#black clock beetle

[hellsitegenetics]

I got a pet pac-man frog recently and for the life of me I cannot come up with a good name for them, so I'm gonna roll the BLAST dice and see what comes up from this :D

Their too young to sex for now, and they're a coffee morph (Which means their much more brown and less green than normal), and I love them dearly already

They're still pretty small, so they're in a small little plastic container for now until they grow big enough to be in the 20 gallon-long tank I have

String identified: gt a t ac-a g ct a t cat c t a g a t, ' ga t AT c a at c t : T t g t , a t' a c (c a t c a g ta a), a t a aa T' t tt a, t' a a tt atc cta t t g g g t t ga-g ta a

Closest match: Pterostichus madidus genome assembly, chromosome: 8 Common name: Black Clock Beetle

(image source)

[gummi-stims]

This board is probably mostly just for me, but recently remembered an old favorite neopets game and just had to make it. Web of Vernax stimboard!

🕷-🕸-🕷

🐞- x -🐞

🕷-🕸-🕷

[fanaticsnail]

Grand Line Playgroup

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,200+

Synopsis: Adoptive parents have all taken the initiative to join together with their children to form: Grand Line Playgroup. This is the way it usually goes at playgroup: filled with shenanigans, support, and most importantly love for their children. 

Themes: the adoptive parents of one piece, all children are all relatively aged 3 to 7, but Robin is 10, au they all live, modern au, platonic, not an “x reader” fic, parenting drabble, fluff, nonsense. 

Parents: Mihawk, Rosinante (Corazon), Bellemere, Dadan, Zeff, Uncle Beckman, Shanks, Garp, and Smoker.

Children: Perona, Zoro, Law(rence), Nojiko, Nami, Uta, Ace, Sabo, Luffy, Sanji, Uta, Koby, Helmeppo, Robin, and Tashigi.

Notes: A small drabble about what it would be like if the one-piece characters were adoptive parents to an assortment of their toddler counterparts. This silly brain-worm was brought to you by several conversations with @feral-artistry & @writingmysanity, and the bestest aunties @since-im-already-here & @sordidmusings. This worm got to me and I needed to get it out. Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff, @gingernut1314, @vespidphoenix, @i-am-vita

Dracule Mihawk arrives at Grand Line Playgroup ten minutes early every single Tuesday. He has a personalized gothic embroidered bag for both of his children filled with snacks, changes of clothes, water bottles, first aid kits, and a book for him to read while his two children play.

He wears matching nail polish with his daughter, Perona: today, she chose pink with black accents. He has parenting down to a fine art, everything always perfectly planned for any circumstances. Zoro takes out a collection of sporting equipment and begins kicking around a soccer ball as he waits for his friends to join him. 

The next to arrive is Donquixote Rosinante. He always attempts to get there early: set up his variety of bags to ensure his son, Lawrence, has everything he needs to enjoy his time at playgroup. His hair is a blonde, fluffy mess of mopped curls, his clothes disheveled and askew, but his smile is always cheerful despite his constant exhausted exasperated state. 

Law is a quiet child, not really engaging with Perona as she sets up a mock tea-party, nor Zoro as he kicks the ball against the wall. He, instead, opts to sit quietly alone and read a picture book in comfortable silence. 

Mihawk offers Rosinante a moist towelette, gesturing wordlessly to his lips, cheeks and right eye where Law graffitied art with permanent marker on his face as he slept. Rosinante gives him a gratuitous smile, huffing his laughter as he scrubs at his face with the towelette. 

The next to arrive is Rosinante’s old work colleague, Bellemere, with her two daughters in tow. Nami and Nojiko were walking arm in arm before rushing off to join Perona in her tea party. Bellemere gives Rosinante a clap on his shoulder, nodding her acknowledgement to Mihawk before taking her elected seat. 

As the clock ticks over to 10am: a small bundle of nervous, chaotic energy bounces inside the door and over the walls. This flash of black hair was followed immediately by a small blonde child that stares, unblinkingly, at Law. Dadan is exasperated as she carries an older and asleep Ace in her arms, attempting to catch up with Luffy to rein him in and set up. 

Rosinante springs into action, offering to ferry Luffy towards his regular playmate, Zoro. As Luffy nearly joins Zoro, he is instead drawn to the sticker book Law is holding containing bugs, beetles and arachnids. Luffy becomes entranced by the stickers: and he and Law begin cataloging them by shape, size and type over pages of lined paper. 

Dadan sighs, already exhausted although her day has barely begun. Rosinante smiles and fawns over the two dark-haired boys before resuming his seat beside Bellemere, talking about the latest gossip at his old workplace and the shenanigans his colleagues' love lives.

As if on queue, Ace wakes up and immediately springs out of Dadan’s arms, hurrying over to Zoro and joining him by kicking the ball against the wall. Sabo backs into the corner of the room and glares with his pale, blue eyes at Perona’s tea-party with intrigue. 

After Dadan, in comes Benn Beckman with his niece, Uta. Uta bounces on her heels as she runs over to Sabo, doing all in her power to make the small blonde smile instead of glare. She has a cheery disposition, guaranteed to always get a smile out of the quiet boy the longer she sings and pulls faces at him.

Zeff is the next, his young son, Sanji, sprinting towards the soccer ball and easily stealing it away from Zoro. They immediately get into a heated fistfight: legs and limbs flying as they butt heads as to who's turn it is to kick the ball next. Mihawk sighs, immediately rising to his feet to play referee to the match as Beckman places Uta's bag beside Perona's. 

Arriving late, and with his two adoptive sons Koby and Helmeppo, strolls Garp. Dadan glares at him, up turning her lip in a snarl as Garp shepherds his boys into the room. The tension is thick between these two due to Garp's history of dropping off children at Dadan's and not returning to raise them himself. She refuses to help with the latest two additions to his family, although she cares for them greatly. Sabo nods at Koby, Helmeppo scoffs at Uta. 

Another late arrival is a larger gentleman with his quiet and older daughter, Robin. Sir Crocodile is dripping in luxury brands, gold rings and smells of expensive colognes. Robin immediately humors Perona, Nami and Nojiko by playing mother in their tea party adventure. 

“Mihawk,” the larger man gruffy nods in acknowledgement. 

“Crocodile,” Mihawk mirrors his tone, gesturing with his chin to take a seat beside him. Sir Crocodile takes his seat before unrolling the newspaper tucked beneath his arm and beginning to read. 

As the children interact together, the more talkative parents swap parenting advice amongst one another. 

Rosinante asks for support with Law's current food aversion. How does he get this child to eat grained carbohydrates without him gagging about the fact it's bread? Dadan is a seasoned expert in parenting at this stage, still ignoring Garp as Garp speaks to Mihawk about his blonde son’s latest interest in kendo. 

Bellemere joins in the conversation, Mihawk leaving as the topic changes to work and joining beside Beckman who is silently brooding on the chair beside Crocodile. 

“No Shanks today?” Mihawk quips at the larger man. 

“No Shanks today,” Beckman parrotted in return with a disgruntled and gruff growl. 

As if the mere mention of his name summoned his presence, in comes the red-haired Shanks in a lazy and cheerful stupor. His socks are raised to his knees, tucked into some comfortable sandals on his feet. His cargo shorts are tied loosely on his hips by a brown belt, and his patterned shirt is open to expose his bare chest. 

Glasses are lying lazily on his head as he extends an enthusiastic smile at the children before acknowledging the adults. An enthusiastic chorus of “Uncle Shanks!” echoes throughout the playspace, a flash of small bodies immediately moving to tackle and engulf the redhead in a warm embrace. 

Shanks falls on his ass, holding high his coffee cup as he laughs at Luffy, Uta, Ace and Sabo as they enthusiastically clutch at him with grabby hands. Their faces all shine with the utmost adoration at the redhead, who shoots Beckman and Dadan a wink while mouthing: “I'm still the favorite.”

Beckman sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Dadan rolls her eyes at him. 

The adults are finally all gathered for their children’s weekly playgroup, the kids settle into playing amongst themselves once again. Shanks offers Beckman a smile before offering him the half-drunk coffee cup. The taller man takes a sip, choking on the liquid as the surprising burn of warmed alcohol scorches his throat so early in the morning. 

As their meeting draws to a soft close, a knock at the door interrupts their close knit conversation. 

“I heard there was a playgroup in here?” a gruff voice rumbled at the door. White hair and the scent of tobacco immediately sprung through the hallway. In arrived a large gentleman, another common associate of Garp, Bellemere and Rosinante who immediately sprung up to greet him. 

Smoker presented ushered a quiet child into the room, her uncertainty was one the children knew well. Immediately, Luffy sprang up from his arachnid archiving with Law and went to introduce himself to the girl. Smoker smiled at the interaction, nodding to Tashigi as an indicator for her to go ahead and play, before joining Bellemere and Rosinante. 

“Finally decided to foster, Smoker?” Bellemere smiled, embracing him into her warm and welcoming arms. Smoker returns her gesture, tapping her on the shoulder and releasing her from the embrace. 

“Foster? Not a chance,” he smirked, pulling away and smiling at the purple-haired woman, “Adopting.”

[huffelpuff210]

Saving BikerBucky Barnes x Reader

Warning: Abuse, violence, forced relationship, obsession, rude behavior, age gap, don’t worry she’s legal!

Summery: In a small town where everyone knows everybody,The leader of the biker Gang Bucky Barnes takes a certain interest in you.

The music pounded as you’re heels click on the floor carrying a tray of drinks to the booth, You were a cocktail waitress at a strip club, You have worked here for three years now, The dress code you still couldn’t stand, but you made big money working here so it was tolerable, 

The outfit was tight black shorts where your ass almost spilled out, fishnet tights, a tight white button up blouse where your tits almost spilled out and black high heels, 

It was very revealing and uncomfortable not your style outside of work, but it payed the bills, after your mother died when you were 10 and your dad being the drunk that he was, you had to grow up faster than most kids, 

Taking responsibility for the house and expenses you got your first job when you were fifteen, at a small mom and pop store, a year later after the store closed down you were having a hard time finding another job you were desperate that’s when Thor the strip club owner offered you a job after hearing you plea with the small diner owner for a job, he over heard the conversation and offered you work, 

He is a awesome boss, and always gave you extra hours when you asked even last minute when you didn’t feel like going home to your drunk father. 

