#verse; someone scream for a doctor? (cursed)

[sehtoast]

Given | Kindred Chapter 2 (ftm!Homelander x ftm! OC)

18+ | 1.2k Words

Ch1 | Ch2

Warnings: Internalized transphobia on Homelander's part, soft smut, oral sex

Summary: No plot, just soft, loving smut.

OC: Benjamin Colyer (The Boys-verse Spider-Man)

How he loved this new intimacy with his little spider.

Basking in the waves of acceptance, of reverence and love. Of knowing that someone had walked a similar path and found beauty in their shared trait.

There was something about pressing his naked form against Benjamin as they slept that made him feel so… free. No need to hide– to stuff something between his legs to simulate a bulge, no itching anxiety to scream at him to stay awake lest he find the person in his bed shocked to explore and find that he was not like other men.

And, oh… How Benjamin treated him so tenderly. More than ever before. The most recent of his love’s kindness practically unraveled him at the seams.

”That won’t do anything, you know.” Homelander remarked, standing next to Ben in just a towel as the pair dried off after their shared shower. “It is what it is.”

Homelander was in his mid teens when he began his transition– not nearly young enough to have evaded the growth of his chest. Too many doctors, too many conflicting opinions– until Vogelbaum ordered it for the sake of his well being. He’d required a very, very specialized surgery to remove his breasts and contour his chest. Diamond-tipped tools, precision medical lasers and the like. It was the only thing– go figure– that ever left a mark on his body. He, like Benjamin, carried those two lines of scarring under his pectorals. Doctors said it was a mystery how an indestructible supe could scar from such a simple procedure.

That was just his luck, though. A permanent mark that would forever brand even his upper body as ‘other.’ How he wished it were different. How he wished he weren’t afflicted with such a curse…

”Maybe– maybe not,” Ben countered, thumbing the gel onto the light pink lines– a contrast to the slightly thicker ones on himself. “Either way, I like… doing these things with you. For you, even. This, our shots… It’s special..” Ben pressed a kiss to his cheek, moving on to the other scar.

He couldn’t understand his little spider, sometimes. Though, in the same vein, he couldn’t understand himself. To Benny, their existence as self made men was a thing of beauty. They were proof that self-love and preservation could defy even the fates of natal development and social expectation. Where Benjamin was proud, John was often ashamed.

A lifetime that demanded perfection would do that to anyone.

To Benjamin, those scars were a neon sign in the night stating, ‘we won.’ In the instances of his woe leaking free, Benny often would take John by the hands, kiss his knuckles– then his cheeks, always telling him the same things…

’Perfect. Beautiful. Handsome. Lovely. Delightful. Mine.'

And he always believed it. Always believed his sunshine in superhuman form.

He always believed the lips that met him, the tender touches to his waist– unspoken reverence and worship. Care and love…

Things that always seemed so unattainable. Things that now slept in the same bed as him, held him, comforted him, kissed him.

Was it any wonder that he became completely insatiable? Every waking moment was spent longing to return to his Benjamin, ignoring corporate babble to listen for him in a city of millions, gritting his teeth in frustration that he was away…

And, when he had him? Oh, god… When he had his Benjamin in his arms, he was voracious. Skin to skin contact was a must, resting his head on Benny’s lap, clinging to him– convinced that, were it possible, he’d burrow under Ben’s skin and live inside of him.

He’d settle for how it felt to rock against him, to brush the curve of his mound against Ben’s swollen clit, to look down and see the threads of his lover’s arousal cling to him and instill a hunger he knew would never, never be satisfied.

The closest he’d ever know to existing inside of his precious Benjamin was burying his tongue deep into his cunt, fucking and sucking the juices out of him as his little spider moaned and keened above, caging his head with his legs, whining when they were pushed open– clinging to handfuls of his undercut instead.

Each cry of his name– “Johnny, oh, oh fuck… Johnny…” left him on fire, his soul lit ablaze with need, want, desire– with love.

More than anything, he wanted his little spider to be as satisfied as possible– so he’d bring his fingers into the mix, pumping and curling them into the squelching wetness of Ben’s pussy, sucking his clit with a heady determination. He’d ignore his own need just for a fucking taste of Benjamin.

But his little spider never let his determination turn to a neglect of himself. After his fourth– or maybe it was his fifth orgasm, Ben would flip the script, take control, take him. Ever so softly, kindly, heart-warmingly tender, Benny would lay him back against the plush bedding and worship that vessel of his. Kisses, soft, pressed to every inch of his scars– even to his unfeeling nipples. More, then, over the dip of his chest, just above the heart.

His heart.

Hands roaming, feeling, gripping. Words spilling.

”That’s my boy,” Benjamin whispered like a prayer as he made his way down, licking that first stripe over the opening of his cunt. “Delicious,” he’d groan. “I love you…”

Hands and tongue, nose positioned to nudge his bud with each long, calculated lick. He dare not tense up, dare not squeeze too hard. The grip at his thighs, massaging and caressing, kept him still, relaxed.

Calm in the face of everything he’s ever wanted.

He need not take; it was already being given.

It seemed that he always needed that reminder. There were no limits to what his Benjamin would do, would give. No amount of love, no touch, no kindness…

No amount of himself.

“Perfect,” he’d murmur against John’s clit as he worked him to climax. “You throb when you’re in my mouth, y’know…”

He’d be ashamed of the noise that left his mouth if he wasn’t so damn entranced.

“Taste so, so sweet…”

His words alone had Homelander bucking his hips, eager to chase each syllable– moaning, instead, when the words ceased and those lips took him again.

The arms hooked under his thighs steadied him, and fingertips danced upon his skin, eager– so eager– to calm and please at the same time.

“I c-can’t…” slipped from his lips as the pressure built, Benjamin’s fingers pressed against his sweet spot, tongue at the head of his bud. He reached out, palming for any part of his lover that he could find– hair, hands, arms, anything to bring him closer as he finished, gushing and quivering against his lover’s mouth.

The air left his body, mind went quiet, limbs grew heavy.

Lips at his, slick with his release, pulled him from his stupor. Fingers dancing over the sides of his neck, working up to caress his cheeks.

Brown eyes gazing into his own, love the likes only a fairytale could produce dancing inside them, reminding him of that one thing he always forgets.

He need not take. It was already being given.

[8bitsupervillain]

Higurashi When They Cry Hou Ch. 1 Onikakushi, pt. 8

Fast approaching an iconic scene I feel.

I know I harp on about how the subversive VN author crowd stole a lot from this game, but I can only imagine how striking it was for players at the time to see scenes like this. I don't claim to be entirely well versed in the genre, but I don't imagine there were very many horror themed visual novels like this. There's what, maybe Snatcher? But that's also just a shooter as well, not to mention Blade Runner.

Damned surveillance state, trying to keep a guy and his bad dietary habits down. Did anyone really have good dietary habits in high school?

Come on man, clearly she's just trying to make sure you eat your fill, and don't just carb up on instant ramen. To be serious though, I do genuinely think this scene is a well-written example of multiple interpretations being available to explain the situation. In Keiichi's mind she's out to get him, to a hypothetical outsider this would just seem like a girl trying to worm her way into someone's house for dinner. But to me, I think this is genuinely Rena trying to save Keiichi from the cultists of Oyashiro/Hinamizawa. For reasons the conspiracy has decided that Keiichi knows too much/prodded to far for their liking and needs to be taken out.

Rena knows what exactly happened to the last person the cult took out, and doesn't want Keiichi to suffer the same fate as Satoshi had. So she's trying, perhaps too hard, to act like nothing's wrong, and that if he gives her a chance she can convince Keiichi to forget all about the curse of Oyashiro and everything that happened the past few years at Watanagashi. The problem is Keiichi is too far gone at this point and is just a big old bundle of nerves and paranoia.

Unfortunately this would be the thing that proves to the cultists (conspirators? I'll use cultists for simplicity sake) that Keiichi is too far gone and can't be brought back into the fold.

