#therebetterbepie

[batstalked]

@therebetterbepie

being in a bar on Valentine's day was a little too cliche for Tim, yet there he was with the rest of the lonely bastards. and California seemed to be full of them. seating himself at the bar was the worst idea, it seemed to make him a target for the already incredibly intoxicated crowd. to the point that Tim had started to pretend that he was deaf and thankful he was proficient in ASL at this point in his life. it got more than enough people to leave him alone so that he could drink in peace.

that is until someone else slides up to the empty space beside him. risking a glance to the side, Tim regrets it instantly when he finds the prettiest green eyes staring back at him. god fucking damnit. suddenly the ASL trick didn't seem like something that he wanted to do if this guy started talking to him. but maybe that was the liquor talking now.

[normaltothemax]

@therebetterbepie

WOW

bold words for someone who makes up over half of those drafts

[stupidiinspades]

"So what, exactly, is a HELLBLAZER? I haven't been able to entirely nail that down. The only answer I've managed to gather so far is "John Constantine" but that hardly seems like a solid definition."

"You've also been described as, "a belligerent yet charming alcoholic" but I'm not sure how that's supposed to be something that works in your favor. I think everyone in this world might benefit from a trip to rehab, my counterpart included."

THE SMOKE CLOUD HE EXHALES IN THE FACE of the other is pointedly deliberate, and the cocked grin of an entirely-too-chuffed with himself Magician is the other's only response as said Hellblazer listens to what he considers to be complimentary descriptions of his person.

Because compared to what most of his old friends would say about him? They were.

"Seems like y'already got yer answer, squire. Yer failure to accept or understand s'not my responsibility~." There are reasons John going (back) to therapy was a bad idea. Him weaponising their jargon was the biggest one. "Tell ya what, though. You actually get down in th'dirt wit' me, and I may be persuaded t'elaborate a bit~."

And maybe shove his face into every nasty crack in-between reality. This wasn't HIS Winchester, which meant he was fair game.

Poncey cunts always made his teeth itch; they reminded him of days better left to rot- secondary beat downs and condescension from pissants too far up their pater's backsides to actually think for themselves. It would be hilarious if it wasn't Dean: a man who'd ALREADY had to extricate himself from his paternal legacy.

"Also rehab is a farce built to make y'fail so y'come back in an' pay 'em more. Jus' so y'know."

[qapsiel]

@therebetterbepie ;; meme (still accepting) Dean said: “I am a generator of hate, and my rage is a renewable resource, like sunshine.”

                             WHENEVER DEAN TALKS NONSENSE, Castiel usually tries to ignore him, but this time, he drops everything and rounds on the hunter as if he wants to punch him in the face. "You are not a generator of hate," he states firmly, looking ready for a fistfight if Dean disagrees with him. "You are one of the most caring people I know. You practically raised your brother on your own. You still take care of him. You're sensitive and empathic, and you try to protect everyone around you. You befriended vampires, werewolves — me. You try to hide this soft side under gruffness and machoism because you learned as a child that there's no room for it, but it's still there; no father, no monster managed to purge that. You're selfless, and you're loving. So stop saying — saying this bullshit about yourself." Well done, Dean, you made the angel use a bad word.

[thecrimsonhelmet]

@therebetterbepie

"No. Absolutely not."

[xxgotthedevilinsidexx-archived]

@therebetterbepie Asked:

half the time we’re fighting, i don’t know what we’re fighting about. (for sam)

【༶•⛧┈♛】     ――――    Sam   sighed,   running   a   hand   through   his   hair.   ❝   Maybe   that's   the   problem,   Dean.   We're   always   fighting,   but   we   never   talk   about   why.   ❞

❝   It's   about   more   than   we   hunt   monsters,   or   that   we   save   people,   ❞   Sam   replied,   his   voice   tinged   with   frustration.   ❝   All   this   tension   between   us,   it's   not   just   about   the   job.   ❞   Sam   watched   his   brother's   profile   in   the   dim   light   of   the   dashboard,   seeing   the   familiar   stubbornness   etched   in   every   line.

All   Sam   wanted   was   for   Dean   to   open   to   him.   How   could   he   share   his   issues   when   Dean   wouldn’t   do   the   same.   Every   time   he   tried   to   reach   out   to   his   brother   it   felt   like   he   was   grasping   at   smoke.   Dean   would   deflect   with   a   joke   or   change   the   subject,   leaving   him   feeling   more   isolated   than   ever.

The   Impala's   engine   rumbled   in   the   silence   that   followed,   punctuated   only   by   the   rhythmic   thump   of   tires   on   asphalt.   Sam   could   see   Dean's   jaw   working,   knew   he   was   fighting   the   urge   to   lash   out   or   shut   down   completely.

All   this   fighting   ?   It   was   getting   to   be   to   much   for   Sam   to   deal   with.

