we’ll meet you down in a few, alright?”

Thank you, Mr. Joestar, you think. Holding back a grin as you nod a handful of times hastily.

“Heh…” the old man huffs out a soft laugh, his expression shifting to a smirk before exiting the room. The door clicking shut behind him.

You turn back towards Kakyoin… noting how he’s lifted his head once more. The sunlight pools in through elongated windows, shining against his skin. Unharmed from what you can see… aside from pale bandages wrapped around his eyes. Anything to keep you from seeing his eyes a mutilated, bloodied mess like that ever again.

“Y/n,” he calls your name, lightly gesturing for you to sit down again and pulling you from your silent gawking.

With a smile, you accept the invitation. Plopping right back down where you’d been sitting… if not a little closer. Kakyoin turns his head a tad, close enough to your general direction.

“I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor?” you echo, humming in thought. Both your voices have quieted. Pleasant, but gentler in the comfort of one-on-one company. “Of course… what do you need, Kakyoin?”

He reaches to his right, fingertips searching for the surface of a tiny nightstand next to the hospital bed. When he finds it, his hand smartly slides down its top drawer. Opening it and shuffling around inside, taking a moment to find whatever he’s looking for.

He shuts the drawer with a clenched fist a moment later, fingers wrapped around the unseen object he had grabbed.

“May I have your hand?” he asks, his free hand lifting up with an open palm.

“Mhm,” you hum, gently placing your hand atop his.

Kakyoin lets out a soft chuckle when he feels your smaller hand rest in his hold. Having touched it enough by now to recognize it’s yours by the feel alone. Letting it sit that way a second before gingerly flipping your hand over. Guiding the movement via your wrist, so that he instead cradles your hand while it lies palm-up in patient expectation.

“Keep these safe for me while I recover, will you?”

Without a word of warning, his other hand reaches out and places what he’d retreated in the palm of your hand. Two little red marble-looking balls now sit there, attached to silver hooks that let them both dangle at a slight curve.

“Your… earrings?” you ask, voice dropping to a whisper. Peering down at the dainty set in your hand. “Kakyoin, I don’t under-“

“Keep them with you… and make sure they remind you to keep yourself safe, okay?”

You lift your gaze, taken aback by the gentleness of his tone. Aside from today, you’d hardly ever seen seen him without wearing the set. Only removed on the handful of occasions he’s traded with Jotaro or Polnareff.

“Are you sure…?” you ask, blinking dumbly.

“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding. “I’ll take them back when I see you again. How about that?”

Your fingers curl around the earrings, holding them secure. The backs lightly poke your skin, but your hand keeps its hold. Resolving to keep them safe and on your person. A piece of him that will continue journey on with you while he’s in recovery.

“Is that a promise, Kakyoin?” you ask him, knowing the answer as soon as the question leaves your lips.

“Heh…” he chuckles lightly, his head tilting to the side once again. “Certainly. I’ll be back before you know it… but really… I’d like you to promise me you’ll be safe.”

Kakyoin holds your hand tighter in his, and his free hand blindly reaches out. Bumping against your shoulder, before finding its intended destination on your face. As soon as his fingertips brush against your cheek, your heart skips a beat. Holding your jaw gingerly, as if he were handling porcelain.

“I promise, Kakyoin, I promise…” you assure gently. There’s really no certainty in safety from here on out, the fact that he’s in a hospital bed making it apparent.

Kakyoin, for once, doesn’t care if it’s silly. Just hearing you promise to look out for yourself helps him swallow the reality that he’ll be absent from your side.

“Thank you,” he sighs, shoulders dropping. “I couldn’t stand it if I heard of you getting seriously hurt-”

“Kakyoin…”

“-without me being there to have anything to do about it. Because I… really-“

“Kakyoin, should we even-“

“Noriaki,” he cuts you off gently, his hand squeezing yours. Not wanting to let you avoid the conversation. “Please, Y/n, call me Noriaki.”

“I-…” you hesitate, heart feeling heavy. Is this really happening? “It’s… not like you to… you know…”

“Be so forward?” he asks, a smirk creeping onto his face.

“No, no, you’re forward…” you admit, letting out a laugh. You feel pleasantly lightheaded; surprised by the turn the goodbye has taken. How right it feels. “It’s not like you to… be this forward. Understand what I mean?”

His thumb lightly brushes along the skin on your cheek, leaning himself forward. Careful as he invades your personal space, slowly ensuring his position is aligned the way he’s hoping it is.

“I do. Is it alright…?” he asks, listening intently for any hint he’s pushing you too much. Only receiving a beat of silence, his heart halts in place until he picks up on your bashful reply:

“It is… erm, Noriaki.”

He smiles again, nodding and keeping lips pressed together… and if you could see his eyes, you assume there’d be a gleam of amusement present within. You wait for his reply, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, he takes in a deep breath before leaning in further, taking you by surprise yet again. His lips pressing against yours.

They’re still chapped and dry from the desert heat, just like your own. But he moves slow and gentle, barely a sound in the room accept for hesitant lips interlocking in a bashful first kiss. He’s inexperienced with it, but the two of you follow each other and melt into the action with the angling of your faces.

His hand stays put on your cheek, and his other squeezes your fist, his heart swelling with the knowledge you’re still carrying his earrings. Letting out a sigh of relief into the kiss before hesitantly breaking it.

“Noriaki…” you whisper, following along and pulling away from the kiss when he does.

It made your heart do flips… leaving you with wanting more. But you know time is short. Your eyes flicker to the clock hanging on the wall, frowning at the realization you should’ve descended to the first level three minutes ago.

“You uhm…” you clear your throat. “You owe me another when you catch up with us.”

“Hmph,” he smiles, dropping his hand from your face. “You got a deal. I’d really like to see the look on your face after doing something like that. You get really red under casual circumstances, you know that?”

“… I wish I didn’t learn that just now, Noriaki.”