By screaming at her and trying to seemingly (again to an outside observer) break Rena's fingers Keiichi shows he can't be brought to heel. There's a part towards the end where some of the cultists are seen to be hiding around Keiichi's house when "the doctor" shows up to heal Keiichi of whatever feigned malady Rena and Mion claimed he had. So my theory is that at this point there was probably another member of the cult keeping an eye on Rena here.

[mushyshroomz1]

Meet Karma! I created him 5 years ago...

Name: Karma Quinn

Height: He's 9 feet tall

Species: Once a human, now a demonic puppet.

Age: Doesn't remember

Born: Early 1900s

Died: 1927

Likes: Theater, dancing, singing, having fun, scarring people, Halloween, Food, Flowers, Pranks.

Dislikes: Those who tresspass in his property. Disrespectful people, cursing, fire, his ex wife red.

When Karma was younger he loved theater. It's all he would ever talk about. The people of his town saw him as weird for having such a strong passion such as that. "Why wouldn't you want to be a hunter?" They said. "Why not be a a doctor? Lord knows we need more."  He would only give a stern look and say "Im not interested in things such as that. I like the stage and it's what makes me happy."

Then he would walk away with his head held high. Most times he couldn't argue back for they would tell his father. Most know him as "The town drunk" He would drink with his friends the night away. Then if he's furious when he comes home he takes his anger out on Karma. He was taught to never lose a fight. if his mom tried to interfere on a beating she would get hurt herself. Now Julia Quinn is a wonderful women. A loving mother too. She would do anything for her son, she would even get a job. Some of the next door neighbors get jealous of her and what she has so they would often talk about her behind her back.

"How could she be so independent? She must be a witch..." rumors spread and the town riots. "She's a witch!" "Burn her!" "Set her to flames!" Usally you would see that in a movie but this was his reality. Karma rushed through the crowd only to see the only one who cared for him tied up burning at the stake in Salem. He was devastated. He held his hands to his head and screamed for his mom while the people of his town held him back. The priest held a Bible reading the verses while the dark skin women suffered. Karma couldn't take it after that. When everything was over his dad pulled him home and forced him to clean the house like nothing happened. When Karma screamed and yelled at him his Dad bashed his head with a bottle of whiskey.

That night he found his new passion. Bringing he'll apon all those who hurt him and his mother. He would study day after day, learned a few voodoo and would stitch dolls of them.. He killed his dad by snapping the dolls body making him suffer. He would fold up a shirt and put in his mouth to keep him quiet. Once he saw him die he ran outside saying someone broke in and killed his dad. His neighbors rushed out in a hurry wanting to be nosey. The called the cops and claimed it was an accident. The kids in his school that threw rocks, cut him or even pushed him in the mud to make him darker kinda just... disappeared.

He got a job as a milkman and delivered plenty of milk. He would run into a black cat everyday on the street and give it milk. He wasn't supposed to but he never had a pet growing up. One day he took it to his new home. Again, one of his neighbors got a bit to nosy and broke into his house. It was miss Johnson the one who got his mom killed. He felt his anger let lose and he killed her.

Guess you could say Karmas a bitch.

[despxratesouls]

Tag Drop - Dr Whale

[bibliocratic]

litany An exploration on endings. Or: all the ways it could have gone wrong and right.

jonmartin, spoilers for 200, content warnings in the tags

--

This is not what she thought victory would feel like.

Basira’s fingers tense and smart with overexerted aching when she stops to stretch them out. There is a geography of broken blood-vessels under the bruising that lies puddle-splotched over her hands which scrabble and claw talon-bent at the rubble. They are scored with scratches and tears where her exposed and dust-ruined skin has snagged on fractured brickwork.

She uncovers a foot first, as she pushes up and over the twisted mental of a window frame with an exhausted clatter. A trainer, the white doused with mud, the trailing laces caked stiff and russet. More heaving and hauling, her breath purging from her faster now – maybe, maybe, maybe, but she has lived too long now to believe in miracles. Overturning a fire-blasted section of what could have been once part of the imperious and grand stone stairwell, she reveals the leg the trainer is attached to, pulverised and off-angled by the weight of the collapse, the fabric of it drenched in soot. She peels back a cascade of plasterboard with a grunt, and there is a twisted pelvis, shattered ribs caved in under an acrid-smelling jumper. She’s not surprised at the dull punch of revelation, when she digs out hunched shoulders, coils of hair turned grey-white like swans’ down with the dust.

Martin is obviously dead. She hopes it was quick, fears it was not. His body lying stringless is curved around something, clutching it to him with his bruised and broken fingers. It takes many minutes of labouring, her spine seizing with complaint, sweat pooling at her brow and under her arms, but eventually she reveals Martin’s tender quarry, bundled up against his chest, blood-soaked from a wound long congealed. His own long and bloody fingers clenched and moored into the weft of Martin’s jumper.

She doesn’t need to check his pulse. She is cursed with enough sentiment to do so anyway. Crouching for a moment in the thick of the settling devastation, the fug of dust coating her nostrils, before she murmurs ‘I’m sorry’.

As she stands, she takes off her coat to lay it over them respectfully, the only shroud she can offer.

When her voice is composed, its cracks flattened out, she shouts the others over to tell them to stop searching.

--

The knife does not go in easily. There is force behind its thrust, a manic wave-shock of hysteric intent, and Jon’s lips part in a gasp as skin and sinew and flesh split. The noise wrenched from Martin is soiled with ruin, tremulous and saw-toothed, and he will never be able to forgive himself.

Jon’s eyes close. Peace of a sort granted to Magnus’ last and most beleaguered of Archivists.

And then they open. All of them, like the unfolding back of petals during blossoming, a meadow’s expanse of sight flowering on his face.

“No,” Martin whispers, the refusal almost lost over the tumult of the building around them. He pulls the knife out, and it drips onto the floor, making damp the material of his trousers. “No, nononononono.”

The wound presses together like lips, and then it is gone.

“I think it’s too late for that, Martin,” the Archivist says in that calm and reasoned voice of his.

--

It is a surreal, poorly-rendered mirror of before. A way the record of the world has slipped, juddered aground in a repeat. For all they have both changed, outgrown the casings of the people they were, for all they have endured both together and apart, it is a sick homecoming of sorts to stand again a second time round at the entrance to his hospital ward.

She’s brought supermarket flowers bunched in plastic, the last of a bad crop and too late to get the freshest, the stalks of baby’s breath drooping, the petals on the carnations mottled slightly and past their glory days. Jon lies submerged in sleep, the focal point in a placid storm of machines and wires. This coma chemically induced with no inkling of the supernatural, a last-ditch effort by the doctors to reduce the swelling on his brain. To give the body a chance to heal from the damage sustained during the collapse, his frame bludgeoned and punctured like a shrike-caught mouse, the smoke that has snarled like brambles in his lungs. The almost comically neat wound punched into his chest, nicking his heart.

She hopes his sleep is dreamless.

It takes him weeks to wake up.

“… Georgie?” he finally gasps out on an otherwise uneventful Thursday. His vocals are ribbed and scored with smoke damage. He’s sluggish as he blinks and turns and groans at the complaint of his body around him. “What – er?”

“Hey Jon,” she replies. “Good to have you back with us.”

She lets him acclimatise. Without his glasses, he squints and peers owlishly, like an inquisitive bird, absorbed by the novelty of his environment, the mundanity; the hospital-blue curtain that’s been pulled back around his bed, missing a few rungs and so hanging lopsided in places. The wilting flowers on the side table. The IV needles threaded into his arms.

“Did it work?” he asks finally.

“We think so.”

Georgie doesn’t add more. The conversation is one she knew they’d have, but it still feels like stepping out on frozen water. She is waiting for it to give beneath him, for the drop and drown in the unmoored cold.

His relief muddies in increments. His brow crinkling with a frown, glancing around again at the other beds. Their occupants dredged up and out and recovering from their private terrors, bringing the lessons of their landscape with them.

“Where - ?”

He looks up at her. The ice cracking.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Jon,” she says.

--

“We made it. L-look, see, we’re – I don’t know where we are exactly, b-but that doesn’t matter, does it, because we’re together, yeah? We’re together and that’s… that’s what we promised.”