“Y/N!” You hear Peter the bartender yell over the music, 

“Yes?” You asked 

“Table three.” He says nodding towards the bunch of bikers, 

You nodded walking towards them, 

“Can I get you boys anything?” You asked 

“Just six beers.” Bucky says 

You nod, of course you knew him everyone did, he had a reputation but you were not scared of him, you had other fears, Your drunk of a father is what scared you, he would get drunk off his ass and would take all his anger out on you when you would get home, no sooner were you in the door you would get the shit beat out of you. 

You shake your head grabbing the beers and taking them to the table setting each beer down in front of each biker, 

“Thanks doll.” Bucky says 

You nod looking down at your watch, knowing you can’t prolong going home any longer if you kill another hour Thor is bound to drag you home himself, 

You make your way to the back room to get changed, in a pair of dark jeans, a white tank and a jean jacket, a pair of flats, You sigh closing your locker, grabbing your bag and walking out, milling your way past the crowd of people exiting the club and crossing the parking lot to your beat up 1994 blue beetle, It was your baby, you scrumped and saved for her, but some days you wish you would have gotten a new car because of all the repairs she needs all the time, 

You unlock the car, Just as you hear a crowd of people leaving the club seeing the bikers, You get in your car starting her up and making your way home hoping he’s asleep and not out somewhere causing problems. 

Bucky knew from the  moment he saw you he wanted you he wanted to know you, when your green eyes met his, He was absolutely fascinated by you, and god the way your tits almost fell out of your uniform didn’t help his desire for you, He followed you with his gang watching you get in your car and drive off, 

“She is a cute little thing isn’t she?” Sam says Bucky glares at him, yeah you were small if it wasn’t for the heels they made you look a little taller, but in Bucky’s mind you were already his girl,

You arrived home to find the house empty, a note on the fridge ‘Gone to Ikki’s don’t wait up’ 

Ikki’s was a small watering hole your father liked to frequent You looked at the clock it was already one in the morning, you sat in the chair as the clock approached two, 

Sure your father beat the snot out of you but you worried about other people in his wake especially if he would drive drunk, 

You got in your care driving to the small bar, as you parked the car you noticed all the motorcycles knowing there was gonna be bikers here too. 

You sighed slamming the car door, you really didn’t have the energy or patience for this you were tired and just wanted to sleep, You walk into the bar noticing all the bikers each of them eyeing you knowing you were out of place, your eyes scanning the room finding your father at the end of the bar.

He was drunk, swaying at the bar, you walked over to him whispering in his ear, 

“Come on dad I think you had enough.” You whisper 

“No I haven’t who are you to tell me I’ve had enough.” He slurred as he stood, 

You could feel eyes on you, 

“Yes you have let me drive you home.” You say placing your hand on his shoulder 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He slurred as he shoved you, You barley moved since he was so drunk he lacked the strength 

“Dad come on I don’t have time for this.” you sighed placing a hand on his shoulder and that quick he backhanded you, 

“I told you not to fucking touch me.” He slurred he hit you so hard that you landed on the ground, that fast half of the bikers were on him.

“Get him the hell out of here.” You hear a familiar voice, 

“Are you okay doll?” You hear you look up to see Bucky holding out a hand for you, 

You nod taking his hand as he smiles down at you.

[clockways]

After undergrad, I was done living with people. People didn’t turn off alarm clocks or clean up their messes or, perhaps, people even blamed you for their mental breakdown. I had had enough of people.

But I couldn’t live alone.

Luckily, I knew the perfect solution. See, other than the semesters of undergrad, I had always lived with cats. There were also dogs and hamsters and reptiles, but cats were the constant. It was a noble line going all the way back to Yoda, whom my mother got to be her cat in college.

It was only the start of summer, and I was already surreptitiously walking past the adoption area of the pet store. It was a good thing I did.

There in the cage, the only animal in the whole adoption area, was a tiny kitten. As soon as he saw me, he started to meow and kneed and reach through the bars. It was probably as close to love at first sight as I will ever get.

After finding out when adoption was and leaving and coming back at what was the wrong time and talking to the kitten through the glass—I finally was able to hold him.

He was perfect.

This little kitten with brown so deep it was black and a white underside and a very pink nose settled right into my arms and purred up a storm. I adopted him then and there.

Depressingly, with this adoption center, the little boy had to go back to get sniped before I could take him home. I often joked that the poor guy never had a lick of testosterone in his body with how early it all happened. (That didn’t stop in from growing into quite a tall, long cat, mind you.)

While he came home without his balls, he also came home with a kitten cold. My poor little perfect boy was sick to the point that he could die. Cats, if you didn’t know, don’t eat if they can’t smell. Stinky food was bought, force feeding was attempted, and in the end it was some Vick’s in hot water that cleared his sinuses up enough to eat.

Now that he was well, it was finally time to find the right name. Name is a process in my family. In rather reverse fae rules, by giving the pets the right name, they are cemented as family. My mother even adds them to the family bible.

This boy took two tries.

His first name was Underwood as you see, once he got is energy back, he was constantly walking across my lap and the laptop that had a pretty permanent place in it. My friends swiftly got used to getting ‘kitten messages’ sent to them. Annoyingly, some of the same friends wouldn’t stop calling him Carrie, even after I asked them not to, and I decided that I wasn’t going to put up with that for the next fourteen plus years.

As he was my ‘squirmy worm’ for his lack of desire to be held and ability to pop right out of a hold due to his silky fur, I combined the two and, finally, he found his right name of Wormwood. (This also, unbeknownst at the time, started the naming convention for my next two cats.)

Wormwood and I went off to graduate school not much later. The old but passable apartment I was in had a (rather shoddily) screened in porch. It became Worm’s favorite spot to sit, even in the middle of Texas heat.

Paper balls were discovered to be his favorite thing, followed by very tiny pompoms. If I was ignoring him, he’d knock my remote off my table to play. Even with that playing, I often joked that Worm was my semi mobile throw pillow. He loved to lounge and nap to the extreme, even for a cat.

Worm never wanted other cats in his life, though he managed to accept Bugsy—my Siamese mutt—into our home in time, though Worm never ceded the foot of the bed to him. Together, we three moved back in with my parents (to total a too many five cats) until I could afford my own place. Worm had to suffer through another new brother, Beetle, about three years ago. Then not quite two years ago we moved to a new state.

All three boys did wonderful on the very long drive, and I like to think that it was worth it because of the fabulous sunroom in the new house. All of them had their favorite spots to sit out there and soak up the sun.

This winter, Worm took a turn. He dropped some weight while I was gone on a trip. I got him a heated bed that became his very favorite thing in the whole house. He would just melt into it.

Then it got worse.

I took him to the vet, and he had gone from about fifteen pounds down to five and a half. Blood work was clean though, so we increased his food and changed some things around.

Tueaday he was quite ill.

Wednesday was the first time there was a moment where he wasn’t there mentally. It felt like it was going to be time.

Thursday, today, I found him laying in a sunbeam. He didn’t even ask for food. At eleven today I took him to the vet. For about an hour before I held him, resting against my chest, and the two of us sat in the sun, listening to the birds.

I think he was ready to rest. He hardly moved at the vet during the shot and then… then he was gone.

And I had to leave him.

For sixteen years, nearly half my life, he has been my family and one of my best friends. I would have been so lost without him. I’m so sad to have to say goodbye, but I’m glad that he can rest now.

I’m glad that it was a pretty day and that we got to sit in the sun together and listen to the birds.

[djangari]

Tattoo AU (Part 1/?)

I don't know the word punctuality, so here you got the first part [kinda unedited sorry] - 1650 words

Bez controls his station once again, ensuring everything he will need is prepared, sterile and in the correct position. Then he spins his stool towards the clock, looking at the larger pointer and realises that not even five minutes have passed since the last time he has done this.  

“Have you not taken your medication today, or what is going on with you?“ Vale sticks his head through the door, staring very annoyed at him. “No, of course I have taken it!“, Bez protests. He surely hasn’t forgotten to take his medication- Has he? He notices his foot tapping along to the tact of Last Christmas. - Did Luca leave on his bad Christmas playlist once again? They talked about that!- No, No, he can remember eating and then taking the pills with tap water, because he was too late to go in the kitchen and get a glass. It was important to be on time today. His regulars know he tends to be late for a few minutes and they don’t care so he hasn’t had to change yet but today is special. Today he has his appointment.  

Bez nearly sighs, as he remembers the beautiful brown curls, the soft looking plumb but thin lips, the brown eyes he could lose himself in for hours... 

Vale snaps in front of his eyes to get his attention back. Embarrassed, Bez stares up to him, eyes narrowing as he sees the smug grin on the other man's face. This doesn‘t means anything good- “Why don‘t you hang up the Christmas decorations? I want it to look nice here in time for the first of December and you don‘t have any clients for the next half hour. I checked with Luca.“ Hesitant, Bez glimpses over to the big stencil. He still needs to check if the print was successful and if every other of the three spare prints is good as well. “Your client surely will love it, when he comes in and everything already looks great.“ Sold.  

Energetic he stands up and goes on search for the storage boxes. “Migno has already brought the ladder into the waiting room.“, Vale calls after him. Bez is already too focussed on his new task to answer in any other way than simply giving him a thumbs up, while speeding towards the entry.  

----- 

Half an hour later, the plastic tree stands in the corner of the waiting room, overloaded with fairy lights and neoncolored Christmas baubles, the paper stars hang in the glass front of the store and Bez balances on the ladder, fighting with the quite ugly pine garland. It just doesn’t want to stay on the nails, where it belongs during winter times. With another frustrated snort, Bez stretches a little more, hopefully just enough to finally reach the last nail...  

“Just move the ladder”, Luca comments from behind the counter, where he stood the last five minutes and watched him struggle after saying goodbye to his last client of the day.  

“Or you could maybe help me instead of laughing, just a suggestion.” Bez bites back and goes onto his toes. Yeah, nearly there... 

The entry door swings wide open, and the bell Bez just hung up five minutes ago rings. “Oh, there you are”, Luca greets the new arrival. “I think you have to wait a minute, you see Bez is a bit busy right now.”  

Bez attention shifts when he hears his name, and he risks a glimpse down.  

There he stands... Those perfect curls, lurking out from under the red hat, nose and cheeks coloured in bright pink due to the cold outside, his slightly bitten lips hidden beneath the big matching red scarf.  