Kakyoin listens as your footsteps carry outside his hospital room, his smile lingering on his face long after you’re gone.

The coming days will be slow… but the idea there’s people eager for his return makes it all bearable. People who truly know him and harboring mutual loyalty… it’s still funny for him to ponder. Likely will be for a a good while.

The future looks brighter with someone like you a part of his life. Kakyoin cannot help but look forward to it without hesitation on his mind and merely flourishing hope in his heart.

He’s got someone at his side he truly loves, after all, and that means more to him than he’d ever know how to properly express.

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

obsessed with the idea of seelie faerie prince gojou, as charming and as tricksy as all fae are. his snow-white hair eye catching and his azure eyes like gems pressed into his flesh

seelie prince satoru whose very birth shook faerieland as foretold by the stars red, blue and purple stars that soared through the sky the night of his birth

seelie prince satoru who is much more observant than his penchant for revels and merrymaking belies

seelie prince satoru who relishes in obnoxiously getting under the skin of the gentry of his court with his radical ideas that challenge the traditions that have been established for centuries

seelie prince satoru whose court is filled with political strife between three major families- the gojou, zenin and kamo. and it's really just his look this particular luck that he's bleeding out after a particularly harrowing attempt on his life. must have been that petty bastard naoya but in this particular moment, numb from poison and with a bloodied torso it really isn't going to do him any good trying to figure out who sent the now dead assassin after him

he won't die from this, he's been developing an immunity to poison. but even so, this is tough on his body as he sits in a misty forest waiting for the poison to wear off on his body with the scent of iron strong in the air

that's when he sees something that any faerie would consider the worst omen ー he sees you.

faeries are immortal folk. unless someone goes out of their way to kill them, they never die. it's what makes them stronger, far further creatures than humans with their insect-length lifespans

seelie prince satoru who even with his eyes, it's difficult seeing you clearly with poison muddling his senses but he sees the tell-tell white hair and gray skin and he knows you're a banshee

seelie prince satoru who chuckles humorlessly as he accepts that apparently, his luck has run out

he's sure of this as you slowly come closer and closer until he sees you much more clearly. your eyes are bloodshot, as to be expected of your kind. but your eyes might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. they're a pale lilac and your pupils are a ghostly white, shockingly light against the reds of your eyes but even that looks beautiful. he never cared particularly for the color red before but in this moment he can understand why red caps crave the color so and satoru thinks that if he is going to hear those damning cries that will seal his fate in this instant, he's glad it's you

banshees were human women that died in grief, right? that died tragedy before the grace of the gods turned them fae. death is a beautiful look on you but he wonders what you'd look if you were still colored in the shades of life that once blossomed over you like spring blooms

and so you part your lips... but rather than wail and scream, announcing to the headless riders of faerie that death is near, death is coming for gojou satoru your eyebrows knit in worry and you ask

"are you alright?" as you kneel by his side, reaching for his wounds carefully. your voice is honestly akin to hearing birdsong in the night, a juxtaposition he wasn't prepared for. "here, let me help you"

apparently the seelie prince's luck is greater still. death won't come for him yet. instead, he's become a hypocrite. an unintelligent hypocrite but he can't quite seem to make himself care in this instance when he is tended to by your cold but gentle touch and your lark-like voice drips like honey from your lips.

whether it's folk or mortal, satoru likens love to a curse that makes those around him stupid. a curse that leads to betrayals, war and frankly too much strife he desires to deal with

yet in this moment, that very curse seemed to course through his veins

stupid is as stupid does, seelie prince satoru's lips part and he asks you as if enraptured in a spell "please marry me and i'll love you more faithfully than any man, fae or otherwise"

as for you... you're simply a banshee who just happened to be in this forest when you spotted an injured elf in the distance and decided to see if he'd accept your help if he didn't outright lose his mind in fear at the sight of you. you think he might have considering the words that left his mouth

it must be the blood loss talking

unfortunately for you and much to the aggravation of suguru and kento, seelie prince satoru's most trusted advisors, satoru was very much serious and fervently keeps referring to you as his future queen when you haven't even accepted the proposal

seelie prince satoru who insists you stay in his palace, at the very least until after a revel in a few moons time he wishes to throw in your honor. as thanks for treating his injuries which are still healing, might he add. anything could happen, what if a banshee needs to herald his death and one isn't around? he would also like the time to woo you over. please? just until then

seelie prince satoru who ignores the ardent whispers that it is bad luck for a banshee to be so close the prince. that insist that death fae are like roaches. surely if one appears, there will be more banshee and dullahan that follow

seelie prince satoru who coldly states that any such insult toward the woman who saved his life will find those who said them hearing the chilling cries they so fear sooner than they'd enjoy

[kimwxlers]

And with the war almost over, I think there'd be work for ya here. Because there's nothing for you on Inisherin. Nothing but more bleakness and grudges and loneliness and spite and the slow passing of time until death. And sure, you can do that anywhere. So come, Padraic. Leave there.

Kerry Condon as Siobhan Súilleabháin

THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN (2022), dir. Martin McDonagh

[jethrowest]

i’m a waking hell and the gods grow tired…

- take me back to eden by sleep token

(mdni)

Vacant stare crosses Hood’s features, rippling like a stone tossed into a lake. He’s been in the shower longer than his routine usually lasts. The water isn’t quite cold, but it’s not the blanket it once resembled.

The door to the bathroom remains open. He doesn’t want to take any chances, despite being the safest he’s ever been. Ever felt.

He focuses too much on breathing, exaggerating the action as if it isn’t innate. His chest feels heavy and he swallows hard, hoping to quell the rising panic he can’t seem to effectively smother.

Moving too slowly welcomes devastation. It’s an absurd line of thinking, yet it seems inescapable. The life he’s built with you is a far cry from what he’s accustomed to, and nothing going awry has created a different kind of restlessness he wishes to crush beneath his sore, overused fists.