The blood is drying on his trembling fingertips, the crevices of his palm, and it flakes off like decaying leaf-fall. The front of his clothes is clogged and sodden, the slick slow to harden. The weight in his arms is making his shoulders scream but he can’t let go.

“We – we did it,” he repeats hollowly. Desperately. “We did it, s-so you can come back now. You can come back. Together, you promised.”

The winds of this new world blow as cold as the old one did, and it is Martin’s only reply.

--

“It’s for the best, Martin,” the Archivist says.

“Shut up,” his furious watcher snarls. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t play st – Like him! Like he would! Using his voice.”

“It’s my voice. It’s me, Martin.”

Martin doesn’t respond to that. Their arguments are cyclical as roundabouts. He tells Martin he loves him. Martin tells him to fuck off.

The place where Jonah Magnus met his End, crumpled up on the dais of the Panopticon, has been cleared of blood. It distressed Martin to look upon, as evidence of his ascension rather than his capacity for brutality, so the servitors saw to its removal. The body he gifted to the mulch of the bone gardens, and the wailing growths flourished beautifully with the nutrients it bore.

The screams beyond the walls of the Panopticon cut off faster as he hastens them towards the End. He observes a world in its twilight. There is still torment, and it is unendurable and unfair but it will end under his reign, for good and for ever, and he will ensure that there is no more.

“You don’t have to stay,” the Archivist says. Considered. Gentle. “I know… seeing me like this is not what you wanted. I want us to be together while it ends, but I won’t force you.”

“And how is it any better out there?”

“It’s not,” he admits. “Here, I can keep you safe. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy.”

“Well, you fucked up there then,” Martin snaps.

His anger is righteous and flint-spark, makes barriers that almost waylay his grieving. He looks at him, and for a moment, his gaze shakes. He will see nothing less than he expects to see, a man, unkempt from travel, a bit grubby. Coarse hands he has held, lines he has attempted to smooth. In many ways, this makes it worse.

Martin turns away, and the Archivist lets him go.

He needs time and they have more than enough of it now.

--

He is inconsolable when they dig them out. A horrible, anguished keening like he’s being struck, a gasping that violently gags and stoppers in his chest. His face twisted, blotching, his eyes swollen, and the picture he makes is ugly, rent-open, decimated, bawling into the body he’s crushed up against him. Rag-doll limbed. Ashen.

They can’t make him let go. His cries transform and degrade into wails, garbled wordless, the horizon of language lost. They aren’t even sure if he knows they’re there. The sound pouring out of him is frenzied, delirious and anguished by surviving the unsurvivable alone. He fades hoarse through the ruin he has made of his throat and then he just weeps into Jon’s chest, and still he will not let go.

Melanie’s the one that stops him using the knife the first time. Wrestling it from his grip more out of surprise than shock at Georgie’s shout, and her anger is poisoned with her panic, throwing it to one side and hearing it clatter, snarling that I’m not going to fucking bury both of you, you hear me, don’t even think about it, fuck you, you think this is what he would have wanted, you think we want to lose you too?

Martin doesn’t reply.

They are not fast enough to stop him the second time he tries.

--

There are two men, strangers to these parts, who moved into the village from elsewhere like seeds caught on breeze. They plant their roots in uneasy soil. They talk to no one, versed in polite but guarded pleasantries, their greeting smiles to-the-point and weathered like coastal walls to withstand even the most inquisitive of questioners.

The one who is tall has the pared-down appearance of someone who has lost a lot of weight through some wasting that gnaws upon him. A gauntness that accentuates the furrows and gulleys and crags of his face, worsens the snow-stark white of his hair. The one who is short has been formed naturally sharp in features, although the brown of his eyes is mellow, prone to distance and otherwise unremarkable. The rumour mill, that tumbles in cycles of chatter that rolls from suspicious to musing, supposes some great and devastating fire to account for the injuries on his hands and the exposed skin of his face and neck, the pocked divots like scattered spark burns, ragged scars from shrapnel of some kind.

The one who is short limps on a sturdy walking stick, fashioned from an oak branch divorced from its tree in a storm. Any travel ventured upon is slow and demonstrably an effort. His free hand clasped in the hand of the one who is tall, who decks himself in layers even in the mildest of weathers, whose eyes are biting as hailstones, awashed grey and framed with bruising as though his dreams are rarely kind.

They re-painted the outer walls of their house last summer, when the temperature wallowed sticky and dense and glorious. The tree in their garden has fruited its first pears, few and stunted but a start that promises better crops come next year.

There is the hope that the strangers are happy.

If they are, it remains nobody’s business but their own.

[cannotgiveafuck]

HEY SORRY ITS BEEN A FEW MONTHS HAVE A SHORT BBATTOWLB SNIPPET.

I put it up on AO3, though it may not be completely compliant in verse, but hey whatever.

Billy's identity has been revealed and he's dealing with the not quite immediate fallout.

(Spoilers for post BBATTOWLB main story line.)

-

The first time Marvel tried to leave Fawcett City, J'onn was there to stop him.

"I cannot allow you to pass city limits, Captain." He said, and moved to push Marvel back every time.

.

The second time Marvel tried to leave, Green Lantern was there.

Just lounging about in a hammock from his ring, looking at his phone like he was enjoying a relaxing day out.

"Sorry, bud," he said, only glancing up with a shrug. "You know the rules."

.

The third time Marvel was actually able to leave, because there was nobody around to stop him. Because they were all out at Metropolis fighting an army that didn't really exist because, well. Illusion magic.

Marvel really felt they could use a hand from the Champion of Magic himself.

Apparently, the others did not feel the same.

From the moment he showed up, those that noticed told him to stay aside, that they could handle it, that he could get hurt, that he should leave it to them.

"This isn't your fight, kiddo."

"Go back home, champ."

"Watch your back, kid."

Yeah. Well. This kid just saved their collective magic inept butts, so...

Superman did not see it that way. The second the fight was over, he was right there, back straight and shoulders broad and brows furrowed.

"That was reckless, Billy. You were not called in to join the fight, and if you had misstepped in the slightest someone could have seriously been hurt."

But he didn't misstep. This was a magic fight and hello, did they forget what he's good at? They could suspend him all they want, they couldn't keep him away from where he needed to be, they couldn't freaking ground him.

Something hot and uncomfortable unfurled in his chest. He felt his fists curl at his side, involuntary sparks of electricity snapped around them. On the inside, Billy felt like screaming. On the outside, Marvel felt his jaw clench.

"I understand that, but--"

"Do you?" Superman interrupted. He didn't believe him. "Do you really understand how much damage was done? How much more could have been done? This is why you're on suspension, Billy. You can't just go around getting into every fight--"

"Marvel."

"What?"

"My name is Marvel," he ground out with surprising calm. "And every fight that needs me is my fight, Superman."

Superman crossed his arms and stared him down, like Marvel wasn't as tall as him, as broad and muscled and powerful as he was. Like Marvel hadn't just saved their asses.

Marvel kept his chin up and eyes forward. He would not back down. Not even from his hero.

"Go home, Captain."

With the threat neutralized, the team watching, and civilians and news reporters starting to venture back out, Captain Marvel knew there was nothing else left for him there.

A bolt of lightning struck him.

Rather dramatic, as exits went. But like hell he was going home, where he was sure another Leaguer would come patrol, where he was being commanded to stay - so the Rock of Eternity it was.

.

He didn't try to leave Fawcett City for awhile after that. (At least, not in any way that they would notice).

.

There were no missions, no patrols, no monitor duties, no cafeteria hang outs or briefings or alerts. His communicator was forfeited, his access to the Watchtower denied, his place on the Justice League all but officially revoked.

However, with how often one of the other heroes showed up to assist him with his own city's emergencies, Marvel felt like he was seeing the League a lot more than he had before his suspension.

Since they couldn't really stop him, they interfered as much as possible.

The Flash would stop by and want to grab food, always ready to take Billy somewhere to eat, and sometimes he’d drag Hal with to mess around at an arcade, and well, would you look at that, there's a bank robbery taking place, lemme get that for you.

Green Arrow and Black Canary came to town during the week, asking him about his home life and family and schooling and what he wanted to do, as if there was anything besides being Captain Marvel, and they tried very hard to be very nice and very friendly and very nosy.