Bez loses balance and crashes down the short ladder, tearing down the garland with him. He lands onto his back, limps in the air, like a helpless beetle, and for a short moment the world blurs before his eyes. Black points dance in his field of view and cover most of it.  

He blinks once, twice, and then the world shifts back to normal, luckily without seeing double.  

Pecco- No, Francesco, he corrects himself- is only centimetres away from his face, examining him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Bez wonders how a human can look so pretty. Maybe he is no human. Maybe he is an angel, send from heaven to save him.  

Only after a few seconds of losing himself in those big lovely brown eyes, does he realize that he is in fact talking to him. “Can you follow my finger with your eyes?”, the angel asks him and moves said finger to the left and the right. Marco follows his instructions very willingly. “Okay, I think he might have a concussion.”, the angel says to a person standing on their right side. The giant sighs and grabs his head. “Of course he would manage to do that. Should we get him to the hospital?” His angel shrugs. “Would be best. Didn’t wanted to see my boss again before next week, but I could clock in for overtime and examine him. Quickest way to get in and out and additionally get the good drugs.” As his angel mentions it, Bez feels his head aching and pounding. “Why does the world turn?”, he mutters and moves closer to his angel until his head rests in his very comfortable lap.  

“Yeah, that definitely seems like a concussion. Do you help me to get him up?” Wait, what.  

Marco notices how his feet suddenly dangle in the air, without touching any ground. Confused he turns his head to look at Luca, who holds him close to his chest and moves towards the door. “Wait, no, we can’t go without the angel.” Laughing is audible, both from Luca and from behind him. Blushing, he realises Francesco stood behind him and supports his head, well now he also pets his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll come with you. Someone needs to drive.” Luca still won’t stop laughing. So, Bez raises his hand and slaps him on the shoulder. “This is all your fault. If you would have helped me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place!”, he hisses, his head now a lot clearer. “If you hit me again, I’ll drop you.”, Luca warns him yet giggling between words. Marco pulls back to pout.  

They stop before the door, facing a problem none of them had considered. How they should open the inward-swinging door to walk through. And then lock it up. Migno said goodbye over an hour ago and Vale also excused himself a few minutes after talking with Bez to ‘pick up a friend’. Everyone who knows Vale knows that that is basically a code for ‘Marc just sent me a message, I need to pay him attention’. But nothing of this solves their problem in any way, because the point is, they aren’t here. Luca exchanges a look with Pecco, holding a silent discussion with the result that it is best for them when he hands over Bez and get the keys.  

Before he realises what is going on, Bez gets passed over like an oversized toddler. However, any protest dies as he leans his head onto Francescos shoulder and stares into his wonderful eyes. “Angel”, he whispers and holds a bit closer onto him. Francesco chuckles and grins at him as if he just found out a secret.  

All of a sudden, Bez remembers something. “We have to reschedule. Your tattoo. I prepared everything, but I can’t tattoo you like this.” “This was kind of obvious. And it's not a problem. I can certainly free up some time in my calendar soon.”, Francesco calms him down with his beautiful smirk.  

“Ok, I got the keys and I messaged Vale, can you two now postpone flirting until later and we get going? I have another client in about two hours, would be great if I would be back.” Luca closes in from behind and effectively manages to disrupt the conversation.

Francesco looks away, like he has been caught being naughty, just the slightest touch of red on his cheeks, while Bez wishes he could murder Luca with his glare. But sadly, the younger man doesn’t care, he walks right past them, holds the door open so Pecco can carefully carry Bez outside and then he turns the open sign, locks up the store, before he sits down in the driver seat of his car and waits until Francesco has arranged a surprisingly now very flustered Bez in the back seat and got in himself. He adjusts the rearview mirror, grins happily, starts the car and the radio begins to play.

Bez groans. How could he forget this. “Let's make a trip to the hospital.”, Luca says and parks out, all while the Jonas brothers da-dom-dom-dom away.  

I can’t deny what I’m feeling inside 

Nothin’ fake about the way you bring me to life 

You make every day feel like it’s Christmas 

Every day that I’m with you 

[fastlikealambo]

the scratch letters: an agathario au fic

Summary: Even with all her powers as a modern witch, cancer takes Agatha’s little boy. One lonely night, a grief stricken Agatha writes a letter to Death.

One year later, Death writes back.

I wrote this listening to the bridge of that’s so true by gracie abrams nonstop, do with that information what you will.

Trigger warnings for cancer, death of a child, grief, wound description.

This is something I’m not sure about yet so let me know what you think!

Chapter One: Letter No.1

Agatha Harkness measured her son’s death in numbers.

135 visits from Jen.

Armed with potions and tinctures she eased his pain and brought referrals to the best doctors in and out of Westview.

123 times Lilia told Agatha her boy was “young and strong.”

Agatha believed the words but not the cards Lilia shuffled and cut, again and again.

87 flower bouquets and tuna noodle casseroles from Sharon Davis.

1 time Alice took them straight to the hospital in the back of her squad car to cut through traffic because Nicholas was scared of ambulances at the end.

When there was nothing, magic or medical to be done, Agatha Harkness tucked her son into her bed, the one in which he came into this world, and rocked him in her arms. In his final moments he heard his mother’s lullaby of whispered spells and pleas to those above and below, mortal and infernal, to save her baby.

All of Westview heard when Nicholas Scratch left the mortal plane.

In the silence that followed after his funeral and daily check-ins from her coven and nervous neighbors, Agatha held a bottle in one hand and her grimoire in the other.

When neither brought her comfort, grief dressed Agatha head to toe in rage and when one moment led to another, Nicky’s baby box ended up in the fireplace.

No longer afraid of pain, Agatha retrieved what was left, blistered and blackened hands cradled a charred teddy bear with the weight and tenderness of a newborn babe.

Through tears, Agatha put pen to paper, an amalgamation of ink, gin, and peeling skin poured out of her to compose the following letter:

Dear Death,

Fuck you.

-Agatha Harkness

Either too drunk or too sad, Agatha did not notice the letter vanish from existence and completely forgot about it when her coven got her off the living floor and helped her begin again, one foot in front of the other.

Approximately one year later, the clock in Agatha’s house struck midnight, waking the snoring witch from her place sprawled on the couch.

Agatha had all but shut her eyes when a soft plop made her sit straight up and hastily flip the light switch, light flooding the living room.

In the middle of the unlit fireplace sat a black envelope.

Agatha lazily snapped her fingers and lit the fireplace to destroy the unwanted and unknown piece of mail, eager to go back to her dreams where Nicholas resided.

Yet beneath the soot and smoke the letter was still there, completed unharmed.

“Fuck it, this better not be about my car’s extended warranty.” Agatha grumbled, snatching back the blanket tangled around her legs and haphazardly plucked the envelope from the ashes. With all the delicacy of a cat presented with a plump mouse, she ripped the envelope open, dead flower petals and beetle wings spilling to the ground.

On black paper in bottle green ink, the letter read as follows:

Dear Agatha,

That’s rude.

Yours,

R.V.

As Agatha turned over the letter to see if there was more, she noticed that the ever present burn scars that littered her hands were now nowhere to be found.

It would appear that Agatha Harkness had a penpal.

[red-n-ded]

Little Red Corvette (Ft. The Beatles) Part One

Benjamin O’Brien lives in Brighton Falls, California, trying to escape the trauma from a protest that caused him to lose his voice.

When an old friend visits and signs him up for a street race for his 18th birthday, he buys a beautiful Chevrolet Corvette unaware that under all its pain lies a stubborn but gentle Autobot from outer space with no memory and shared love for 80’s music.

Or

Reverse Roles of AU of Bee and Charlie meeting and giving each other their named through the magic of music and insect posters.

(And yes, Bee is a fan of the Beatles bc I said so)

Next (Coming Soon)

Ao3 Sneak Peek and Link Below

Benjamin O’Brien has a normal life, or at least tries to.

Every morning he wakes up, eats his breakfast, takes painkillers for his damaged vocal cords, goes to community college for his auto shop classes, and goes to work at the beach boardwalk. It gets boring after a few months doing the same thing over and over again but it’s not the worst. He’s finally getting a proper education and now lives near the beaches of California, something younger Ben could only dream of doing.

It’s not the racing life but better than dying on the frontlines.

Tomorrow is his birthday and Ben wanted to treat himself. Days and weeks of a domestic life, he deserved for a bit of an adventure. A while back, he saw posters for a movie marathon at the local drive-in and Ben is a sucker for 80’s movies (His copy of the Breakfast Club is worn out from his 50th rewatch). He would go but the poor guy doesn’t have a car except a yellow Volkswagen Beetle that doesn’t even work. Who in their right mind goes to drive in without a car? Only the insane in his opinion.

Not too far from his host home is the local junkyard. Ben sometimes works there for extra cash or when he just wants to get his hands dirty working on cars again. For the past few days, he has been getting parts to repair the Beetle, using half of his wages to buy the parts he needed but so far his work has been in vain. Maybe on the day before his birthday, he’ll get some luck.

BEEP BEEP BEEP!

His head buried under pillows and blankets, the tired 17-year-old slams his fist onto his alarm clock, silently cursing in annoyance at the dreaded box yet forces himself to sit up, blinking his blurry vision to adjust to the sunlight. Hoping to wake himself up, Ben leans over to his bedside table, puts on his black bluetooth headphones and presses play on his phone.

“Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace, Molly is the singer in a band. Desmond says to Molly, “Girl, I like your face” and Molly says this as she takes him by the hand Ob-la-di, ob-la-da! Life goes on, brah! La-la, how their life goes on. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da! Life goes on, brah! La-la, how their life goes on! Ob-la-di, ob-la-da! Life goes on, brah! La-la, how their life goes on!”

Ben mouths the upbeat lyrics as he changes out of his pajamas, slipping on a white tank top and slightly-used navy jeans from the carpet. He goes to brush his teeth and his head naturally begins to beat, the tiredness and annoyance from before already fading away. The teen cleans himself up and goes to the kitchen to eat breakfast, turning up the music on his headphones to dance on his way to the cabinets. Thank god no one is home. He opens the cabinet door to grab the last box of cereal but a knock in the door interrupts.