[benevolentgodloki]

[continued from here] @therebetterbepie

The stranger at the bar sipped dark red from his glass, which was thankfully only wine. He set it down and shifted around, elbows resting upon the counter, long legs stretching out to cross his smart shoes upon the floor. The gun did not seem to faze him at all.

"God. Loki. Mischief."

He put up an index finger after that last word.

"Within a remit you might find acceptable, not that I need it from you." His hand swept out to gesture to the bodies. "Unless you're a fan of sexual, laborious, or entertainment trafficking. Once upon a time I might have delighted in how inventive you humans are in the depths of your depravity, but I find misery and cruelty rather ends up spoiling the fun."

[normaltothemax]

@therebetterbepie & @sperboytm

It was probably a stupid thing to think about, given his current situation, but he couldn’t help but wonder absently: why were they called Fun Houses? No one ever actually had fun in a Fun House. Take Jason, for example. He was having a frankly terrible time, though that might have more to do with the clown and the restraints and the crowbar than the actual location.

He wasn’t sure where everything had gone so wrong. All he knew was that he’d been following a lead one minute, and now he was here—tied up on the ground, Joker beating the shit out of him with a crowbar, again. All he knew now was pain. It didn’t matter that he was older and bigger and stronger than he’d been as Robin. The Joker was laughing, laughing, laughing, and Jason was afraid, afraid, afraid.

Again and again, the crowbar came down. Crack! He was 21 and in a Gotham Fun House. Crack! He was 15 and in a warehouse in Ethiopia. Crack! Back and forth it went, over and over, Jason struggling to remain in the present, so completely consumed by his own terror that he was unable to even attempt to think of a plan to get away. Something he really needed to do, and soon.

Because his dad wasn’t coming.

He knew that with utmost certainty, this time. There was no hope to hold onto, because he knew better, now. Batman wasn’t god. Batman was fallible. Batman, Bruce, didn’t care about him as much as he’d thought as a kid, because if he had, this wouldn’t be happening again. The Joker would be decomposing in the ground, not gloating and sing-songing and cackling. No, Bruce wasn’t coming for him.

Jason was on his own, and he was going to die again, broken, terrified, and alone.

[stupidiinspades]

@therebetterbepie | watch me sink back into my spn addiction-

" -sorry, i couldn' help overhearin'; you blokes are a bit LOUD, see. but ah- did i jus' hear you say the 666 SEALS ARE BEIN' CRACKED like a bloody melon?! "

[dramatisperscnae]

@therebetterbepie [from here]

[text: Ash] We've dealt with hell before. [text: Ash] I've made some calls. You might be hearing from a man named Jason Blood soon; he's the demonologist who helped with your pendant. He knows more about Hell and its workings than anyone else I know, and he lives in Gotham. [text: Ash] You might also hear from Zatanna Zatara and a man called Constantine, and possibly some others. A hell gate is no small thing, so I put the call out for all hands on deck. The magic-users I /don't/ know, Zatanna /does/, and this isn't the first time any of them have dealt with Hell trying to kick the door down to our plane of existence. You'll have help. You probably already do, but you'll have more. [text: Ash] Might as well get this over with fast, right?

[littlexhades]

Closed Starter with @therebetterbepie

Slowly the Prince of the Underworld was learning about the surface, his exploration had taken him far from his home and finally getting to experience mortals proper was a treat he hadn't expected to have in his life time. His chthonic godly blood used to be bound to the Underworld and the Styx by the fates themselves, deeming Hades and his bloodline forbidden from stepping away from their home but the spell to break him and his sister free of it offered new hope for the young prince.

America was a strange land, and its people even stranger but Zagreus enjoyed the eccentricities. They were a hardy folk who enjoyed a bit of reverie here and there, reminded him of his cousin Dionysus and the mirth and spirit he always brought. Through his wanderings he'd noticed that one particular mortal seemed to be appearing at many of the stops he himself frequented.

Agent Young? Some kind of guard for the country's people who worked to unveil the cause of some dark dealings that seemed to be trailing the wayward son of Hades. Zagreus assumed that the man had no idea the true sinister nature that lurked behind the disappearances and miraculous saves of the individuals, after all what kind of human could guess that monsters of legends were locked onto the trail of his godly scent and humans kept running into them? Thankfully he was always there to kill the beast before it got out of hand, Lamia, Bloodless, Gorgons, all of which died at the end of the Stygian Blade.

Though the dive bar was crowded and rowdy with drunken dancing and laughter it didn't take much for his keen hunter's eye to find said man in the corner with a drink, walking over and sitting down on the opposite side of the booth before the other has a chance to retaliate does he swiftly snatch the file folder he'd been reading.

"You know we've really got to stop meeting like this, if you keep following me I'm going to start thinking I have an admirer." Flipping through the pages does the dark haired man give out a whistle in response. "We might as well work together on this one, seeing that we're both already here."