Kori frequently came blazing by. She would greet him with a hug and be excited to see him. Like she actually wanted to. Every time, she would excuse the lack of Roy and Jason, stating that they wanted to give him space. She would ask him if her presence was a burden, was unwanted. And every time Billy would say no and hold her hand just a bit tighter. There were never questions about his memory loss, about what he came to remember, as if she understood the precipice he was balancing on and only wanted to remind him she was there. Billy appreciated that a lot.

Even Doctor Fate showed up. Suddenly next to him in the middle of the night as he glided through the sky. Not saying much of anything, though Marvel could feel his stare, feel his assessment. There were questions he wanted to ask, answers he wanted known, but still he didn't push. He just floated alongside Marvel until he vanished again. It was creepy, but it could've been worse.

Very rarely, in the corner of his eye, he would spot Batman or Nightwing, just on the edge of a building's shadow. A few times during the day, Billy caught sight of Bruce or one of the other batfamily. They would be strolling through the streets like it was a normal occurrence for them to be in Fawcett, and every time, Billy ran the other way. The thought of meeting them like this, as himself, as street rat Billy Batson made his heart race and head dizzy. He couldn't do it. Not now, not yet.

.

Captain Marvel could hardly go on patrol without another hero showing up at some point, all of them seemingly taking shifts to watch him, to baby sit him in his own city. Like he couldn't be trusted any more. Like he couldn't be the hero he had been this whole time.

Billy couldn't sleep at night. Couldn't lie on his bare mattress in his apartment without jumping at the slightest of sounds. As if the others would barge in and take him as he slept. The wards that were put up awhile ago did not help soothe this fear. Tawny's reassurances that they would not let anyone take him only comforted him in so much that he did not want his Familiar harmed, either. Not for him, not because of him.

He spent a lot of time sleeping at the Rock, where at least he felt safe.

.

Superman never stopped by. Aside from that first confrontation in Metropolis, Marvel hadn't seen him. No lectures, no orders, no commands, not even static silence. Nothing. Word from Hal was he had originally wanted to actually ground Billy. Keep him at the Watchtower where he could be easily monitored and cared for. But the idea was shot down and he'd been a little miffed about it. Still, that didn't stop the spike of paranoia Billy felt upon learning it.

Diana never contacted him, either, surprisingly. And that hurt more than he thought it would. Marvel remembered the look of sadness on her face, the hidden anger in her voice, and the passion she gave as she tried to defend him, as he stood before the League and confessed to his deceit, to his lying. She looked like he betrayed her. Even if she showed up, Billy had no idea what he could possibly say to apologize, to make it better.

Victor's position in the League was on the line, too, and Billy hadn't heard any more from him except that he'd be out of touch for a bit while he was essentially grounded. For him, that meant staying at his Detroit home with supervision whilst on duty at the Watchtower. The curdling feeling of guilt that he had brought this onto his friend sent Billy into such distress he didn't leave the Rock for the whole day.

Constantine thought the whole thing was bollocks. Said they had no right to control him, to stop him. He also said a few curses about them and the Wizard, but Billy let it slide. It felt nice to have someone truly in his corner. When John offered to whisk him on a vacation for awhile, see the other side of the pond, Billy regretfully declined. He felt like that was running away from his problems and he hated that notion most of all. Still, he thanked John for talking to him, even if it was just through the mirror. It helped elevate the ache in his chest.

.

Billy hadn't felt this way - this distant, disconnected, and closed off way - in a very long time.

.

"You keep returning here, young Tháv̱ma."

Don't look at him, don't talk to him, don't listen to him.

"Over and over again, you grace these stone halls."

He's goading you. Don't fall for it. Don't fall for it!

"Tell me, do you miss the cold throne and all the power it holds so much?"

Don't fall for it! Don't listen! Don't--

"Or are you here for something else?"

Don't react! Don't--

"Perhaps you wish to find the echoes of the old Wizard's ghost haunting this Rock?"

Don't cry, don't cry, don't--

"Or perhaps... perhaps you wish to find solace in a familiar presence?"

Don't cry, don't--

"Tell me, how heavy is the burden of being both Wizard and Champion?"

Don't--

"You seem lonely, young Tháv̱ma."

I am.

Billy was so, so lonely.

"I know loneliness, and all its dark corners, very well."

Really?

"Oh, yes. Spent thousands of years trapped and alone."

Of course, Teth Adam would understand.

"I am here."

Please.

"I will listen."

Please.

"Talk to me, young Tháv̱ma."

Billy didn't want to be alone anymore.

[deathduty]

Pain of the Week || Deirdre & Milo

TIMING: Current LOCATION: An alley somewhere PARTIES:  @deathduty & @wickedmilo CONTENT: discussions of addiction, drug abuse and drug use. Medical blood (for first aid), gore (removal of debris from wound), suicidal ideation (death imagery) SUMMARY: A vampire finds a banshee in an alley. A vampire decides to help; a banshee calls him stupid. OR two grumpy people insult each other

Milo wasn’t drunk, but he definitely wasn’t sober, and as he wandered down the empty suburban streets of White Crest, he used the alcohol in his system to suppress any memories of Dani, and his parents. Avoidance wasn’t exactly a healthy coping mechanism but he couldn’t care less about that fact. So long as he could stop thinking about her, so long as he could stop thinking about them. If only for a brief, blissful moment in time, he wanted to forget what he was, his new life and the complications brought with it. But when had he ever gotten his way? When had life ever been that easy, especially now? The scent of blood hit him first, followed by the quiet sound of ragged breathing, and he realised the town had well and truly swallowed him whole when his first response wasn’t shock, or fear, or concern. But rather frustration, and resignation. He was growing used to unusual situations, growing used to being chased, or hurt, or coming across others who were being chased, or hurt. It made him wonder whether White Crest had always been this dark. According to his supernatural friends, it had been. And yet, how could anyone be so unaware of the violence? He had been living in ignorance for twenty-two years, oblivious to the things that were happening around him. And now that he was finally being forced to address them, there didn’t seem to be an escape.

Regardless of his annoyance, regardless of another walk home being interrupted by something that was very much not his problem, he knew he needed to offer his help. As selfish as he was, as self absorbed, and inconsiderate, there were certain lines he wouldn’t cross. Sure, he might steal someone’s wallet to pay for a hit, or look the other way during a bar fight he didn’t want to get involved in. But leaving somebody alone, and injured, when there was nobody else around, felt beyond wrong. In the same way he had insisted upon helping Raina, he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t insist upon helping this person. Whoever they were, whatever their circumstance. Letting out a pointed huff of breath, he changed direction, crossing the street to head towards the source of the blood. It was easy to follow the scent, and it didn’t take him long to reach a small alley between businesses, the buildings closed and locked up for the night. “Uh… hello?” He called, eyeing the woman he could see sitting between the narrow brick walls. Her legs were flat against the floor, and his eyes were drawn to the pool of blood steadily building beneath them both. “Are- are you okay?” Wow, what a ridiculous question. But he wasn’t exactly well versed in the etiquette of helping bleeding strangers. “I mean, you know... can I help?”

Deirdre was used to pain. Sometimes, it seemed she lived in it—cycles of her pain, other’s pain. Sometimes, it was just a matter of what pain of the week it was. This week: her legs. Some creature had found her to be easy prey. It clawed and scratched and stabbed and bit at her legs, as she tried to kick it away. Normally, she was a killer. Normally, creatures of that sort never got close enough to hurt her. But she stared into its hungry eyes, and knew it was not a creature of malice. And perhaps she had grown tired of all the pain she caused, but she couldn’t bring herself to do more than let loose and harmless scream and stumble away. With Deirdre’s palms screaming red as she scraped them along the rough alleyway brick, she tried to find steady footing. She couldn’t walk like that, she could hardly stand. Soon, she wasn’t doing either. She slipped to the floor, hissing and cursing on her way down. Getting home wouldn’t be as easy as hailing a cab in the night hours. She didn’t know how many minutes passed with her sitting on the damp ground, painting with her blood, only that when she did open her eyes, a boy was staring at her.