Ben slides his phones down to his neck. Who could possibly be up this early? The teen turns off his music and makes his way to the door, putting down the cereal box to turn the handle. The door swings open and his eyes immediately catch the hot pink color of hair.

“Hey, I-“

OH HELL NO!

SLAM!

The house nearly shakes at how fast Bee slammed the door on his old friend. Ben doesn’t let her answer, grumbling angrily at his visitor and ignoring the desperate knocks from the other side.

It’s too fucking early for this.

“Bee, please.” She begs between her knocks, “I just want to talk!”

The blonde teen freezes. Bee? Geez, I haven't heard that nickname in years.

Arcee, the hot-pink-haired biker outside his door, keeps knocking, her requests to let her inside fading into white noise in Ben’s ears. Hearing her voice again, just as panicked as he last heard her, hurts more than he thought it would.

Ben stays silent, which is all he can ever do. His hand trails up to his neck where a faded scar across his Adam's apple, his fingertips tracing the indents of the jagged shape. He wanted to put his old life in New York behind him, a life of fighting and protesting against a corrupt system. It wasn't supposed to be violent. Optimus promised that they wouldn't try to resort to force but the Decepticon mafia attacked first and that protest became a riot, one that cost him his voice.

Don't do it Ben. Don’t do it. It’s been almost a year. You can’t get hurt anymore.

Arcee was there at the protest but wasn’t there when Sergent Blitzwing ripped out his vocal cords. She doesn’t know his pain and the trauma that riot caused. Yet, his heart longed for a friend. Living alone has taken a toll that Ben isn’t willing to accept.

Maybe for a moment, just a moment. Then she can leave and never come back.

Ben shaking hands goes to unlock the door. The wooden barrier swings open and he stares blue to brown eyes at Arcee, who’s relieved at the open door. She smiles awkwardly but tries to put up a comforting face.

“Hey Bee,” she mumbles. A beat passes and the two just stand there. Bee looks at the clock and sees the minute hand inching closer to the 9.

Gah! I’m late!

The teen quickly types into his phone, “Do. You. Know. Sign. Language. ”

The biker perks up, surprised by his form of communication but doesn’t make a show of it. “Yes, I do.”

Bee tucks his phone into his pocket and steps aside, giving Arcee the permission to enter his home before he rushes to the kitchen to eat his unmade breakfast. Arcee nodded in appreciation and walked in, shuffling her feet onto the black floor mat before taking off her boots. She looks around, in awe of where his old crewmate has been staying for the past year. It’s surprisingly big for a teenager living alone and not to mention so close to the beach.

“A nice place you got here,” Arcee compliments, earning a humble buzz as Bee pours out his breakfast, briskly walking back and forth from his bowl and the fridge, “How’d you get it?”

“Host family.” Ben signed after putting away his milk, “Currently on vacation.”

As far as Bee remembers, the raceway in New York has always been his family. He was homeschooled in the pits and learned to drive before he could hit puberty. His origins are a complete mystery and for a while, he didn’t mind until he left. It was at that moment that Bee realized that he had no one. No one on the team was biologically related to him and there are no records of his birth. Bee might as well be non-existent.

The O’Briens are nice. Their son Dylan warmed up to him very quickly and his parents treated him like any other decent person would, even indulging in his odd taste for 80’s pop culture and music. Staying with them was a great idea but Ben knows he’ll never be part of their family and that’s okay. He wasn’t even offended when the family didn’t bring him along to their pre-paid vacation. He’s only living with them and that’s a fact that Ben is willing to accept.

Seeing his true family again and standing under the same roof as someone he considered as an older sister is odd. Arcee looked different since he last saw her. Her hair is shaved and cut up to her chin, her outfit consists of way more leather and black, and her wedding ring is missing.

Did something happen to her and Cliffjumper? Hopefully they didn’t end on bad terms.

Arcee remains quiet, looking around the O’Brien’s house with curiosity. It has only been a year but Bee has changed a lot. Bee has definitely taken the time to relax and act like an actual teen. He looks a bit more round and chubby, especially around the face, but his muscles remained firm, emphasized by his tank top while not too obvious. The biker laughs to herself remembering how much a skinny stick Bee was. The headphones are a new addition and so is his attire. Arcee realized that he had never seen Bee in jeans before, always found running around without the restriction of the denim.

Bee grows annoyed at the silence and stops eating to knock on the table, grabbing Arcee’s attention. “What are you doing here?” He signs as milk and crumbs drip from the corners of his lips.

Arcee leans back on her seat and smiles warmly, “Is it bad for an old friend to visit?” She joked, walking towards the dinner table where Bee is sitting. Bee frowns, an annoyed buzz escaping his throat which annoyed him even further.

I hate it when it does that.

Her grin fades into concern, curious and worried about the lack of the upbeat voice she once remembered, “What happened to your voice?”

“None of your business.” Bee gulps down the last of his cereal and dumps his empty bowl into the sink. Bee walks in long strides, speeding his pace to get out of the house as quickly as possible but Arcee isn’t so keen to see her old friend leave so soon, not when she just got him back.

“Bee, can we just talk?” Arcee sighs, exasperated by her old friend’s stubbornness but there’s a hint of begging in her voice.

There’s no denying that the base hasn’t been the same since Bee disappeared. They all thought he died but Orion knew he wasn’t. The biker didn’t know how he knew or why her leader never pushed to find his surrogate son but Arcee isn’t the type to let go of someone close to her so quickly. Not after…

Cliff.

With a red and yellow plaid button-up in his hand, Bee pauses at the soft desperation. It hurts to hear but before he could open his mouth, any and all words that could comfort her, reassure his friend that he misses her just as much, die from his lips, even if he can talk. He doesn’t look at her and taps on the doorway in morse code, “I have to go to work.”

The pink-haired biker remained frozen in her seat as the door slammed shut.

The rest of the day went by like a blur filled with crowds on the boardwalk and bullies from his classes dumping lemonade or making his job not worth the $20 an hour. It’s almost pathetic. The blonde knows any and every way possible he could run star wrestler, Shelby “Shatter” Bassett, into the ground without breaking a sweat. Maybe a punch in the face or a scratch on her boyfriend’s (admittedly stunning) royal blue AMC Javelin could also get him to shut up.

But he’s not B-127 the Freedom Racer anymore.

He’s just Benjamin the Hot Dog on a Stick cashier.

After a thorough wash to get all the lemon pulp out of his hair, Bee made a pit stop at the junkyard. With his birthday coming up in a few hours, the young teen hoped that he could get the Beetle up and running. He grabs his red toolkit from the back of the motorized bike he rides on, voicelessly greets the owner and rushes into the piles of the cars in the lot, taking apart the pieces he wants. Grime and oil gets on his button-up and skin and the metallic stench of rust seeps into his nostrils but the blonde doesn’t mind, remembering the similar smell back in New York except missing the sound of race cars zooming in the background.

“Can’t catch me, Bee!”

“Fat chance!”

“Go faster, papa! Faster!”

“If you say so, little one!”

“Tell me where your friends are hiding!”

Wait.

“I’ll never talk!”

Stop.

“Is that right?”

Stop it!

SHING!

“Then let’s make it official.”

NO!

[writing-with-rain]

"Firsts"

Bluepulse Week 2023; Day 1

Dec. 10, 2023

"Young Justice"

Summary: Bart is more than excited for the night ahead, practically vibrating through the floor with every passing second – very slow seconds, he unfortunately laments. This evening, at 5 on the dot, Bart is expecting a knock on the door from his favorite hero in Blue. Sure, his feelings had been conflicting when he had first arrived, Jaime was cute, but Bart had a mission, one that centered around blue and black clad hero he stuck so close to, but dangers had since past, and Bart had found it harder to ignore that gnawing thought. And finally, finally, Bart was going to be going on his first date, both in general and with Jaime. 

Time moves quicker than his own internal clock. 

Bart knows this. Every speedster knows this. Even Don and Dawn, in all this small toddler minded glory, are grasping at the concept that time just moves differently for them. After all, super speed was never just that. 

But this was getting ridiculous. It was as if the world had caught a whiff of his excitement for the night and personally pulled on the reins of time to slow it to less than a trickle. He had been staring at this clock for the last two hours (it had been 2 minutes), and still he seemed no closer to the hour hand landing on the 5 as it was supposed to. 

Jay, who had been all too amused with the situation, had left the doorway he had been standing in – so when Bart let out another over exaggerated sigh there was nothing but a laugh from the older man two rooms over. 

“The clock isn’t gonna get to 5 any faster.” 

Bart’s face scrunched at the comment. “It will if I move the hand.” 

“Don’t you dare, besides,” Jay chimed as he entered Bart’s line of sight once more, “it won’t make Jaime get here earlier.” 

Bart didn’t give more than another annoyed huff, rolling over on his bed and facing the wall. 

“You’ll mess your hair up, Bart,” Jay called, walking back to the kitchen. “Again!” 

He couldn’t help but laugh at that, sitting up and glancing in a mirror to run a hand through his hair once more in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. As unruly as it could be, he did want to look presentable for his first date. Especially when that date was supposed to be with Jaime. 

It was a lulling thought for the moment, a flash flood of memories and emotions in quick succession. 

Too skinny Bart Allen had managed to get to the past, with the sole mission of stopping the Reach apocalypse at any cost. And then he had been face-to-face with The Blue Beetle and hadn’t even realized it at first. His one-track mind had been faster than he was and soon enough Bart had been spending as much time with one Jaime Reyes as he could. But then things had gotten a little complicated – Bart had never let himself become too comfortable with the past, not until he was sure it was fixed, but that hadn’t stopped those little budding feelings from taking root in his brain, deeper and deeper, every time he was around Jaime. 

Small things he did, the way he laughed or the way he rolled his eyes and looked away to hide his smile every time Bart cracked a particularly bad joke were imprinted in his head. And then the speedster caught himself doing it on purpose, just to try and get one more smile or one more laugh out of his friend. 

Surprisingly, the first time he had caught himself calling Jaime his friend, the realization didn’t set him on edge. It had felt completely normal. All of it did, along with those little nudges of protectiveness that he embraced in full force. 

It the Reach was going to take Jaime from him, or even Khaji Da, they were going to have to take Bart out kicking and screaming first. 

And nobody could say that the speedster hadn’t stuck to his guns the moment he decided he was going to pour everything into protecting Jaime – throwing those (now not so reasonable) alternatives to the wind. 