[thecrimsonhelmet]

~~~ "Oh you're the one with the helmet. But they call you "The Red Hood", right? Wildly confusing. Anyway, it's very cute that you all have your little themes. Let me guess, you have the power to tell when something is too cold, too hot or juuuuussst right?" (i can't decide on the jason so uno reverse dealer's choice lol)

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. So his dad Dean ditched without a word, leaving behind a few goddamn notes, like that was anywhere near good enough, and Jason got to deal with this…imposter instead? This Twilight Zone version of the hunter, all smarmy and uppity and I’m-better-than-you? Bullshit. Absolute fucking bullshit.

Jason was sure as hell going to keep his helmet on for this interaction (and he prayed to whatever god was out there that it was a short one). He wasn’t about to give this jackass the satisfaction of seeing how young he really was.

“Funny,” he deadpanned, his helmet’s voice modulator making him sound even less amused than he already was. “No, really, I never heard that one before. Did you come up with that little nugget of comedy gold all by yourself, or do you have your own writers?” Unholstering one of his guns, he held it up to the light, inspected it for a moment, before he switched the safety off, cocked it, and let his arm fall back to his side, weapon still firmly in hand. “No powers. I’m just real good at shootin’ shit.” The threat was more than obvious, and very, very real.

@therebetterbepie

[shieldretired]

@therebetterbepie

                            STEVE COUNTS THE MERCENARIES. The moment he realizes they have eight instead of nine, two things happen simultaneously: Rumlow looks up from where he's frisking their captives to yell, "No package, I repeat: we've got no package here!" and Romanoff says, "I got a runner heading South" in his earpiece. 

                             "I'm on it." With the shield on his back, Steve takes off and down the empty road, feet slapping on the asphalt. The last mercenary has a head start of about a mile, but he's quickly catching up, according to his eyes in the sky. Romanoff sounds rather bored in her updates: "Seems like he entered a building. Just a heads up, I see two more heat signatures here. He might have backup, but it could also turn into a hostage situation. You might wanna turn left—right now."

                             Steve follows her instructions and nearly crashes into a huge black car parked in a leaf-covered, dark driveway. If that's the getaway car, well, it's kinda flashy. Running up the driveway, Steve leaps over the wrought iron gate and then darts up the stone steps to the enormous building. A tinged sign next to the double doors says something about an asylum. By the looks of it, it hasn't been used since shortly after Steve went into the ice. 

                            Slipping through the open doors, he grabs the shield from his back and creeps through the hallway. "Which way, Romanoff?" But there's only static on his comms. Fuck. Well, old-fashioned searching, then.

                             The hallways are dark and moldy. Here and there, water damage ate holes into the ceiling and floor. Bits of paper rustle beneath his boots. There are empty cupboards, turned-over cots, bedpans. It's incredibly creepy. Steve is just glad it's not the hotel from that terrible movie with the twins. 

                             Suddenly, he sees a light through the dirty glass pane of a swing door. Without thinking twice, Steve crashes through the door and into an old laboratory. He has maybe one second to realize that the guy he's facing is not their mercenary and that he's holding a goddamn sawed-off. Then the sweat on the back of his neck grows ice-cold, and a scraping sound makes him turn his head, where he sees—well, he thinks he sees a woman in a blood-stained gown, but she's sort of translucent. Then she lifts her hands, and without even touching Steve, he gets thrown through the air and into a glass cabinet. Crashing to the floor, Steve feels shards dig into his fingers and cheek. Goddamn, she must be — enhanced or something. 

[xxgotthedevilinsidexx-archived]

From Here With @therebetterbepie

1:20am [Wild-Thing]: Oh just a little bit of this and that. [Wild-Thing]: Yay for free time, that's always the best kind. [Wild-Thing]: Good 'cause I'm bored. Come play with me.

[normaltothemax]

@therebetterbepie

It was a nice car. Sleek and shiny, all smooth and straight lines, probably really old—a classic was what they called those. He’d probably be able to fetch a nice price for the tires. Certainly enough to keep him fed for the next few days. With a quick glance around himself to make sure no one was in the area, Jason got to work. It was a little tricky, getting the tires off in the dark, but there was a streetlamp nearby, and he’d done this enough times that he could practically do it with his eyes closed.

Jason had gotten three wheels off, stacked up off to the side, was working on the fourth and final one when someone cleared their throat behind him. He froze, eyes widening. Shit! He’d hoped to be out of here before anyone caught on to what he was doing. Best case scenario, this was some thug looking to take the tires to sell himself. Quickly schooling his expression into a defiant glare, Jason stood and spun around, holding his tire iron at the ready, prepared to defend himself and his meal ticket. He looked up (and up and up). This guy was really big and could definitely kick his ass if he wanted to.

Jason wasn’t going to go down without a fight, though.

“Get lost, asshole. I was here first. This is my score.”

[thecreativeforge-a]

continued from x | @therebetterbepie

[Hell's Kitchen] had a few nightmares like that, yeah.

[Hell's Kitchen] just finishing a boring stakeout for nothing

[Hell's Kitchen] what's up?