“I don’t need your help,” she hissed at the boy. “And I don’t want your help. Do I look like a charity case? Do I look like I need help? I’m perfectly fine, you idiotic--” Her leg protested. Deirdre winced and leaned forward, beads of sweat rolling down her face. “I don’t need…” She reiterated, “I don’t need…” Normally, she never asked for help. As it turned out, she wasn’t her normal self. “...help me…” 

Milo raised his eyebrows, almost shocked out of his hesitance by the venom behind the woman’s words. “Okay, yeah- fuck me, right? The guy asking you if you need any help. It’s not like you’re bleeding on the fucking ground.” He laughed, resisting the urge to give her what she wanted. If he left her alone it would certainly save him a lot of trouble. Moving closer, despite her rather forceful insistence, he realised there was an edge to the scent of her blood, something sweet, and alluring, and decidedly not human. Whatever the Hell she was, he could only hope she wouldn’t pose a threat to him. Not when he was genuinely trying to do the right thing. Without giving the memory permission to surface, he was suddenly thrown back to his first attack, his first time drinking human blood. He had been in an alleyway just like this one, only a stranger had been offering him help. He had killed them. He had watched them die. Apparently good intentions meant jack shit in this town. 

Watching for a brief moment as his company seemed to struggle against the pain she was in, it took a surprisingly short amount of time for her to admit defeat. Eyeing the blood on the ground, taking a moment to ensure he wasn’t about to lose it, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Apparently other people weren’t the only danger now, he was very much a part of it. A new member of the twisted, underground community responsible for so much pain, and suffering. But he was determined not to hurt her, and hopefully, if she became aggressive, he would be able to fend her off in her current state. His parents were doctors, they had basically been grooming him his entire life to follow them into the profession. If anybody could do this, he could. He needed to try, at the very least. “Oh, so now you want the idiot’s help?” He asked pointedly, moving to crouch before her in an attempt to find where the blood was coming from. “Are you going to tell me how you’re injured or would you rather insult my intelligence again?” 

The boy was not human. Deirdre knew this because, as he neared, he stank. Not of sweat and questionable body spray like most human boys of his presumed age range (how old was he? 16?) but the way she had grown up on. A stench that buried deep in her heart, filling her with warmth. Being a banshee meant she knew these things; being fae meant she was tasty to the undead of the world. She groaned. Was he going to use her legs like a water fountain? The last thing she wanted, after being attacked, was being licked by a boy in an alley. “No, I’d rather just insult you,” she hissed, “you pea-brained, piss-filled, wet bread ex-human.” It occurred to her that she should probably be kind to the boy who might help her. It was a thought that didn’t linger for long. “Do you even know what to do?” She asked in more of a grumble. “And I don’t need your help, you prepubescent—” She wheezed again, cursing as she gripped her leg. Don’t be mean to the boy who can help—this time, the thought lingered.

“I’m sorry,” she conceded in a whisper. “It just...hurts. I think...I think there must be something stuck in my thigh. Normally I would be healing now but…” Deirdre winced and knocked her head against the brick. Through clenched teeth, she tried to point the spot out to him. “I was attacked,” she explained plainly, “what else do you think happens in this town? And you can’t see my ass from your angle, but I’m a real snack.” She tried to smirk, but in her state, the best she could do was a tight-mouthed, toothy wince. “Are you going to help me, or not?”

Milo listened to the woman berate him, almost amused by her insults until she called him an ex-human. His expression hardened, and he glared at her. It wasn’t as though he needed the reminder of everything he had lost, especially not now, when he was trying to help someone. “Yes, actually. I’m sure that comes as a fucking shock.” He bit out. “My parents are doctors, they kind of raised me to follow in their footsteps…” Leaning back on his heels, he eyed the woman. The fact that she knew he wasn’t human implied she wasn’t human herself. The smell of her blood had made him suspicious, but her words offered him undeniable confirmation. Usually, he would be annoyed by the knowledge. Where were all the humans in White Crest? Living normal lives? Away from this chaos? But he actually felt a strange spark of hope. If she wasn’t a human there was a good chance she healed a Hell of a lot faster than one. Continuing to glare, he sincerely hoped he didn’t look prepubescent and she was only trying to get to him. Jeez, the thought of being perceived as a teenager forever wasn’t exactly a fun one. “I’m 22, asshole.” He muttered. “Like, actually 22, before you ask.” It felt necessary to add given what he was now, even if it did essentially out him.

Beginning to carefully roll up his sleeves, he chose to ignore the apology. He had a reputation for utilising his sharp tongue when he was angry, upset, or hurt in some way. He knew exactly what the woman was doing, the least he could do was make an effort to be understanding. “Yeah, no shit it hurts. In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re bleeding out in an alleyway.” He made an effort to soften his tone, matching the way she had carefully softened her own. “How is your healing?” He asked. “If we get this shit out, are you going to be good to walk?” He knew that healing abilities greatly depended on the severity of the wound, but he figured she would know better than him just how badly she was injured. His mind running through the various ways of dealing with a potential stab wound, you weren’t supposed to remove the item until you were safely inside a hospital but that wasn’t exactly an option here. “Hm, I’m gay. Don’t flatter yourself.” He countered, resisting the urge to point out she could still be considered a snack. Only literally. “Yes, I’m going to help you. Why else would I still be here putting up with your bullshit?” He asked. “I’m trying to figure out the best way to do this- show me where you’re hurt? This thing that attacked you, I’m assuming it wasn’t a person… do you know what it was?”

Doctors... Deirdre stewed the thought in her head. Parents that wanted him to be a doctor, but now he was a vampire. Was that tragic or funny? “You look like a teenager,” she muttered instead, turning her face away from him. Sympathy for a stranger wasn’t her style, she wasn’t about to make it. Yet, as she decided she wasn’t going to ask, wasn’t going to care, was simply going to make this kid help her and then throw cash in his face, something he said stuck out to her. Actually 22. She turned back to him and the annoyance in her features softened. “Are you new?” She asked him, “newly turned, I mean.” Deirdre opened her mouth to say more; part of her wanted to say she was sorry, another part knew there was no point. He must’ve been sorry enough for himself. His parents wanted him to be a doctor, he was a vampire. She turned her face away again. 

“It’ll take me a bit, but I’ll be fine,” the banshee sighed, turning her eyes to the dark sky above. “I don’t heal like a zombie, but I heal faster than a human. And I’ve been hurt worse, and walked in worse conditions.” As he continued, she turned back to him, surprised to find a chuckle escaping her lips. “Well, you’d still know a good ass when you see one, wouldn’t you? Or are you tasteless and stupid?” Deirdre reached down, tearing up her dress to get it out of the way. “It was--” She grunted, the shrill sound of ripping fabric cutting her off. “--something like you.” Deirdre glanced up. “A spawn. Something you very well could’ve been turned into.” She paused, having torn up her dress enough to expose the wound. “Assuming, of course. Maybe you’re of the brain-eating sort, I don’t know.” She pointed out the spot where the cut was the deepest, where she felt the most pain. “I think maybe its nail broke off, or a finger.” 

Milo glared at the woman, giving her his most powerful deadpan stare. If she wanted him to help then she needed to stop insulting him. At least, he spitefully wanted to think that. He had a feeling both of them knew he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from her. “And thank you for that boost of confidence.” He countered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He opened his mouth to continue, to make it clear how annoyed he was by her consistent mutterings, but he witnessed her expression shift, and was caught off guard by her next words. He wasn’t expecting sympathy, or empathy, or whatever this was. He hadn’t been given time to build up his walls, and the alcohol in his system certainly wasn’t helping him to hide his pain. “New enough.” He admitted. “It’s been a few months, not that it’s any of your business. What are you going to do, plan a memorial? Tell me you’re sorry that I’m going to look like a fucking teenager forever? I don’t want to hear it.” He pointedly turned his attention to her leg as she began to tear away the material of her dress, hoping he could hide his expression.