He had. 

He had given every bit of himself to making sure he brought Jaime home. And Jaime had been there for him just as much when Bart was left reeling at the sacrifices it cost. That the Reach had cost them. 

That was how things had stayed for a time. With everyone just figuring out how to heal, and how to navigate a new kind of normal. 

But caught up in his own world and stretched like a starfish across his bed, Bart hadn’t realized that father time had finally gotten around to granting his wish, with the hour hand finally ticking gently over the 5. His mind was still a mile away before he was jolted back to the present by a swift knock on the front door. 

Jay hadn’t even moved from his spot to answer it, knowing Bart would be there faster than a heartbeat. And he was, swinging the door open with a smile bright enough to put the sun to shame. 

For what it was worth, Jaime returned the look with upmost adoration, taking a moment to just look at Bart before the speedster was nudging them out the door; he knew full and well Jay was going to try getting photos for Iris, Bart had heard the conversation earlier over the phone. 

Thankfully Jaime let Bart drag him along without a fuss, following in quick step next to the younger of the pair. “You look good.” 

“Don’t I always?” 

Jaime could only roll his eyes and scoff, “let me compliment you, chiquito.” 

Bart shrugged, looking away as the two made their way down the street and headed further into the city. “It just feels a bit different now, you know?” When he glanced back over to Jaime it wasn’t hard to miss the soft smile on his face. 

“I get it,” he cast a lazy glance over at Bart, meeting his eyes for the first time. “I spent two hours picking my clothes before Mils started making fun of me for worrying.” 

That was an easy scene to picture, Milagro sticking her head into Jaime’s room or sitting on the bed and poking fun at him before he chased her out of the room, or his mom can up to collect her. It was endearing either way it would have played out. 

“I would have thought you looked good either way?” 

“Sure, but you dressed up for our date,” Jaime chimed, knocking shoulders with him for the moment. 

“I had Iris to worry about.” Instead of pulling away, Bart slips his hand into Jaime’s to intertwine their fingers. 

“You’re doing it again.” 

“What?” Bart asks, genuinely puzzled. 

Jaime swings their hands absentmindedly as they continue, taking the lead. “Your nose is scrunched up again, you’re overthinking.” 

Bart hums in acknowledgment. “I’ve been thinking about it since you asked me out -” 

“Since you almost jumped me about it,” Jaime corrects with a sly grin. 

“Since you asked me.” He huffs. “But are things going to change between us? Like, a lot - because what we have is pretty crash.” 

Jaime was quiet for a moment, tugging Bart closer until he was tucked comfortably against his side. “I don’t think it’s going to change as much as you’re worried about.” 

“Good, because I like us.” 

Jaime couldn’t help but smile once again, his hand slipping from Bart’s to tighten around his waist as he dragged him forward for their date. “I like us too.” 

[cielettosa]

Levi's monologue when he was beating the shit out of eren

I can't believe it. I mean, really, can you? It's like a twisted, messed-up joke that humanity's last hope is pinned on a group of bumbling, power-hungry, so-called leaders. These guys couldn't even lead a donkey to water without getting lost in the desert...

And don't get me started on the Yeager brat. Ugly as a Titan's backside, but they want to barbecue him like he's the main course at a Titan buffet. The poor brat is scared out of his mind, stuttering like a broken record, begging for his life every few seconds. Newsflash, brat: nobody understands you when you're gagged. It's like trying to have a deep philosophical debate with a brick wall.

Nile Dok, the shining beacon of all that is pig-headed and self-important. Head of the Military Police, they call him. But from where I'm standing, he's the grand poobah of all things nonsensical. And let's not forget Nick, the Minister Shitface, holding the prestigious title of vice-judge. It's like a match made in heaven – two peas in a pod of bureaucratic incompetence.

Erwin, on the other hand, well, he's got his own history with Dok. Something about stealing Erwin's girl, Marie, way back when. The details aren't clear, but you can bet your boots that it's a festering wound that still stings. You see, Eyebrows may look as calm as a tranquil lake, but beneath that serene exterior, there's a storm brewing.

Minister Nick and his never-ending religious sermons. He's all about that Walls mumbo-jumbo, but honestly, I've got more important things to do, like keeping your sorry butts alive in this Titan-infested world. If I did give a damn about religion, I'd want a better spokesperson than this guy. I mean, really, it's like having a dung beetle as your life coach. Nick's "inspirational" speeches would put even the most dedicated insomniac to sleep. But hey, maybe that's the secret to his survival – bore the Titans to tears. While he's preaching about the great beyond, I'm out here in the real world, making sure you have a future to even worry about.

If there's a heaven, hell, or purgatory, I hope they've got better entertainment than this holy bore. Dok's playing puppet master to Zackly, and it's a damn puppet show I'm not willing to watch any longer. The clock's ticking, and I can't let this charade continue. The jury needs a reality check before Dok's nonsense becomes law.

Erwin, my partner in crime, gives me that unspoken signal, and it's like we share the same damn brain. Twins, they call us, and they might be right. But let's get one thing straight – I got the looks, and I've got the, well, length, if you catch my drift.

It's time to step up, cut through the crap, and bring some order to this chaotic world. Because if there's one thing we don't need, it's more clowns in this circus of despair. It's time for the Survey Corps to do what we do best – kick some Titan ass and take names.

It's a damn shame that I have to resort to beating the living daylights out of Eren Yeager to make a point. But let me tell you, it's like a twisted kind of therapy for me. The kid's got a hair-trigger temper, and it doesn't take much to set him off. I mean, everything makes him lose his marbles.

You'd think we were living in a world where Titans are the least of our worries, with the way Eren goes ballistic over the smallest things. It's like he's got a personal grudge against serenity. But hey, if my fists can knock some sense into him, then I'll gladly be the bad guy. In this world, losing your cool can get you killed, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep this circus from turning into a bloody tragedy.

Mikasa, the black-haired girl, can't seem to stop gushing over "Ereh!" like she's some kind of Titan-slaying goddess. The way she clings to that Titan-spitface is almost comical. Kid's got herself a full-blown crush on Mr. Yeager.

And sure, I've heard it before, that Mikasa Ackerman looks a bit like me, despite us having zero ties. But let's get one thing straight – I'd rather be related to a sack of potatoes than be associated with a brat who's obsessed with Eren.

I'm not one to toot my own horn, but between her and me, I'm the hotter one in this messed-up circus. Beauty might not save the world, but it sure beats being infatuated with a Titan-transforming teenager.

It's not the stench of their porky existence that gets to me, although that's a close second. No, it's the fear that I feed on, thrive on, and let me tell you, it's a feast.

Dok and Minister Nick are probably soaking their pants, and also shitting right about now, knowing that in my mind's eye, I'm picturing them in Yeager's shoes. There's something satisfying about watching them squirm, knowing that their day of judgment might be just around the corner. It's like a sweet symphony, and I'm the conductor, orchestrating their fear, one crescendo at a time. This world is a savage playground, and I'm the merciless player.

Wait shit, was that a spit and blood covered tooth? Holy hell, it doesn't matter. I need to pull back. Just one more kick.

Okay, maybe one more for good measure. Can't leave things unfinished, right?

And one last one, just to make sure things are nice and tidy. It's not often I get to let loose like this, so might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Another kick for the sake of, well, cleanliness.

TLDR: Shipping between Levi and Eren won't be tolerated, it's disgusting.

[just-some-teag]

The Fallen Angel's Guardian Demon: Chapter 1

Thanks to @oculianilluvinial here on AO3 and @onemoregayapollokid on Tumblr for beta reading this. Please note that neither the emails nor the phone numbers for the characters work.

Please note this, as it will come up in later chapters: Angels and those descended from angels will have elf ears rather than none, and elf ears are prehensile like cat ears.

Word count: 2.9k

================================================

A few days after the most recent Extermination, a moose demon sits at a desk in her quiet office while she sorts through a stack of torn papers. Once she pairs two pieces together, she sadly sighs and writes down the name of the dead Sinner. The torn contracts are the usual for post-Extermination bookkeeping. Under the name of the lost soul, she adds some bullet points of the Sinners who should know of this soul's death. As always, the list includes the names of the souls she controls at the top and the names of the demons under the control of other Overlords so that she can write letters to their Overlords.

The office is fairly large, with more chairs than one would think is needed for a solitary Overlord. All of her furniture is made of Hell's version of mountain mahogany, with the chairs and loveseat upholstered with wool. A television from the 1950s sits in the back corner of the office, almost directly mirroring the cathedral radio on a shelf near the desk. A black, gold, white, and red Turkish rug lays underneath the majority of the furniture. It was a gift to the Overlord from one of her owned souls for keeping him safe from his abuser. An analogue clock hangs on the walnut panelling of the wall, ticking a soft reminder to the moose of the interview she wanted to watch: the Princess of Hell promoting something on 666 News.

The office isn’t the only room on this floor; a smaller conference room sits further down the hallway, with magical alarms that sit at odd intervals between the two doors. The sigils were laid by an old friend of the Overlords and made to trigger when an unfamiliar soul signature crosses over them without one of the staff with them. A useful gift that the moose is still trying to repay–even if the sigil maker has refused all repayment other than taking the souls that land in his territory that he knows she should have. It's an odd gesture, but it’s always welcomed. 

The Overlord’s eyes slide over to the analogue clock on her wall before heading over to the 1950s-style television and turning it on. It’s all she can do to hope the Princess can handle dealing with Katie Killjoy without being humiliated. The news broadcast intro music, and the program's name floats into view of the screen before fading to the blonde praying mantis and gas mask Sinners. A shorter blonde woman with bright red circles on her cheeks sits nervously in the interviewee's chair with her attention on a camera.

“Welcome back!” The shrill voice of the head news anchor cuts through the previous silence, causing the moose’s ears to pin themselves back to protect against it. “We’re here with the daughter of Hell’s head honcho, Charlotte Morningstar!” The shorter blonde woman on the screen seems to shrink into herself a little as she attempts to correct Katie Killjoy, but she is ignored. “Charlotte, tell us about this new passion project that you’ve been incessantly pestering our new station about!” The crazed look on her face doesn’t hide her inner thoughts, ‘ We’ve only accepted because you’ll bring more publicity and money to us .’