Violence. That’s easy to face. He can charge at it like a bull, adrenaline numbing him until it wanes; by then, the cycle begins again. He doesn’t have to dwell if his mind doesn’t put him in a position to. He can fake it either way. He can shove it all down where it never sees the light of day.

Here, he thinks constantly. He’s open, infinitely bleeding. He glances at the blurred ceiling and exhales, squeezing his eyes shut.

He’s in the middle of a spinning room, but his body is at a standstill. He yearns for the quiet that comes with no longer feeling lightheaded and dizzy. For the room to stop spinning. For his insides to feel at one instead of at war. One half anticipating discord, the other begging for peace.

Your soft voice reaches him through his stupor, soothing it with your impossibly deep understanding of his thorn-encased affliction. His heart jumps in his throat, but it drops back where it should be when you inform him that you’re there, it’s just you; you’re going to join him.

Immediately, he straightens. He almost turns toward you. Your arms around his waist and your chin atop his shoulder whisper at him to stay put.

You are so warm. Like a blanket. He is tense, the shoulder you’re nestled into more elevated than the other, but your weight- your skin caressing his- deflates him a little bit.

“Been in here awhile,” you hum, sending vibrations to the ends of his toes. The tips of your fingers stroke directly below his belly button. It’s… too nice. Too tender.

“Kinda chilly.” You shiver, shaking him slightly. “Did the Devil decide he didn’t want you after all?” you tease, knowing he likes the water’s swathing heat to damn near cause first degree burns.

He chuckles, angling his head so his face is closer to yours. His stubble tickles your cheek. “Turns out I was too much competition.”

You laugh, and the sound is fucking heaven enough. How did he get here? Earn the right? The privilege?

He can replay the night you met as many times as he desires. Doesn’t mean it will make sense in the morning.

“Here. Let me. Before hell truly freezes over.”

Granting him no room to deny you, you take hold of his woodsy, earth-scented shampoo, working a sufficient amount into his scalp, stirring within a wandering composure that once refused submission. It begins as an almost unbearable ache, until it finally lets go and gradually trickles into blissful release.

He falls into you and sighs, no longer gasping for air.

[anonymitie]

[starry-bi-sky]

No.

No, no, no, no, NO!

He's shaking. His heart is burning in his chest, pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, and there's a trembling, aching rage building beneath his tongue and pressing against his teeth.

In his hands, his fingers tense and wrists locked, the article reads in big, black font: JOKER LOCKED IN ARKHAM ASYLUM AGAIN!

Danny shouldn't feel so angry about this, this is a good thing. Gotham doesn't have to deal with him for another few months at the least. He should feel relieved, a little more at peace.

He is not.

He cannot swallow the fury thudding behind his eyes, the burning white heat searing a deeper hole in his chest. A searing green filling static in his ears in the way only the rage of the restless dead can have.

How is he going to kill him now?

Arkham may be the only asylum in America made entirely of tissue paper, but it's still an asylum. There are cameras, guards, other patients resting inside. Danny can think of a million different ways to sneak in and kill Joker, but someone will hear his screaming.

It'd have to be rushed.

He doesn't want it to be rushed.

It's a cruel thought. Cruel and cold and merciless, but Danny doesn't feel an ounce of shame, not an ounce of guilt, for it. He wants to be alone with the Joker when he kills him, that's all he wants. In Arkham, you are never alone.

He forces his anger to bubble back down into his chest, stuffing it between his heartstrings and his ribs like a blanket you're trying to bunch up into a corner. It sizzles and burbles. The static begins to fade out into a high-pitched ringing; it sounds like distant screaming.

Danny is still trembling, but he can think a little clearer now.

He can wait.

He can wait. He can wait. He can wait. He canwait. Hecanwait. Hecanwait.

He can wait.

He's waited five years for this. He can wait one more week. One more month. One more year. However long it takes for the Joker to break back out, Danny can wait.

And when the Joker does, inevitably, break out.

Danny uncrinkles his fingers around the edges of the newspaper, loosens his limbs just enough so he can pay for it.

He'll be waiting.

The dead, after all, have all the time in the world.

[takemetomyfragiledreams]

DamiTim 7.…to shut them up.

Have a side of Banshee!Tim with your order

Tim does not get hurt. This is a truth that Damian has carried since a child; since he was held in cold arms and whispered stories he couldn't yet understand; since he saw Tim materialize and rematerialize out of view. Tim is a creature of death. He can kill and revive in a single breath.

It has never occurred to Damian before that he would not simply do so again. It has never occurred to Damian that it hurts him to see them hurt.

It is why he is so thoroughly rocked when, that night, instead of a blade going through his stomach, it goes through Tim's instead.

There's a banshee scream that blows the foe away, bleeding from eyes, nose and mouth; Damian cannot focus on it. He cannot see anything other than the black of Tim's blood beginning to stain his suit.

He must say something over coms as he scoops Tim up, because Nightwing and Wraith cover them immediately when he retreats.

There are words in his ears as he swings through the night but he does not register them. It's not until they're in a safe house and he's yanking the zipper to Tim's suit down that he starts hearing anything at all.

"I need to take the knife out," he tells Tim. The blood is cold on his hands, like the rest of Tim, and it does not help the nausea in his gut. Damian has long since been desensitized to gore but in this moment it does not feel like it.

The knife comes loose. He packs the wound and finds himself at a loss.

"Do you need stitches? I do not know how healing works for you."

"Damian," Tim tries.

"How do you replace your blood? Will a normal transfusion work?"

"Damian," he tries again, taking his face between his hands.

Damian resists as he runs through what he knows of beings like Tim. It is frustratingly little.

"I'll call Zatanna--" his words are stolen as Tim presses a firm kiss to his mouth. It takes a second for his brain to reboot, to process this new event. It's then that he finally realizes he's shaking; how shameful.

"There," Tim says gently, gloved fingertips running over Damian's suddenly wet cheeks. "It's alright, baby bat. I'll be fine."