“Give me that.” He said, holding out a hand, gesturing for her to fully tear away the strip of material. At least then he would be able to stem the bleeding. He could only hope supernatural creatures followed a similar logic to humans when it came to blood flow. Faster than a Human. That was good. Even if stemming the blood flow didn’t help it to congeal around the wound, she would begin healing the moment he removed what was embedded in her flesh. He nodded to let her know he had registered her comment, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as she continued. Jeez, did she ever shut up? “Well, maybe I’m a bottom and I have more important things to worry about.” He countered, saying the first thing that came to his mind because he couldn’t bear to give her the satisfaction of winning. Feeling his heart sink at the mention of a Spawn, he didn’t need the reminder of how close he had come to becoming one himself. How somebody had killed him, and turned him, not knowing what his fate might be. 

“You think I don’t know that?” He snapped. “Lucky for you, I’m still Milo, and I think I’ll be sticking with blood.” Were there vampires who ate brains? Or was she talking about zombies? Maybe she didn’t know which undead creature he was. He shelved the question for another time. Harsh would know, and the man seemed to have a strange sense of patience when it came to his never ending questions. Wrinkling his nose at the mention of a nail or a finger breaking off, he wasn’t entirely sure which possibility was more disturbing. A Spawn was a person, after all. Or a Spawn used to be a person. His heart broke for whoever had been forced to suffer in such a way, whoever had lost themselves to become such a monster. “I don’t exactly have any tweezers, are you going to be good if I like- get in there and remove whatever it is?” He had no other choice, it needed to happen, but asking for permission first felt like the right thing to do. “I’ll do it as quickly as I can. I’m not out to hurt you, even if you are incredibly annoying.” 

It wasn’t Deirdre’s business. She knew that. This child—Milo—was telling her that. She was telling herself that. And yet, her mouth opened without her meaning for it too. Her voice drifted out soft and warm and apologetic. “Did you get a memorial?” She asked, “you could have one now. All the dead deserve to be remembered; as they were, and in your case, as they will be.” But it wasn’t her business, and she liked calling the brat annoying more than she did thinking about how sad and terrible his life must’ve been. All their lives were, that was just the thing about pain anyway. 

“You would be a bottom,” Deirdre said, hoping it came off as scathing as she wanted it to. Her legs burned, and the only person who could help her was some tragic undead child. That alone was enough to make her grumpy, but as Milo suggested it, she realized the bratty vampire would have to stick his fingers into her thigh. Which was exactly as terrible as it sounded. “Some vampires don’t realize,” she clarified with a groan, preparing herself for the pain to come, “how close they were to becoming something else. If it had just been a different vampire that turned up. If the intention had been different…” Her words trailed off, knowing she had no real point to make. “You’re stupid,” she said suddenly, as she realized she was being too nice to him. “Go ahead and stick your hand inside. I very well can’t do it myself, or else I wouldn’t be here.” 

Milo faltered, opting to feel anger instead of the many emotions threatening to break through and overwhelm him. Who did this woman think she was, asking him such personal questions, questions he hadn’t even considered until now? It infuriated him because he didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to think about everything he had lost, the fact that he really was dead, the fact that somebody had targeted him, killed him, and clearly walked away from his body without caring what might become of it. “I was born and raised here.” He snapped, an edge to his voice as he tied the strip of material around the top of her thigh. His movements were probably sharper than they needed to be, and he definitely tightened the knot with more force than necessary, but it was proving to be a helpful outlet for his frustration. “Kind of hard to have a memorial for someone you see walking around at night.” When the blood flow had been stemmed, he began using the sleeve of his hoodie to scrub away as much blood as he was able to. It was coating her skin, making it difficult to see exactly where the injury was. “I don’t want a memorial.” He insisted, only briefly looking up so that he could glare at her. “I don’t want to be remembered. I’m still here… saving your ass.” 

When he could adequately see the entry point of whatever was embedded in his company’s flesh, he began to roll up his bloody sleeves, ignoring the sweet scent that permeated from them. “Yeah? Don’t be jealous because my sex life is more interesting than yours.” He countered, despite his sex life currently being very, very uninteresting. After becoming a vampire, the last thing on his mind had been getting laid. He was far too focused on maintaining his existential crisis. “I do realise.” His voice was dripping with bitterness, and he made no effort to hide that fact. Her words were drawing out memories he would much rather forget, he was being forced back into the fear, and anxiety he had been drowning in the night his life had been stolen. “I’m stupid?” He demanded an explanation, refusing to let the comment go. “Really? Why? Because I got myself killed? From where I’m sitting it looks like you nearly did the fucking same like, ten minutes ago.” Giving her no warning, the moment she offered him permission he slid his thumb and forefinger into her puncture wound. 

The anger in his chest was almost helpful, it allowed him to concentrate on anything but what he was actually doing. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of heat, muscle, and slick blood, It didn’t take long before he discovered what he assumed to be the nail or finger. Slowly he began to inch it backwards, so that he didn’t lose his grip. It seemed to have scraped against bone, which was definitely why it had broken off, and not been pulled out when the creature had been forced to withdraw. He shuddered to think about how painful it must have been for the woman beneath him, about how painful it must be for her now. As irritating as she was, he couldn’t bring himself to delight in her pain. He wasn’t that person. He had vowed to never be that person. So he was careful, and considerate, his movements slow, and gentle in a way they hadn’t been only moments before. “I’m sorry- If I do this too quickly I could cause more damage… just- a couple more seconds, okay?”

“That’s not true,” Deirdre was quick to retort, wincing at herself. Perhaps it was a sensitive subject for her given Morgan’s death? Yes, yes, that sounded right. Deirdre sighed and clung to that explanation. Morgan had mourned herself and pained over the lack of recognition of her death in the world. The idea of a memorial sounded nice to her. Did it sound that way to this child too? “To move on, to move past it...wouldn’t it be something to face? Memorialize? Wouldn’t you want to? Don’t you think someone other than yourself should mourn you?” Deirdre winced again, this time from the pain and jostled forward with ragged breathing. She could see the child glaring at her through the corner of her eyes, and truthfully, she would too if some lady she was forced to save was trying to philosophize about something she didn’t know. But Death was a force she knew well, better than anyone else ever could. She was born to it. She lived by it. And one day it would claim her servitude. 

But that day was not today, and she wouldn’t let it be. To die in the hands of a bratty vampire would be embarrassing enough to cause her ghost to haunt the alley forever. And she would’ve liked not staring at damp bricks for eternity. “My sex life is very exciting, thank you very much,” Deirdre huffed, “in fact, it’s very active and just yesterday my girlfriend and I—why am I telling you this?” She groaned, knocking her head against the brick behind her. It seemed all she could do was lean forward or back, and both caused undesirable pain. “No you’re stupid because you’re stupid,” she growled, “and I didn’t—I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die. I’m not.” She always worried any wheeze or cough of pain would be a scream waiting to rip out of her, but if that was the case, it would’ve happened ten minutes ago. 

Unless it was the child’s shoddy doctor work that would do her in. “I’m used to this,” she confessed, addled with pain that grew sharper and sharper as the child dug around. But what she’d said was true. She knew a life of pain, she had been raised to endure it. Deirdre had suffered far worse than this, and that truth was the only thing that kept her awake and hissing. But in her agony, where the world turned dark and then white, she always thought it was like looking into Death. It smelt like fresh cut grass, and it sounded like the jingle of cow bells. The sort of place she’d like to be, the sort of place that wanted her. Unfortunately, in the moments between her spasms of pain, it was just old brick to look at. “Were you a med student when it happened?” Her head rolled to the side, staring at him. “Bright prospects? Future to look forward to? Boyfriend waiting for you?” 

“How the fuck am I supposed to move past it- you know what, no. We’re not having this conversation.” Milo snapped. He had more important things to worry about, he refused to get drawn into an argument. “No.” He insisted, his tone laced with aggression. “I don’t want other people to mourn me. I’m still in their lives, I’m still here, I’m still me. There’s nothing to fucking mourn.” Of course, that wasn’t true. There was an awful lot to mourn, but he wasn’t about to admit that, not when this woman clearly thought she had the answers to all of his problems. Laughing, unable to help himself, the sound was sharp, but not devoid of genuine amusement. He enjoyed the fact that he had clearly gotten to her. The pain might be making her delirious, or keeping any filters she had in place from working, but his attempts to annoy her had evidently been successful. “I don’t know, but you sound awfully defensive.” He replied, ignoring the comment on his stupidity as he focused on his task. For a brief moment he could see an element of fear, or anxiety. Something that made the woman beneath him seem incredibly vulnerable. It didn’t feel right to continue in their back and forth when she was quite literally in agony. 