“Well,” Princess Morningstar takes a deep breath, bracing her hands on the newsdesk before speaking, “as most of you know, I was born here in Hell. Growing up, I always tried to see the good in everything around me, even during the darkest times.” A beetle crawls across the desk in front of the newswoman, who takes her pen and stabs it. The moose-demon’s eyes look towards her television as she hears the thunk of the pen, her eyes following the trajectory of the beetle guts to where it lands on the princess’ face and, for a moment, she hopes that the princess puts the insolent newswoman in her place.

Instead, she wipes it off with a mildly disgusted look and the tips of her ears becoming hidden in her hair due to her ears laying flat against her head before continuing, “Hell is my home, a-and you are my people. We… just went through another Extermination; we lost so many souls, and it breaks my heart to see my people slaughtered every year.” The princess’ face hardens as she says her next sentence, not even noticing that Killjoy has fallen asleep next to her, “No one is even given a chance!” She slams her hands on the desk with frustration written across her face, and her ears become visible again. The short look of shock at being woken up flashes across the newscaster’s face. She quickly dons a look of confusion as Princess Morningstar gets up in the middle of her speech and walks around the studio audience.

“So I’ve been thinking, isn’t there a more humane way to hinder the overpopulation of Hell? Perhaps we can create an alternative way to change souls through… redemption?” A camera follows the princess as she moves about the audience, and a small split-screen on the television shows the news reporters and the princess as she slides an arm across a Sinner's shoulders. “Well, I think yes! So, that’s what this project aims to achieve!” The camera follows her as she heads back to the news desk.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, I’m opening the first of its kind, a hotel that rehabilitates Sinners!” She looks so proud of her idea but gets no reaction from the Sinners in the studio. The moose demon hums thoughtfully at her desk as she thinks it over before nodding, grabbing a blank piece of paper, and starting to write.

“I can think of a couple of my souls who would want to get rehabilitated, and others, including them, who don’t deserve to be down here,” Ameillia says as she gets to writing a letter to the princess to offer her help with protection and new patrons. She keeps an ear trained in the direction of the television, waiting for what the Princess of Hell says next. When nothing except a small sigh comes from the television, the moose looks up. The princess looks self-conscious while no one says anything, losing what little confidence she had when proposing her idea.

“Y’know? ‘Cause hotels are for people passing through…” Running out of even more steam, she looks defeated, and the tips of her ears lower enough to be visible as they pass through the curtain of her hair, “temporarily…” The princess seems increasingly uncomfortable as she tries another time to get a reaction other than judging silence from the audience, “I think it’ll serve a purpose… a place to work toward redemption… yay..!” Another demon’s voice comes through the television speakers, but it’s unintelligible right before the camera shakes and almost falls to the ground.

The moose winces at the now quiet voice of the Princess of Hell, finishing up the letter to her and calling the Overlord’s fastest messenger to take the letter to the princess and her associates. She returns to going through the stack of torn contracts and continues writing. When the princess’ singing voice and the piano sound come through the television speakers, the Overlord’s ears pin themselves to her head in secondhand embarrassment for the heir to the throne.

“Oh dear… you’ve chosen public ridicule for your advertisement, eh?” Her voice is soft as the messenger comes in and takes the proffered letter, “Take this to Station 666, hand it to either the Princess of Hell herself or an associate of hers. Hurry, they might be leaving the studio soon.” The messenger nods and takes off, the feathers on their wings making little noise as they rush out of the room to their launching pad. The princess’ song is still going as the moose heads over to the television to turn it off and then to her cathedral radio to switch it to the jazz channel to have something to listen to while she works. A short look of melancholy fills her face as she looks at the red and gold radio, her mind automatically going to her friend, the Radio Demon.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

An owl Sinner arrives at Station 666 as the Princess of Hell and her companion exit the building. They land in front of the two women and wait for the white-haired woman to be calmed by the Princess. The owl appears unphased by the sudden angelic spear at their throat, and they just hold up the letter from their Overlord.

“Vaggie, don’t! They have something to give us!” The princess nudges down the other woman's spear and steps before her, “I’m so sorry. Were you looking to join my hotel?” The Sinner looks briefly panicked before shaking their head, continuing to try to hand the letter to the princess.

“Princess Morningstar, my Sovereign Overlord, the Guardian Demon, would like to offer her financial support and guardianship of your hotel,” the owl speaks softly, moving forward a step as the princess’ limousine pulls up behind them. “Please read over her letter and respond to her post-haste. She’s over in the gated territory inside the Radio Demons district. No one will harm you, although, if you wish for more protection as you head to her territory, please contact the number enclosed in the letter to request her to send someone to escort you.” The owl bows deeply as they finish speaking, moving to the side as a small goat-like Hellborn goes to open one of the doors into the back of the limo.

“Uh—” the princess looks shocked to hear the Sinner speak to her so politely as she takes the letter from them. “Thank you for delivering this to me. Would you like a ride back to your overlord’s territory to get a small respite for your wings?” The owl smiles as they shake their head, looking fairly grateful for the offer.

“Apologies, Your Highness, I need to get back to my overlord as soon as I can,” they bow their head as the princess and her companion duck into the vehicle, “because I’ll need to deliver more letters to other overlords for her. Again, please try to contact her as soon as possible, Your Highness.” The owl Sinners’ wings open wide and take to the sky; the only indication they’ve taken off is the sudden gust of air rushing into the limousine. Vaggie watches as they fly away, a shimmer of sadness in her eyes that barely shows. The flying owl takes note of this as they fly away, making sure that they remember to tell their overlord.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

As the moose demon catalogues who she lost in the Extermination, the Princess of Hell, her girlfriend, and their one patron arrive at the Happy Hotel. The rundown hotel looks like a mishmash of different eras and buildings. Half of a pirate ship sticks out of the building near the bottom, and the crow's nest is connected to a whole mast that sticks up from the ship's deck. A carousel sits on the opposite roof; it passively runs with no music emanating from it. The trio slinks into the building. The white-haired woman slumps onto a nearly broken couch that faces a very clearly collapsed fireplace while the spider demon slinks to a fridge in the back of the entry hall. He digs around and pulls out a partially melted popsicle box.

“Eh, it’s probably a good idea to get some actual food in this joint,” the man speaks in a New York accent with a sarcastic tone as he waves a popsicle about, gesturing to the empty and rundown lobby. “Y’know, to feed all of th’ wayward souls ya got in here!” He forces a chuckle to try to make light of his hurtful statement, wanting to apologize as soon as he says it because of the princess’s face. He watches dejectedly as she leaves the room, knowing he messed up by saying that. “Angel Dust! What the fuck was that!” Vaggie angrily says from the couch, going onto her knees and turning around to face him, “You’ve already done enough to hurt her today. Why the fuck would you even try to joke about that? You participated in a territory war; thankfully, you didn’t actually kill anyone, and it was evident through the feed we had in the studio that you had taken drugs beforehand!” Angel has the grace to look chagrined at the scolding and moves to the other end of the couch.

“I know we went over this in the limo, but come on Angel,” she sounds exasperated as he sits near her, and she continues. “You’re here to at least try to get redeemed. If you continue to join territory wars, abuse drugs, and participate in porn, you might not be able to be redeemed. Charlie wants you to be happy, and you’re not! We can both tell that you’re not happy whenever you have to go to work, and you almost always return depressed.” The spider shrinks in on himself as she continues to lecture him. He goes to speak when the front door opens and closes again, a quiet thump coming from that direction.

“Charlie, sweetheart? Is everything-” Vaggie’s concerned question is drowned from Charlie’s hearing as a haunting knock in the rhythm of ‘shave and a haircut, two bits’ sounds from the door behind her. She startles away from the door she’s leaning on and turns to it, barely able to see the outline of the person behind it.

She cautiously opens the door, freezing at the red fabric filling her vision when she looks behind it. Slowly, she moves her head upwards to look the person in the face. Her eyes move past the white-lined red lapels of a blazer over a blood-red dress shirt, leading to a black bowtie with a scarlet oval-shaped gem in the centre. The princess’ eyes continue upwards, where she sees a sharp and yellowed grin before making eye contact with the crimson eyes of the person in front of her. A low static comes from him, becoming louder each second as she stares without saying anything.

“It is quite rude to stare, my dear!” because she’s staring terrified into the demon's eyes. Charlie doesn’t see his mouth move as he speaks, “Hello! It-” She closes the door quickly and retreats back to where her partner and Angel Dust sit.

“Vaggie, the Radio Demon-” she mimes the demon's large smile before continuing with her sentence, “-is at the door!” She groans with her hands dragging down her face before speaking again while sounding distressed, “What should I do?” Her girlfriend looks terrified while their one resident just looks confused.

“Th’who now?” The protests of Vaggie drown out his question.

“Well, don’t let him in! Who knows why he’s here?” she shouts, a tone of fear in her voice, and she’s clearly worried about what the demon outside has planned for the inhabitants of the Happy Hotel. “Why don’t we send Razzle or Dazzle to go get the Guardian Demon? She did offer to protect the hotel, and this would be the perfect time to ask for her protection. I know you don’t like fighting, and I don’t think Angel and I could subdue the Radio Demon if he’s here to hurt us.” Charlie looks like she’s considering it as a shadow seems to spread across the floor, taking up residence in the fireplace.

“Wait, wait, wait- the Guardian Demon approached ya two broads in th’flesh to offer protection of this place?” Angel Dust’s confusion switches to shock as he puts his hands in a T while he speaks, “She doesn’t leave her territory except for th’Overlord meetin’s or ta protect her people! How th’fuck did your broadcast manage to pull her from there?”

“Well, not in the flesh… But she did send one of her people to deliver a letter to me…” The princess pulls out the letter delivered to her by the owl earlier and opens it. The letter's length momentarily takes her aback, a bit shorter than what she expected, but she quickly skims over it. Her face brightens, and she smiles happily at what the Overlord wrote.

As Charlie takes out her phone and starts dialling the number on the letter with the extension, the Radio Demon sends out another of his Shades to go and invite his old friend to join him at the hotel. He’s barely paying attention to what the princess says on the phone, only noticing when the Shade inside the hotel alerts him to her moving back towards the front door after hanging up. He widens his smile as the door opens again to show the Princess of Hell.

“May I speak now?” He asks her, prepared to put on a show until his old friend arrives.