"You took a killing blow for me," Damian croaks out. "Why?"

"I guess I grow weary of watching you die, knowing I could stop it before it even happens."

"But your blood--"

"It'll replenish. I'll just need to go hunting to regain my energy."

He settles some at the knowledge. "Do not do that again."

Tim smiles a ghastly sort of smile, eyes twin pits of shadow. "No promises."

[bansheeoftheforest]

Would you believe me? [Ghost Au]

This is officially my 20th fic! Of course I had to celebrate with some hopefully humourous Ghost Au :) Originally I envisioned this as a first part of a series of different au oneshots, all with the basis of "no one believes Henry" but now I'm not quite sure if there will actually be something out of that. Regardless, I hope yall enjoy <3 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wordcount: 5807

Summary: Dr. Henry Jekyll meets an unfortunate end after escaping the sewers. Too bad not many seem keen to believe his little predicament.

CW: Gore (I consider it to be quite light/nondescriptive but just in case!)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So... This is how it all ended.

  He stared at the mangled thing that used to be his body. He stared at the cracked skull, the blood that had already stopped seeping, and the dirt and mud which had further sullied the appearance he had so often sought pride in. You could barely see the green vibrancy of the waistcoat, or the rugged shape of the cape which had gotten stuck and torn by the carriage wheel. To think that this had once been a human being- once had been him- to think that this once had been Hyde, just moments ago, desperately attempting to escape through the sewers... But not anymore. There was no life behind those crushed eyes, no air within those lungs, no blood within that heart. 

  And yet, here he was. 

  Still conscious. Still watching.

  He did not look like the man on the ground, the one who would now be reduced to nothing but mere maggots and dirt. No, around his waist was his normally red- albeit slightly paler- waistcoat. Around his neck was his cravat. He was not the corpse in the too-short clothing or even the familiar younger, blonder man, no, he was the man he had always been. 

  He was Henry Jekyll. 

  Huh.... How strange. 

  He had not really expected any of this. Truly, it was almost cruel. To have fought so hard for survival, for dominance over the mind and body he shared, and yet it didn’t matter, now it was all gone, and so was Hyde. 

  ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘how unfortunate.’

  But it was over, now. He knew that it was. Perhaps he should be glad- after all, his soul seemed to be whole once again, if it ever had been. But that did not change that his life- his own, unhappy, miserably comedic life- was now over. No last wishes, no last actions, no goodbyes- it was just... Gone. Just like that. Taken just like that, by accident, not even deserving of an active attempt of someone who truly wished him dead, no, all there had been to it was the exhaustion, the weary eyes, the seemingly empty road and a speeding carriage... The coach, in panic, attempting to wake him, and as he had died in his arms, he had decided that this stranger was not deserving of a funeral, of justice, and had dragged him into an alleyway, before escaping the scene of the crime, into the everlasting night. 

  He had not even screamed. He had gone quietly, gone along with his lot in life, like he always had. 

  Oh well, how unfortunate indeed. 

  At least, he was quite sure that he was gone, now. 

  He looked pretty solid. Perhaps a bit worse for wear, a bit ruffled- perhaps, if someone looked a bit too long, they would see right through him, metaphorically and literally. Perhaps they would see the way his limbs could not grab ahold of anything solid, the way it melted into the bricks of the building he had attempted to brace himself against, as he had moved away from the tether of the body. Or perhaps the darkness of the night would hide it, disguise it, conceal the death and become the new corpse he inhabited, until the break of dawn, where the sun would shine right through him without warming up his cold body. Or perhaps he would not be seen at all. Perhaps he was stuck, now. Not even deserving of purgatory. Of neither Hell nor Heaven. He could not blame God, of course, if there was one. But at least an eternal punishment in hell would be better than an eternity of unrecognition, a limbo of observation as the world moved on without him. 

  So, what now, doctor? 

  Well, perhaps he did not have to stay and stare at his corpse all night. But... What else? 

  He squinted. He was dead, now, so what could he possibly do? Wait for his cadaver to be found, walk around London’s endless streets? Attempt to gain contact, try to go home? Nothing seemed appealing- or possible, for that matter- but he was a scientist, was he not? Was the impossible really that unreachable?

  He took in the sight of himself and his sorry state one last time. Then, he turned on his heel, and walked out of the alleyway, following the traces of blood, a trail of a body and the footsteps. Perhaps it would not have been so unusual in the grimy streets of London, where butchers threw remains as they pleased, but perhaps the hand sticking out from behind the boxes would get someone to realise what had happened. 

  Or perhaps the maggots would be faster. 

  He walked down the streets. His steps felt easy, like a weight had disappeared from his shoulders, which it quite literally had. All that was left of him was, of course, those seven grams. It was a funny feeling, having the wind breeze right through you, but it wasn’t unpleasant or unwelcome, it was freeing, like a cold glass of water in the middle of the night, or a breath of fresh air after weeks in the industrialised London Districts. Who could have known how limiting the physical body could be? He knew, oh, he knew- he would grieve. He would grieve the air which no longer stayed within his lungs, he would grieve the silent pulse of the heart he no longer had, he would grieve every laugh line, smile line, grey hair, wrinkle and blemish which would no longer grace his skin, a testament of his time on this earth. He would grieve the life he used to live, he would grieve the man he used to be, he would grieve the life which had been ripped out of his hands and he would grieve everything he had never achieved. He would grieve, oh, he would grieve, but now, nothing mattered. After all, he was nothing but a corpse, now. He was nothing but another memory, another corpse for the cemetery and another pile of food for the maggots.  

  He tried to touch every street lamp, every wall he walked past, tried to feel the cool touch as his fingertips went through the metal and bricks, as his new form took shape and hold and as his conscience stayed within his very soul. But his little walk, his little dance among the cobblestone paths was soon at its halt. 