“I know you’re not.” He assured her. “You’re going to be fine, okay? I just gotta remove this thing…” It didn’t matter to him what she was used to. Be it pain, dangerous situations, clumsily applying first aid while sitting in a pool of blood… nobody deserved to hurt like she was currently hurting. Chewing on his tongue as he concentrated on what he was doing, he was still in the process of carefully drawing out whatever had created the puncture wound when she decided to ask about his past. It seemed every time he softened towards her, she found a new way to upset him. He considered her question, despite not wanting to. For the first time ever his heart was aching for the life he would never have. He wasn’t the type of person who went to med school, and settled down. But until recently that had been his own choice to make. Now he couldn’t do those things. Even if he wanted to, they didn’t feel like options. He wasn’t going to find a stable career, or a boyfriend who loved him. Nobody was going to grow old with him. Choking on an emotion he couldn’t quite place, he dug his fingers into the woman’s injury with an unfair amount of force. “No.” He admitted, his voice cold, and distant. “I gave up any chance of that when I chose getting high over going to class.” Twisting his fingers yet again, he tugged at the object embedded in her thigh, his jaw set, his body tense. “And I don’t date.” 

“Not ‘move past’ but….” Deirdre held her tongue; he didn’t want to talk about it. And she, for that matter, wasn’t supposed to care about it. “Don’t you want them to know how it hurts?” She was speaking partially to herself now, delirious with pain and knowing the child didn’t care to listen anyway. “How much you’ve lost? You’re still here, but you’re not you. Not the same. Maybe you’re better off like this. Maybe it’ll be okay. But don’t you want someone to remember that you had a life? A life that was worth living?” And then he laughed, and the sharp sound broke her train of thought. “Or something like that…” she mumbled.

And then it was her turn to laugh, and she did so readily. How funny to be comforted by a stranger. “I’m not going to die because I woul–“ Deirdre’s sentence halted with a cry of pain, she bit down on the inside of her cheek until she could taste sweet copper simply to stop herself from screaming. Her lungs burned as she swallowed down more gasps of agony. As annoying as the child was, she thought it would be wise not to scream right at him. Maybe she really would die, it almost felt like the child was trying to kill her. “Just take it out, you grape-sized-brain having stinky child!” It wasn’t her finest insult, but control in moments of impulse were her specialty, and so she also thought it was wise to censor at least some of her thoughts around the boy. “Not ‘give up’...” she spoke through clenched teeth, “you didn’t give anything up, you idiot. Nothing is over until–” you die. Or, that was the adage her family imparted. But he was dead, and what did that mean for him? “–until it’s over.” She rasped, “and don’t act like sadness and loneliness is the only choice you can make.” Deirdre huffed. “Idiot.” 

“I am.” Milo snapped, his voice cracking with emotion, giving away how terrified, and upset he was by the statement. His biggest fear was losing who he was, and now somebody was here, telling him he already had. Blinking away tears, he took a deep breath, desperate to hide how badly her words had affected him. “I’m still Milo, and I still have a life. So you can stop it, okay? Just- just stop it. I don’t give a shit about memorials, or mourning… I don’t…” He swallowed his emotion to the best of his ability, focusing on keeping his hands from shaking. He was trying to do something good, something selfless. Why did it have to be so difficult? Glancing up briefly, he didn’t get to hear why the woman knew she wasn’t going to die, but maybe that was for the best. Her cry of pain reminded him of why he needed to be careful, and despite his inner turmoil, he genuinely didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t like hearing how much agony she was suffering. 

Then she was insulting him again, and it was everything he could do not to make his task hurt even more than it already did. Apparently it was going to be a constant back and forth. “Most people are smart enough to not insult their doctors.” He muttered, any bite from his voice long gone, replaced with a melancholy sense of resignation. “And if you call me an idiot one more time I might actually leave you here.” He added, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as the object steadily became visible. “I’m not acting like anything. I’m not sad, or lonely, so you can fuck off with that bullshit-” He broke off as whatever the spawn had left behind finally came free. It was solid, but not enough to feel like bone. More like cartilage, or keratin. The shape vaguely resembled a nail, but certainly no human nail. It was thick, and rounded, as though it had been pulled right out of a claw. Even covered in blood, the sight of it was enough to cause a jolt of disgust, and repressing a shudder, he threw it away. Whatever it was, he wanted it as far away from him as possible. He heard it clatter against the asphalt, but forced himself to focus on the wound. A fresh surge of blood had been drawn from it, but there was no indication that it was still actively bleeding. Wiping his fingers on his hoodie he looked up to catch the woman’s eye. He wanted to say he had done everything he was able to, he wanted more than anything to walk away, but he couldn’t. Not before making sure she was able to walk herself. So he set his jaw instead, letting out a huff of breath. “You know your body better than I do, is there anything that might accelerate the healing process?” 

Deirdre closed her eyes, listening to Milo’s annoyed bursts through the lens of her fatigue. He sounded like he was trying to speak to her through a wall. And she felt like she was sitting in the pasture again. Beyond them, jingling; wind chimes, cow bells, fae running around with their wood-carved instruments. The sort of place she’d like to be. The world stretched thin, yawned and gasped and snapped back to wet bricks and bloody messes. And the child, who sounded a touch more melancholic than she remembered leaving him off. Must be the inevitable loss of her colourful company. To his credit, her leg did feel better. She ran her hand down, and pressed her palm to the wound. “You’re pretty sad,” she said, looking over at him, “and you sound pretty lonely. But I bet you know both those things already.” Deirdre looked at her leg; she would heal in time, but the thought crossed her mind that she really might just owe this child a great deal more than she was willing to admit. She wouldn’t have died. She could’ve fished the damn thing out herself. She was sure of these things, and yet…  “Thank you,” she said sincerely, the first genuine comment to leave her lips so far. “And I’m sorry. And you’re right, you know, you are still Milo. And I’m Deirdre.” 

The banshee turned her attention to the sky, lazy clouds rolling over bright moonlight. Not everyone who died in an alley got such a sight, and she wasn’t even dying. “My jacket,” she gestured to it, “you’ll find some cash. Take it.” But, to her surprise, the boy was still standing there. As if waiting to know she’d be okay. “Oh, yes,” she smirked, “if you let me call you an idiot a hundred more times I’ll heal so much faster; insulting children sustains me.” She eyed Milo, wondering if he just might storm off instead. “I’ll be fine,” she assured, “you’ve done everything you can for me.” 

Milo couldn’t bring himself to argue anymore. The anger, and annoyance was still burning in his chest, but it was clear the woman wasn’t about to believe a word he said. And that was a lot of energy to expend when it meant getting absolutely nowhere. Regardless, he still wanted to open his mouth and insist he wasn’t sad, or lonely. She said the words with such conviction, as though she knew him better than he knew himself. But the voice in the back of his mind, the one usually responsible for whispers of self doubt, had him wondering who he would really be trying to convince. “Agree to disagree.” He muttered finally, glad to see a little colour returning to her cheeks. It appeared as though her pain was fading. If it was still present, it was far weaker than it had been only moments ago. Faltering in surprise at the unexpected thanks, he realised her voice had taken on a new tone, one he hadn’t heard from her before. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how to react. After everything they had said to each other, he could hardly consider her a friend. Yet she was making herself vulnerable, admitting he had done something to help her. “Oh… uh, you don’t have to thank me. It’s whatever...” He insisted, feeling suddenly awkward. And then she decided to tell him he was right, he was still Milo. The relief he felt was difficult to hide. It was almost as though she had been holding his identity, ready to crush it in her fist, and now she was handing it back to him. Intact, and unharmed. “Deirdre.” He echoed, committing the name to his memory. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you but…” He gestured vaguely to the pool of blood she was still sitting in. “You’ve also taken every opportunity to insult me so…” 

Glancing down at her jacket pocket as she insisted upon drawing his attention to it, he wasn’t about to reject her offer. Maybe somebody else would have, but he knew how valuable money was, how easily it disappeared when you kept such expensive habits. “Thanks.” He said quietly, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small wad of cash. Shooting her a pointed look as he pocketed it, he should have expected something akin to another insult. “I’m not a child.” He countered, taking one last look at her leg. It already seemed to be in the process of healing, but he had a feeling it would be a while until she was able to put any weight on it. “Are you sure?” He asked, needing to know before he essentially abandoned her. “I mean- I can stay here if you want me to?” 