================================================

[1]: Dear Princess Charlie Morningstar of Hell, heir to the throne,

I’m known as the Guardian Demon and the Overlord of the Abused, so you can imagine that your project intrigues me in terms of what it can accomplish. I have many souls that don’t deserve to be down here, their only sin being that they killed someone in defence of themselves or others. I am willing to come to your hotel with these people as long as I’m able to participate in their rehabilitation and protection. I’m also willing to provide financial support for whatever charges my souls incur on you.

I look forward to hearing from you concerning this.

Sincerely, Ameillia Azaadi The Guardian Demon Overlord of the Abused (Signature: A . A)

Email: Guard.Abused.825@pridemail.hell Landline: +666 (632) 555-6958, ext. 825

[godsweakestsoldier]

“one scene” 🥺🥺 🤝 one fear 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

if you listen really carefully you can hear me shaking like a tiny beetle with a sword facing down a lawnmower 🥺🪲🗡️😭😭😭

Oh my sweet friend, do not be afraid, it's just a *checks word count* 1.2 k little scene. But, you are so brave in the face of the one fear. I hope you enjoy whatever this is. It's got your favorites, love you.

-

“Bea,” Shannon starts. It’s the first time she’s spoken since she settled next to Beatrice. Knee bumping into her shoulder as she adjusts. A whisper breaking the silence that had been filled with hushed supplications.

Beatrice’s fingers ache as rosary beads work themselves through pinched fingers. They’re cool beneath skin, solid beneath callouses, heavy as they drag with each Hail Mary. Lips wrapped around words, praise that she couldn’t remember learning yet mutters all the same. There will be bruises, and she knows that. Blossoming across her knees from where she kneels and knuckles where she clutches the rosary. She doesn’t care.

Polished oak creaks as Shannon shifts her weight. Heat growing prominent from the movement, a constant rolling heat that Beatrice had begun to associate with her from their first moments. A fire capable of consuming.

“Bea,” there’s steel in her voice now, not harsh nor chastising, but it’s there. Her hand warm as it wraps around Beatrice’s clasped hands, “Beatrice, that’s enough.”

It’s the formality that causes her to stop, not the words. The sudden shock of her name, of vocal chords dipped in steel. Shannon’s fingers twitch where they rest against blood-soaked hands. A few flecks of dried blood breaking free, floating to the wood beneath them, disappearing into the darkness. Dried blood cracks as Beatrice finally opens her eyes. Their hands are cascaded in the soft yellow lights, darkening the maroon blood coating her fingers. Deep blue beads catch the soft glow of artificial candlelight.

“I’m sorry,” Shannon whispers, barely audible over the sound of the heater buzzing above them.

“No.”

There’s a sigh of resignation that emerges from her chest, and Beatrice watches her shadow become distorted—passing over pews, stopping just before the steps to the small altar. Feels the weight of Shannon sliding onto the kneeler, air escaping in protest. Watches as she removes her hand, makes the sign of the cross with her precision, and there’s silence.

Familiarity seeps in and sinks beneath cutaneous tissue and tendons and sinew. Settles against her bones, filters into marrow to be circulated through her body again. Kneeling, fingers held high with bowed head. Beatrice couldn’t count the amount of she had done this, with her parents, the bordering school. It had been months since she had stepped foot in a church, taken communion, confessed. Her communion, her refugee, currently lay sprawled out in a hospital bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shan, please,” Beatrice breathes, gentle and heavy, and it sits strangely in her mouth. It’s wrong. Wrong to consciously speak after relying on muscle memory, on scriptures and prayers cemented in her head.

Her eyes flicker up, meeting the clock held aloft by a long-forgotten string. 2100, just over two hours.

“Beatrice,” it’s a plea and a command wrapped into one, “look at me.”

Reluctantly, Beatrice turns her attention towards the woman beside her. Takes in the black sweatshirt emblazoned with a small halo in the right corner, the way it sags around the shoulders, clearly made to accommodate border shoulders. Trapezius and deltoids, she reminds herself. It’s Mary’s, of course, it’s Mary’s. The smaller hairs that had escaped her braid framing her head. There’s desperation in her eyes underneath dark circles; it is nothing like the Shannon that Beatrice knows.

“Shan-.”

Shannon’s hands unfold from where they rest against the back of a pew, one gripping onto wood, the other closing the gap between them. Her fingers resting over bone and cartilage.

“No, you don’t get to Shan me, not right now,” Shannon says, the steel sneaking back into her voice, “you only get to listen to me and that’s it, do you understand?”

Beatrice nods, because she is nothing but obedient, and it’s Shannon who sits next to her. Her fingers start to unlace hers, gently unwrapping taunt fingers. Allowing the beads to drop, dangle and reflect golden light across the curve of Shannon’s jaw.

“We didn’t know where you went, didn’t know if you were alive or not. You could’ve been dead or bleeding out somewhere,” she pauses, gently lifting the rosary from Beatrice’s hand. “And, when we found you, you blatantly ignored me,” Shannon’s fingers land on the curve of her jaw, her thumb brushing back one of the fallen strands. “Beatrice, you’re supposed to be the smart one.”

“I know,” Beatrice replies, and it’s smaller than she’d like.

“No, I don’t think you do because if you did, you would’ve stayed with us or at least told one of us where you’d go,” there’s a softness to her voice, a slight uptick of her lips, “you’re lucky I’m patient.”

“Lily?” a silent, desperate prayer manifested finally into words. Beatrice can feel tears well, the sting as one slips across broken skin, shame reaching out across her chest cavity.

“Will be okay,” Shannon answers, gently brushing the pad of her thumb across the curve of a cheekbone. Her eyes soften slightly, a glimpse of gentleness hidden in their depth. “I promise you I would never lie to you,” she mutters, lips warm against Beatrice’s brow.

“Is she awake?”

“No, not yet.”

Something deep within Beatrice cracks, some edifice crumbling underneath the confirmation. The tendrils of shame gradually retreat in the light of relief. Warm fingers move across taunt muscles, sternocleidomastoid, and tuck underneath strands of hair. Shannon’s here and present; she can smell the slight acidity of coffee. She’s not alone anymore. They, Shannon and her, kneeling with foreheads pressed together, remind her of that fact.

“The others?” Beatrice whispers, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Are okay, although I think Cam may have walked a rut into the waiting room’s carpet.”

She smiles then, for the first time in hours since the fight. It’s small, barely noticeable, except for the slight upturn of her lip and dimple, “That sounds about right.”

Shannon chuckles and the sound chases away the shame entirely, at least for now. There’s an easiness to being around her, something Beatrice revels in, “Yeah it does. I love you, you know that right?”

Beatrice hums in acknowledgment.

“I love you, but you look like shit,” Shannon continues, her hand leaving its resting place at the nap of Beatrice’s neck. Warmth fleeting as she moves away. Cartilage cracks as Beatrice hears her stand, opening her eyes. Blue refracting from the rosary dangling from her fingers, coating the kneeling woman in light. “Do you promise not to start praying again if I give you your rosary back?”

“I promise.”

It’s offered then by two fingers held aloft between the two women. A golden crucifix dangling before her face, Beatrice takes it with her right hand.

“If Mary asks, I gave you this,” Shannon says, her hands coming to the collar of the sweatshirt. Beatrice watches her pull the sweatshirt over her head, and traces the plane of abdominal muscles as her shirt rides up, corded muscles flexing with the movement. Until she stands there in a grey tank top, coated in shadow, St. Christopher medallion glinting, her sweatshirt held out in silent offer.

“Shannon,” Beatrice starts.

“Just put it on. I’m not about to be seen escorting a blood-soaked woman through a hospital.”

Beatrice reaches out, taking the slightly worn fabric in her hand. It smells faintly of incense, myrrh and frankincense, and distantly of gunpowder. Sacredness in both senses of the word. It’s surprisingly soft as she pulls it over her head, avoiding the fresh clot on her cheekbone. Lose around the shoulders and waist, yet comforting.

“Come on,” Shannon says, offering her hand at last, which Beatrice takes and is pulled to her feet. Hands come up, placing the hood over her head, “Let’s get you back where you belong, yeah?”

[starwalker42]

febuwhump day 9: voice loss

episode: Brand X | tw: medical procedures | general audiences

He wakes up at 3:12pm, while she’s sat by his side.

“Scully.” It’s the most broken, pained sounding way she has ever heard him say her name, quiet and raw in his throat, but it makes her heart swell with relief.

“Hey.” She takes his hand and leans into his field of view. “Don’t try and talk, it’ll hurt too much.”

Mulder nods, agreeing for once without argument. The last time he was awake, he’d been in high spirits, or at least high enough spirits to make jokes to calm her nerves. Now, though, he’s exhausted, despite being unconscious for the best part of the last week. Slowly, his body has been recovering from hypoxia, the tobacco infusions, and the two further rounds of deep suction to rid his lungs of the remaining tobacco beetle larvae.

He’s been asleep for all of it, and this time she hadn’t been able to give him any warning. Before any surgery, she’s his source of information, the only one he trusts to tell him the truth. In the pre-op room, before the first suction procedure, he’d asked her if he’d feel any of it, and how long it would take before he’d wake up. She’d resisted the thoracic surgery partly because she knew he wouldn’t survive it, yes, but also because she knew he’d want to know beforehand. He’d want the chance to say goodbye.

Right now, his eyes find hers, asking questions and seeking answers. Four days ago, he flatlined on the operating table when the doctors first injected him with nicotine, and Scully had wondered what she’d do if she never got to see his eyes again.

“It’s been a rough few days.” Her voice cracks, and she swallows past the lump in her throat. “But you’re okay now.”

He flicks his eyes to the machines around him; she knows what he’s asking. This is their routine, whenever he wakes up in hospital: he asks what everything is, and she gives him a summary of each machine, what they’re all doing to keep him alive.

“You’ve got BP being taken every few hours. Heart rate, temperature and blood oxygen are being monitored round the clock, and you’re being given fluids and nutrients through a feeding tube into your stomach.”

She points to the thick tube running from his neck. “You’re still hooked up to the ECMO, as a precaution, but it’s not been oxygenating you since last night – since your O2 levels are good, they think your lungs are doing okay, so they’ll be disconnecting it in the next few hours.”

Mulder’s forehead creases in concern.