  He was not at the Society, no, instead his little odyssey had led him towards a more discreet building- or perhaps discreet was a bad word. More humble than the bombastic residence of science that so many called home, he now stood before the Scotland Yard Police Station. 

  It looked abandoned, yet he knew it was not. It was not like crime stopped at night, no, and some lights were still lit. Through the windows, he saw the main office, where Sergeant Enoch Brokenshire currently resided. The closest he could ever get to a policeman who trusted him. 

  He did not bother to open the doors. He slid right through them, and luckily for him, no constables were lingering in the dark hallways. He doubted they would have seen him- but if they had, they surely would have gotten quite the midnight scare. The thought almost got him to laugh. 

  He arrived in front of the door, neatly and simplistically labelled “Sergeant Enoch Brokenshire”. He raised his hand to knock, attempted to make contact with the wood, and only realised his little problem as his hand simply went through- not deeply, mind you, but enough to get him to sigh. Instead, he attempted to call out.

  “Sergeant? Sergeant Brokenshire?”

  His voice- he heard it, but it sounded... Quiet, airy, like a loud whisper to the wind rather than the steady, unshakable voice of Dr. Henry Jekyll. Perhaps that was because he simply did not have a voice box, who knew? But he heard shuffling behind the door, footsteps, soon the door swung open, and he was face to face with the man in question. 

  The Sergeant- weary, tired, having been awake and working for multiple more hours than he should- had to take a moment to recognise the man in front of him, Dr. Henry Jekyll, a man normally tall and proud, now dishevelled. He squinted. Was there something wrong with the doctor?

  “Dr. Jekyll?” he finally spoke, “why on earth are you awake at this hour?” 

  Something within Jekyll seemed to light up, a spark of hope at being seen, of being recognised, of being heard and understood- but Brokenshire did not know that, of course, he might not even have noticed, what with the overtime looming heavy over his head. Yet he moved, away from the doorframe, back into the office, inviting the doctor to follow him. Jekyll did so, despite the others' confused look as he left the door open.

  “Well, Sergeant, you see, I seem to have run into a bit of a problem”. 

  He did not take a seat- as the seat, most likely, could not be taken- and instead stood close to the corridor, as if on the move. The room was dark, only lit by a single, lone candle upon the Sergeant’s desk. It did not take long for Jekyll’s nonexistent brain to piece together that the other seemed to be in the “migraine” stage of his overworking, a symptom which the doctor had been all too familiar with in the life he once had. Perhaps that's why the Sergeant did not manage to look closer, to notice a certain unfamiliarity, something wrong. Yet the furrow in his brow only deepened as the doctor spoke.

  “What’s the matter, Doctor?” 

  He thought it over, for a moment, attempting to find a way to explain.

  “Well, Sergeant,” he started, “would you believe me if I told you that I was just run over by a carriage, and that my soul may be slightly detached from my body?”

  “... what?”

  “So that’s a no, then.” 

  The doctor shrugged, a bit to himself, as the cogs in the Sergeant’s brain turned and turned. 

  “Well then, Sergeant, I think you best come with me, and I will explain when we are there.”

  The Sergeant blinked.

  “What? I’m sorry- what is going on?” 

  Jekyll did not respond, he simply turned around and walked out of the room again. He barely let the Sergeant grab his hat and coat, as he tried to catch up. 

  “Dr. Jekyll- what on earth is going on?” 

  “I think you will understand once we are there, sir.” 

  He slowed down slightly, just enough for Brokenshire to get to the entrance door first, masking the fact that he could not open them himself. Perhaps Brokenshire did notice it, perhaps he did notice the soft glow which seemed to follow the doctor, the lightness in his steps and his speed, but perhaps the late night was enough to make him question himself, rather than the state of the doctor.

  They continued onwards. They did not speak. Jekyll felt as if pulled, or perhaps called, towards the cadaver which was currently rotting away in that fated alleyway, and Brokenshire had no choice but to follow. The officer couldn't help but wonder if this was all some sort of joke, or a trick by God, but if something truly had happened, what manner of man would he be if he simply ignored the doctor? No, perhaps he had no choice. And so he followed, down the streets, past the crossings, through the back alleys and various grimy shortcuts the doctor seemed to know. They continued onwards, yet they did not speak.

  Suddenly, as they continued down the avenue, Jekyll stopped them. He put an arm out to keep the man behind him from continuing, a completely useless gesture as the Sergeant would have simply gone right through him, but it worked regardless. They turned towards the alleyway. Jekyll stared right into it for a moment, Brokenshire tried so as well, but could not see anything. Perhaps that’s when he noticed the dark, crimson trails upon the cobbled ground. 

  “Dr. Jekyll-” 

  “Come, in here.” 

  Jekyll continued inwards, slower than his steady pace here had been. Brokenshire- alone in the dark, with nothing but a gentleman and his baton- could not help but feel a bit nervous. The doctor continued and then stopped behind a few old boxes, rotten and with faded labels .

  “Here we are, Sergeant.”

  Brokenshire continued forward. Slowly, the subject of this odyssey came into view- first the hand, crushed and bloodied. Then the arm, twisted and broken. Soon the head, turned against the ground with large portions dented and missing. A freezing cold sensation washed over him, a horror slowly dawning, as he realised the sight before him.

  “Oh god-” 

  He felt sick, sick to the very core of his body, and yet Dr. Jekyll just stood there, emotionless. 

  “Turn it over for me, will you?” the doctor suddenly spoke, breaking the Sergeant out of his shock… Slightly.

  “I- What?” 

  “Turn the corpse over.” 

  Brokenshire just stared at Jekyll for a moment, trying to process what he was asking. Finally, he kneeled down next to the cadaver, took out his baton and carefully nudged it, until the face became fully visible.

  The face of Dr. Henry Jekyll. Slack-jawed, eyes half-lidded, nose broken, eyes crushed, teeth knocked out. The Sergeant jumped back, eyes wide and stare evident- this- this could not be, could it? This could not be Henry Jekyll- no- no of course not- Dr. Henry Jekyll stood right in front of him-

  “I was run over.” 

  The Sergeant blinked. Jekyll continued.

  “A carriage- could not necessarily see who it was, but I suspect he did not properly see me in the dark. When he realised what he had done, he panicked, and dumped me here.” 

  He said it all so casually, like it did not matter to him, like he just expected Brokenshire to understand what he was telling him. It was incomprehensible, truly. 

  “...What?” 

  Jekyll had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. 

  “I’m dead, Sergeant. Killed. Murdered, even. I am showing you my corpse.” 

  Yes, Brokeshire was definitely hallucinating, he was sure of that. 

  “Sergeant, are you listening to me?” 

  He was definitely not listening to him, way too busy staring at the mangled dismemberment that used to be Dr. Jekyll. 

  “This… This can’t be…” Was all the copper managed to get out. Jekyll actually did roll his eyes now.

  “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Dear God, man, pull yourself together.”

  “I pull myself together?! You- you’re the one claiming to be dead!”

  The doctor groaned, frustration evident. 

  “Alright, listen; go home, get some sleep, whatever you wish- then come back, see the corpse in broad daylight, and realise that I was trying to tell you the truth, alright?” 

  He thought about it for a moment- he was sure that this was all some sort of fever dream, a hallucination, a trick of the light- but really- what could he do? If it was real, should he just leave the corpse here? In the alleyway? For anyone to find? 

  “Alright,” he said, “good evening, Dr. Jekyll.”

  And with that, the Sergeant spun around, ignored his own confused thoughts telling him to stay and figure out what was going on, and left the alleyway. 

  Dr. Jekyll grumbled.

  “Typical.”

  What now, Doctor? 

  Well, he couldn’t say that he was particularly keen on staying out on the street all night, ghost or not. He was not sure what time it was, the night might be eternal for all he knew, and so, he once more took one last look at his body, before he left as well.

  This time, he made his way towards the Society, not much further than the police station had been. He felt a tinge of melancholy, yet nostalgia as he watched his proud building come into view. His home, which no longer would be as such. He could not help but wonder what would become of him now; an eternal wanderer? Or perhaps a simple restless soul, bound to his corpse, or perhaps the life he had once lived? Would he be free once his body was buried, would he descend into Hell like he had resigned himself to? He did not know, for the moment he did not care, so as he stood in front of the portico of the building that had once been his pride and joy, he spared no thought as he silently walked straight through the doors.

  He could go to his office, although he had nothing to do there. After all, he could not touch anything, so what would he do? Stare at the uncorked wine bottle, the open window which Hyde had escaped through? Ha, no, he had to make himself known somehow. Perhaps he could find a Lodger, tell them about his little problem, hope they would believe him more than Brokenshire. Or perhaps he could simply act as normal, perhaps they would not notice that something was deeply, awfully wrong with him. Or perhaps they would, perhaps they would not care. He couldn’t say that he did. 

  “Oh, my- Dr. J! Why on earth are you awake this late?” 

  Rachel, of course. It must be early morning by now, although the night was still abysmal and everdark, so it should come to no surprise that she was awake by now. Then again, he was well aware as to why she looked to be in such a worse state than usual; her cheeks seemed red and puffy, and the bags under her eyes were severely darker. Yet she smiled, as if nothing was wrong. She was carrying baking sheets, presumably having raided Doddle’s room for her own supplies which he had stolen, seemingly needing to get her mind off of the previous night as fast as possible. 

  “Would you believe me if I told you I was run over?” 

  Perhaps not too different from Brokenshire, Rachel did not seem to realise that he was telling the genuine truth. Instead, she just laughed softly. Either she did not believe him, or her mentally exhausted mind could not grasp it just yet. 

  “Well, you certainly look worse for wear!” She said, as if she was not aware of her own state, “Did you even get any sleep? Was the banquet that fun?” 

  Ugh. 

  “Sure.” 

  “Well, I’m glad you are back home! Give me a few minutes and I will get you something to snack on, alright?”

  “Rachel, I can’t eat.”

  “Oh, nonsense! Not with all the alcohol Robert must have gotten you to consume- now, tut tut!”

  And with that, she continued onwards. Well. At least he tried. 

  With Rachel gone, he continued upwards. Perhaps a Lodger was awake, he frankly doubted any of them would believe him, or perhaps they were smarter than Rachel and Brokenshire- but regardless, he wanted something to do before Brokenshire would start his morning shift and hopefully return to the cadaver. He knew that some Lodgers most likely attended the now-raided bazaar, and could potentially be back and awake by now, as he doubted any of them had gotten caught. He also knew certain Lodgers were quite the night owls, perhaps the reason for why so many of them often did not show up until late afternoon the day afterwards, so he had quite a nice chance to find someone to pass time with-

  His thoughts were quickly interrupted by a loud ‘BANG’ from one of the laboratories. 

  Good God...

  Despite being dead, and therefore not really being responsible for the Lodgers anymore, Jekyll let his instincts and his curiosity get the better of him. His near-floating footsteps hurried towards the lab where the noise had been heard. Helsby’s lab, of course. 

  The door was locked, typical. No sense of lab safety. Jekyll just rolled his eyes and went straight through it. 

  Inside, the room was clearly lit. Turns out the loud “bang” he had heard was caused by Helsby’s pet kraken having knocked over its own ‘sleeping’ tank- which seemed to not have shattered, but had spilt water and all the different aquatic paraphernalia which had resided within it. The kraken moved like a kicked dog from the scene of the crime, while Helsby- wide awake and frantic- tried to figure out how to solve the problem. It did not take long until a dishevelled Bryson ran in, still trying to button on a shirt as to not be totally immodest. His eyes seemed to scan the scene, yet his attention was quickly caught by Dr. Jekyll, still standing indifferently by the doorway.