“They’ll put you under sedation for that, but it’s a relatively minor procedure. No risks.” That’s a lie – there’s always risks, no matter how minor the surgery – but she doesn’t want to scare him. He’s pulled through the last few days – she’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it through a simple cannula removal.

“Your throat and lungs are still recovering. They’re damaged, but they’ll heal, you just need to rest your voice for now.”

He nods again. She isn’t used to him being this acquiescent – it unnerves her.

“Mulder?”

The hand that’s not in hers moves into an okay signal, and he moves his wrist in an up-and-down motion. He wants to write.

“I’ll get you a pen.”

A few minutes later, she holds a notebook as he moves his hand slowly along the page. He hums to tell her he’s finished, and she glances down.

There, black ink spells out I love you. He looks up at her, still exhausted, but eyes shining with life and love, and Scully presses a kiss to his lips as she finally lets herself cry.

@today-in-fic

[zahri-melitor]

Okay I have opened March Solicits. Reactions as I go (and I'm feeling salty today):-

Chip I am trusting you to land this ZEA storyline. Also Zur!Tim is when? I am still hotly anticipating the possible fallout from that.

If Harley is back on Suicide Squad is she leaving Birds of Prey? Please?

(Also hot take but I think we're past the need for Harley to be on Suicide Squad. Part of me perked up at Black Alice and Clock King on SS, but eurgh. Harley)

Is there anything more eye-rollingly boring than "Bruce Wayne origin story" at this point?

Batman & Robin continues to look fine

I'm reminded I need to find time to sit down and start Ram V's 'Tec run.

"What's wrong with Nightwing" (I cover my mouth and laugh) anyway this looks very Tom Taylor levels of stakes.

I woke up to the Barbara discourse so I was already spoiled on this, but... sigh. Kelly Thompson not understanding the need for BoP to have someone in the troubleshooter/research role is hmmm a flaw. I am giving the team some leeway still though, as I DO think they're doing good Dinah content.

Outsiders: ...you know I actually have no clue what DC has done with Nocturna since the 2011 reboot apart from the fact she's apparently back. She's Kate's ex? (who isn't at this point??)

I'm again reminded that putting Poison Ivy on my longlist to read is probably a thing to do.

Red Hood: The Hill - "in their civilian lives, seeds of jealousy begin to drive a wedge between Jason and one of his oldest friends". Now don't get me wrong, actually developing Jason having his own cohort is something that is so necessary, but...it's intensely funny to me to see a book pretending Jason has a civilian life and longstanding friends. Go on.

World's Finest: look, I trust this team but you know what I don't need in my life? "the first meeting of Joker and Lex"

...oh damn, PG don't do this to me, that story concept looks halfway okay? Though it would still be funnier to hear about the team of Kara and Karen, ACTUALLY.

The Flash: you know what? I'm still enjoying Si Spurrier on this. Jai and Max sounds like an AMAZING team up actually.

Speed Force as a title is confusing me in that it's not only a mini, it's a mini that's actually keeping abreast of continuity around it for the characters involved. What is this? post-Crisis? (Keep this energy up)

I'm sorry, Wonder Woman is looking worse and worse. That cover makes me HUGELY uncomfortable. (the flag actually even more than the sword)

Sinister Sons remains looking SO BAD

I acknowledge that Amazons Attack is a bad rerun of a bad event, but also Mary Marvel is in it and I love Mary soooooooo (even though I know it makes other people mad)

The Green Arrow situation has been heavily canvassed, but my personal complaint is, in a slow meandering storyline to start with, we are at issue...10? and we finally get 4 women all at once? Why is Mia arriving with this group? Why are they all together? Why are any of them talking to Waller, particularly current Waller, let alone working for her? Why issue 10/12? (sings the 'devaluing women in Green Arrow again? Is it Tuesday?' song)

The old JSAers minis final issues - yeah that looks fine

CREEPER IN SHAZAM??? What??? The Creeper in a wacky hijinks book? This could be very fun but wow is that a tonal dissonance.

Blue Beetle *whispers* I'd actually be cool with Ted retiring from active hero work again. It's a good look on him.

Ape-ril - BANANA SCENTED COVER????? I feel this has gone underappreciated

I am, actually, excited for the Barda DCInk book. Though I wonder how much of the Furies backstory is going to get softened for it.

I still can't believe they're reprinting Dixon Nightwing AGAIN, in a 1024 page trade paperback. Why not collect Grayson? Why not finish out the Robin and BOP Dixon collections instead? WHY AS A PAPERBACK BRICK with all the downsides of both TPBs and Omnis and none of the benefits of either format?

[bisezual]

[IMAGE DESCRIPTION: An art drive announcement poster drawn digitally. There are small drawings of a watermelon, a palestinian flag, and an olive branch, and a kuffieh pattern in the lower right corner. Text reads: ART DRIVE!! Crips for ESIMS for Gaza. chuffed.org/project/crips-for-esims-for-gaza . Below are a list of prices: $10 or more: sketch, $30 or more: lined or colored, $60 or more: fully rendered. /End ID]

Every donation of 10$ or more to Crips for ESIMS for Gaza gets a sketch from me for free (upon proof of donation), every donation of 30$ or more gets a lined piece or a colored sketch, and every donation of 60$ or more gets a fully rendered piece.

FREE PALESTINE!

EXAMPLES OF MY WORK BELOW THE CUT

[ID: two fully rendered pieces. The first is a drawing of a nonbinary person crouching, holding a gun in one hand and a knife in its other, living metal hand. It has a suspicious expression on its face, and the background is made of drawings of writhing tentacles. The second is a spread of various poses of a south east asian trans man. He is wearing a long wrap skirt, a sports bra, and has bandages over his eyes. There are drawings of beetle-themed daggers and axes, and drawings of orange gems and a stag beetle, over the abstract patterned background. /End ID]

[ID: Two colored sketches. The first is an alarm-clock themed robot with a metal bell-shaped skirt. It is colored in warm yellow tones using broad strokes of dot matrix brushes. The second is a sketch of a woman from the chest up, staring at the camera. She has pointed ears and her skirt has a mouth running down the center. /End ID]

[ID: two lined pieces. The first is a DnD tiefling in a corset and leather skirt swinging an axe while grinning, in a wide stance. The second is a woman in revealing clothing and roller skates lying down in a "draw me like one of your french girls" pose. The first has only linework and a few blocks of black, and the second uses dot matrix brushes to show the value of the dark mini skirt, roller skates, and crop top. /End ID]

[i-miss-breathing]

My dream is to have a huge spiky gothic style castle where I section it off and each section has wildly different over the top aesthetic decor than the one before it.

Like the first section, where you walk in is super normal, just average house decor, it’s a living room and some guest rooms, very normal, the only thing weird here is that the carpet is orange and the walls have floral wallpaper from the 50s. Then, you walk fown a hall and BAM. Everything is ocean themed.

There’s a huge mural on one wall that makes it look like your in a bubble window underwater with all sorts of fish.

A bubble machine and ocean sound machine are going at all times. Sometimes you hear “yellow submarine” by the beetles playing

theres a tv that shows live footage of a reef and there’s a big saltwater aquarium on another section.

All the creatures have names, some of the rocks even have names, there’s a key on the side with all the names and what kind of creature/rock it is.

My cool butler takes care of them, he’s paid very well and has like 90 paid vacation days, when he’s on vacation I take care of the fish, he reminds me sometimes over text, and then reminds me that looking at water is not the same as drinking it and that I need to stay hydrated, he also tells me things about his vacations, like which foods I should ask the chef to make, or learn to make myself, like I said he’s very cool, anyways, off topic,

The next section is COMPLETELY GOTH.

You’ve stepped out of the submarine and into the vampires cave.

There are little bats and spiders and cats and ravens and crows EVERYWHERE. ITS AWESOME.

I have a pet raven in a room, her name is Lenore, she likes to sit on my shoulder, I take her to other parts of the house sometimes, she’s very smart.

There’s also my pet tarantula fiddlesticks, fiddle for short, I take him out of his enclosure sometimes but he doesn’t leave the goth section.

Speaking of the goth section, everything is red purple blue white and black, mostly black.

There’s goth music playing at all times, there’s a ballroom that I use to host goth club nights, it’s a castle after all, there’s a big French door that leads directly to the ballroom from the garden. It’s very cool.

Just when you think you’ll never escape the darkness and ungodly amount of moon cycles on the wall, you see a light.. BAM MAGIC FOREST.

Everything is green and orangish brown.and pastel

There’s fairy lights EVERYWHERE.

I keep my pet ponies Shorty and Sprinkles and my guard llama Dude, in a large closed off pasture near the garden, they get lots of apples and sugar cubes and hay along with all the yummy grass they graze on, you cannot ride any of them because they are too small, but I play with them everyday and teach them tricks every once in a while.

Back inside there are plants everywhere

there’s sparkles everywhere

There are bean bags that look like rocks and a bookcase that looks like it was built into a fake tree

there’s a little snack bar with cupcakes and rock candies and brownies and carrot cakes and pies and water and fruit flavored sodas and fun pastries.

Chef makes the snacks, Chef is cool, he’s really strong, I pay him a lot of money and he also has 90 days paid vacation a year, he mostly texts me recipes to ask if I think I’d like them. Chef also likes weed, he never makes weed brownies on the clock though. He’s very responsible.

I hire college students from the college near by at $25 an hour to run the fairy snack bar.

I host lots of parties here, parents can call and ask to rent it out for fairy themed birthday parties in a real life castle, of course it’s only a section of the castle, but it’s still a castle.

there’s another French door entrance but the glass has floral stained glass, it’s professionally done, it’s very pretty

There’s a dressing room with lots of outfits and dresses and they all look magical and they come in many different sizes, they are all thoroughly washed properly after each use by my maid. She’s really cool, she knows how to do a lot of stuff. Like Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and race car driving, and knitting. She also gets paid very well and has 90 paid vacation days, I have a squish on her and she’s very inspiring, she teaches me the skills if I ask. She’s very cool. I text her pictures of things I make and she gives me encouragement. All my staff get along very well and it makes me happy. We have tea time and dinner together, it’s great.

And back to the fairy section there’s another ball room covered in fairy lights and plants, real and fake, there’s a DJ that takes all requests but otherwise plays music directly from ballroom scenes in fantasy movies and shows. He also gets paid well.

It’s very cool

I will add to this later but right now I do not have time