  “Oh- Dr. Jekyll-” Bryson stopped, and blinked. Helsby turned his attention from his labmate and to the aforementioned doctor, “How did you get in? The door should be locked.”

  “I’m dead.”

  Helsby sneered.

  “Don’t be dramatic, it isn’t that bad- Nicholas- Help me lift, please!” 

  How two men of their stature could lift a tank of that size was beyond Jekyll, yet he simply watched as they managed to get it back up. At this point he was glad that the floor was made out of stone and marble, otherwise convinced that it would already have begun to rot and mould by this point. 

  The two men panted heavily as they rested against the now upright tank, already dreading actually having to clean up the waste. Jekyll simply remained by his spot at the door, watching. The kraken cowered away from him. 

  “Could’ve at least offered a hand, Doc.” Helsby continued, “or are you scared to ruin your pretty little suit?”

  Jekyll continued to stare blankly, then stuck his entire arm through the still-closed door. 

  “So what, some potion of yours backfired? Big deal. Now, please get out.” 

  He could almost guess that Helsby wasn’t in a particularly nice mood. Oh well. He shrugged and walked straight through the door. Seemed like he would have to find another way to spend the last few hours until morning. 

  He continued to walk around aimlessly. As usual, he did not to bring any more attention to himself, perhaps because no one seemed to be around. Despite that, he had a sort of… Gnawing. Like he wanted to do something- slam a door, flicker with a light, break something… He knew that he did not get a sudden cat-like need for mischief simply because he was now a ghost, but he also knew that, since he was newly noncorporeal, it would take quite a while before he could actually manipulate objects. At least he knew that he should be able to do so, eventually. It seemed like listening to Maijabi paid off. So, really, he did not have much more to do than to find someone that could keep him company.

  It did not take long until he found his way to the alchemical laboratory, in which Ito was currently the only resident. Speaking of the Devil, his apprentice seemed to currently be working on something in the lab, as he heard movement inside. This time, the door was unlocked, but that did not really help him as, once more, he could not open doors. He quickly decided to simply glide through it instead, in hopes that his apprentice could entertain him for the remainder of the night. 

  Ito was, as expected, turned away from the door, slightly hunched over one of the tables and seemingly quite concentrated on the task at hand. He did not make any noise, but he doubted that she would have heard him regardless. He moved closer, until he was practically looking over her shoulder. Ah, that’s the problem; she was trying to decipher his own horrible handwriting on some notes he had previously given her. 

  Virginia stopped, seemingly feeling a light sensation by her side, turned towards said direction, and then proceeded to jump away and let out a small scream. 

  “OH- God- Dr. Jekyll- I’m sorry, you scared me- I- what on earth are you doing in here at this hour?” 

  Jekyll smiled gently. 

  “I was bored, and noticed that you were awake.” He replied, more matter-of-factly than he normally was. Ito- still trying to catch her breath- took a moment to process his words. He guessed she had been awake longer than she should. 

“I... Okay, alright.” She attempted to straighten her dress and her hair, which were more messily put up than usual. “I was just trying to follow your notes on-” 

  The door opened. 

  They turned, and by the doorway stood none other than Dr. Maijabi, their resident ectoplasmic pathologist. He looked surprisingly well-put together for this hour of the night- or perhaps morning. 

  “I’m sorry, I happened to walk past when I heard Virginia scream, is everything alright?”

  Virginia began to blush, embarrassed. Yet she attempted to explain the very simple situation- although she quickly noticed that Maijabi’s eyes were fixed on Dr. Jekyll, who stared back, as if he was challenging him. Virginia looked between them, confused.

  Finally, Maijabi moved the eyepatch. His paler spirit eye was now focused on the younger doctor. 

  “Henry,” he said, calmly, “Why are you dead?” 

  Virginia blinked. Had she really heard him right?

  Jekyll just shrugged. 

  “Carriage.” 

  Maijabi looked at him for a second, then nodded. 

  “Understandable, then.” 

  Jekyll grinned.

  Finally, Virginia seemed to process the conversation that had happened right in front of her. 

  “.... What?” 

  The two men looked at her, perhaps as if they had forgotten that she was right there. Maijabi simply closed the door behind him and moved towards the two of them.

  “Henry is dead”, he said, “what we are seeing of him now is nothing but his spectre, a ghost.” 

  “No-” she said, “no- that cannot be-” she turned to Jekyll, and looked at him- the ceiling light was turned on, the only obstacle to the truth was her own exhaustion. She stared at him, examined him. Finally, an expression of utter heartbreak graced her face. “Oh- Henry- Why did you not tell me?” 

  “Well, I did not get a chance to. Also, I did not think you’d believe me. I mean- I tried to tell Brokenshire, Rachel, Helsby and Bryson- neither of them believed me, so...” He shrugged, like it was the least bothersome thing in the world. “I mean, I kind of expected it.” 

  “I would have believed you!” she blurted out.

  “Would you?” 

  She hesitated. She tried to reach out, tried to touch him, but let her hand recoil as it simply went straight through her mentor’s shoulder. She did not believe it now, either. It was late, she had been awake for God knows how long- perhaps this was all just a very bad dream she would soon wake up from... She was brought out from her thoughts by Maijabi, who had pulled out a chair, and attempted to get her to sit down. She complied quite easily. 

  Henry decided to try to explain the situation to his two favourite Lodgers- of course not mentioning anything regarding the scuffle with Hyde, the meeting with Queen Lucy, nothing of such- simply that he had found himself out late at night and had gotten run over by a stray carriage. Quite unbelievable, the streets of London were neither that dark nor crowded so late at night, but it was, in synopsis, what had happened. If he was lucky, no one but the coppers and the morticians would get to see his corpse and the clothes he wore, so there was no need to explain anything else, and especially so when Hyde seemed to be... Gone? 

  Virginia did not seem to grasp how nonchalant Henry was about all of this- after all, what was he supposed to do? Cry, scream, or perhaps beg God for a second chance? Ha! God is just as dead as he and even if He wasn’t, he would not care. All Dr. Jekyll could do was to accept the state he now was in. After all, he had an eternity to grieve, he did not need to do that now. Maijabi seemed to understand his stance quite better, even if he did not seem particularly happy over the noncorporeal state of someone he once- still did- consider as his own son. 

  ...

  They tried to converse, but quickly fell silent. Time passed, and dawn began to break. Neither of them were quite sure how long it had been, after all, two of them had the inevitable fog of night clouding their brains and the third would no longer be able to understand the concept of time at all. But dawn broke, and Sergeant Brokenshire should be here soon. Perhaps to try to meet the doctor, try to convince himself that the supposed dream he had was just that; nothing more but a dream, or perhaps to inform the Lodgers of the find in the alley. Or perhaps he would still not believe him, and Jekyll would be forced to find him again, and attempt to convince him of the truth. 

  Virginia had, at some point, fallen asleep against the table. Maijabi and Jekyll did not say much, after all, what was there to say? It wasn’t like either could console the other, offer condolences, grieve- it was simply a new matter of existence which they both now had to get used to. Maijabi had eventually offered to go and make tea, but had quickly realised that Jekyll could neither hold nor drink yet, although the man himself found that blunder quite funny. 

  Finally, by the time the grandfather clock in the alchemical laboratory read five in the morning, there was a knock on the door, startling Ito awake from her slumber. In came Rachel, looking weary. 

  “Dr. Jekyll? Sergeant Brokenshire is in the southern foyer, looking for you.” 

  She seemed hesitant, worried, nervous- Jekyll could not help but grin. Perhaps not at her emotions, but more or less over what might soon take place upon the stage that was their Society. He followed her immediately, Maijabi and Ito following close behind. 

  As they arrived in the southern foyer- or more colloquially, the back entrance, they noticed a handful of Lodgers already gathering, the few early-birds the Society had, or some which might have gotten woken up by the commotion. They stood wearily by the balustrade which looked down upon the foyer, a similar scene to the arrival of Frankenstein and Moreau. Down the staircase stood Brokenshire, a few constables which Jekyll recognised, and a single stretcher with something covered by a white sheet. 

  Jekyll’s grin stretched further. 

  Rachel seemed to get even more nervous by the sight, perhaps Brokenshire had not quite packed up by the time he had asked her to find the Doctor. Henry couldn’t help but wonder about the state of the Sergeant’s mind right now- did he believe what had happened the night before, and knew that the Doctor’s spirit was still not-quite-alive and well? Or did he perhaps hope that Rachel would have found the actual doctor, to prove that whoever now laid upon the stretcher was nothing more but a coincidence or a doppelgänger? Had he asked her just to see if there would have been a doctor to be found? Had he even asked, or was that simply what Rachel said, having panicked at the sight of the Scotland Yard? 

  Well, whatever it was, as Dr. Henry Jekyll and his entourage descended down the stairs, Sergeant Brokenshire turned even more pale. He opened his mouth, as if trying to speak, yet only a slight stutter came out. 

  “My dear Sergeant!” Henry cut in instead, “You did well and listened last night, I presume?” 

  He came close, very close. Maijabi, Ito and Rachel stayed by the staircase. Henry’s hand ghosted over what used to be his own leg, covered under the sheet. 

  “I- Yes, Doctor.” 

  Oh, this was going to be fun. 

  If he turned around, perhaps he’d see distraught expressions upon the faces of Maijabi and Ito. If he turned around, perhaps he’d see the overwhelming anxiety dawning upon Rachel, a fear that the body upon the stretcher was her own Edward Hyde. If he turned around, perhaps he’d see the confused and perplexed faces of the rest of the conscious Lodgers. But he did not turn around, no, he simply gave the Sergeant one of those brilliant smiles he had trained into perfection. 

  “Sergeant,” he said, “would you be a dear and remove the sheet?” 

  “You- I- I mean- are you sure?” 

This was not necessarily standard protocol. Then again, it was not necessarily standard protocol for the Scotland Yard to drag a corpse to its place of work instead of straight to a coroner. 

  “You heard me.” 

  Brokenshire looked back at his constables, who looked as weirded out by the request as he was. Finally, the Sergeant took a deep breath, grabbed the end of the sheet which faced the back entrance door, and pulled it off. 

  A hush fell over the room.

  Indeed, the corpse of Dr. Henry Jekyll laid now in full display. The broken skull, crushed facial features, dirtied hair, broken bones, limbs stiff to their very peak, green waistcoat and ragged cape. 

  The ghost of Dr. Henry Jekyll was, however, too busy examining himself to look around at the horrified faces. 

  His hands rested- perhaps more figuratively than literally- against his waist as he leaned over, inspecting himself. Soon one of his hands came up, placing his index and thumb against his chin.

  “Oh my- whoever positioned me did excellent work! You would barely be able to notice the way I laid in before- especially with the rigour mortis!” 

  He laughed, so lightheartedly, like it was a funny little anecdote. 

  Brokenshire had often said that the doctor could be quite scary when he wanted to be. He now realised that he had severely underestimated how scary he could be when he was seemingly not even trying.

  Henry could not help but to wish that Lanyon would walk right in now and see the sight before them. 

  Finally, he turned around, back towards the crowd. It was almost laughable- their expressions of pure horror, pure terror, pure disgust, pure disbelief. Perhaps it was a bit unfair for him to laugh at them, but then again, it was a bit unfair that he was dead. Still, he smiled, and faced his dear Lodgers. His dear Lodgers, who might now question the demise of their leader. His dear Lodgers, who might question the clothes upon his beaten body. 

  His dear Lodgers, staring down at him from the balustrade.

  Yet his smile never faded, oh, no- the answers would come later, but for now, they had to believe him.

  “What?” He finally said, “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[eeriemilyworlds]