“Don’t take it personally,” Deirdre groaned, “I insult everyone.” She paused, “actually, do take it personally. I want you to be insulted.” She expected him to run, she hoped he would run. Instead he stood there, staring at her with worried eyes and reluctance. Her stomach tensed. She turned her face from him, sickened. She wanted to tell him to stop, yes he had helped her out but she wasn’t expecting him to care. She didn’t care. And she was sure, more than anything, if she told herself that enough times, it would be true. “Have you ever tried nectar, Milo?” She asked, looking over at him again. “Seems to be popular among vampires. You know, that money you have could buy you a good drink. Take it and go find some vampire bar.” She knew what she was doing, and as her mind protested—if the boy already knew, he didn’t need a reminder. If he didn’t, then she shouldn’t have been telling him. But she grinned, toothy and lopsided, eager to assert to the world that she was still the apathetic woman she was made to be. She had spared the spawn that tried to eat her out of a foolish idea that the creature was pitiable. But she wouldn’t make that mistake again. She didn’t care. Despite it all, she didn’t care. She was Deirdre Dolan, born to an ancient religion of pride and sacrifice. She was not going to die in the alley. She was not going to be kind to some stranger. 

“Go on,” she urged him, “get out of here. I’ll be fine, and I’ll heal better if I don’t have to look at your sad face.”

Milo continued to glare at Deirdre with the air of a parent waiting out a tantrum. The woman could say whatever she wanted to say, she had already managed to ruin his mood. He was tired of trying to decide whether he cared about her wellbeing, or wanted to outright abandon her, so he settled on making it clear she was an incredibly irritating presence. If this was what being a doctor felt like he was grateful he had managed to avoid that particular path. Even if becoming a vampire was the alternative. His expression shifting suddenly at the mention of Nectar, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that she knew what it was. But it was jarring, hearing somebody mention the substance so casually. “Once.” He said, his voice cold, and curt. “I woke up dead.” Finally straightening up, brushing off the blood that had dried on his hoodie, he watched some of it as it flaked away. It still smelled enticing, but he wouldn’t let himself dwell on that. Not now. “I’m not going to a bar,” he muttered. “I’m going home. Or I was going home before you decided to interrupt me with this bullshit.” 

Feeling a surge of annoyance at the sight of her grin, he could only assume her pain level had taken a dramatic dip. As much as he hated the fact that it apparently made it easier for her to get to him, he was undeniably proud that he had been able to help in some way. His medical knowledge of the supernatural was questionable, but it seemed basic first aid was applicable to most creatures, human or otherwise. Pulling a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket, he sparked up, pointedly taking his time now that she was clearly trying to get him to leave her. He was more than ready to go, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t satisfied by knowing he could annoy her a little in return before eventually giving her what she wanted. Exhaling a breath of smoke, he faltered, wondering if he really did have a sad face. He hoped not, the idea of people being able to read him so easily made him uncomfortable. And he wasn’t sad, was he? But he could worry about that another time, maybe spend a few more hours staring at himself on his phone’s front camera, attempting to see what other people saw. Tapping ash dangerously close to where Deirdre was sitting, he finally turned on his heel, resisting the urge to look back as he walked away from her. It still felt wrong, leaving her alone like this, sitting in a pool of her own blood, but he trusted her to take care of herself, regardless of whether he would ever admit that out loud. If she said she would be okay, she would be okay. He had done his part, and if he was lucky, he might never have to see her again. 

All of a sudden, guilt flooded Deirdre’s stomach, choking up her body. Slowly, she dragged her blunt nails across the wet asphalt, swallowing back the apology that wanted to free itself from where it was lodged in her throat. She’d only been trying to hurt him, yet knowing she had succeeded in some regard left her mouth acidic. At the very least, his opinion of her would be soured, and wasn’t that what she wanted? She imagined some measure of control and relief in making someone hate her just as much as she did herself. And she could only hope that he did; anyone who had seen her this vulnerable ought to. But he stood there, letting smoke collect in the air and in her nose--scrunched up in distaste. It went without saying that banshees in general didn’t appreciate smoke much, though Deirdre didn’t share her mother’s venomous hatred for it. She only turned to look up at the stars again, Milo’s smoke occasionally obstructing her vision, to her displeasure. She didn’t say anything, and he didn’t either. When the acrid smell of tobacco cleared the air and wet footsteps receded beyond what she could hear, Deirdre turned finally to face the world around. If she was lucky, she’d never have to see Milo again. If she was really lucky, he wouldn’t realize how much of a liar she was. 

Her legs were not okay. She was not okay. But Milo had his own problems; people like him often did. He ought to be spared what lived in the shadows, as much as someone like him could be. He wasn’t all that bad, really. Not that Deirdre would ever tell him that. 

After all, she was never going to see him again. 

[alittleoptimistic]

The Number Six and Other Curses

A Gravity Falls fan fic (a reincarnation AU)

Summary: Though no one knew it, Dipper Pines was born at the exact moment Ford Pines died somewhere in the multi-verse. Twelve years later, Dipper and Mabel’s summer trip to Gravity Falls sparks a flurry of intense nightmares and memories Dipper could not possibly have. Surely, it’s all a coincidence.

________________________________________________________________

Chapter One:  Dreams and Premonitions

Stanley Pines put little stock in religion or fate or all that jazz. He knew a few too many con artists and watched the wheels of injustice and felt lonely maybe a few too many times to believe in God, but he, with the sort of sad wistfulness that colored much of Stanley, sometimes he wished he did. August 31st, 1999, was one of those nights when he was weak.

He pounded up crumbling, damp dirt, a horrid terror gripping his chest like a tentacled beast. He slipped and clawed toward a gleaming red light. A book poked at his ribs and he considered opening it one last time if only to feel okay for a second longer, but the dirt poured thicker, faster, and he couldn’t risk stopping. Heart pounding, he struggled ever upward toward the gleaming red light veiled in mist, but it was too much and he was too tired and they were going to catch up to him! To think, after all this time, this got him. The dirt stuck to his thighs, up to his chest. He clawed upward, desperate to touch the red light, and the dirt clogged his throat, his nostrils, his lungs, with the wretched stench of wet earth. He screamed as it forced him to shut his eyes. It wasn’t fair! He wasn’t done! The weight of it all squeezed him, an ungodly weight, the pain beyond imagination.

Then Stanley was looking down at himself. No, not himself. He flew into the sky, away from wet, grey dirt in all directions, and into the red light, brighter and brighter. The dirt settled, leaving no sign of disturbance. That wasn't quite true. A six-fingered hand reached up out of the earth like a stripped sapling.

No. Nononono! A high-pitched ring rushed through Stanley.

At exactly six AM, Stanley Pines leaped up from the threadbare armchair in his cabin in the woods, scrambling, coughing, choking for breath, and if he was crying, he didn’t notice. “It’s a nightmare,” he heaved. “Jus’ a messed up dream.” He’d had many nightmares like it before. Well, never as vivid or as doomed as that one, but… it happened, sure. Dear lord, he could still feel the weight of that awful dirt on his chest. He could taste it. And then, because he couldn’t stop himself and he was alone, Stan slid to the mat covering the wooden floors and stayed there, eyes blank. The TV blared a M*A*S*H* rerun. It cast green and brown light over the furniture, a wall-mounted rabbit/skunk he glued himself, and Stan’s tightly clenched fists. He breathed in and scrubbed his eyes with the bases of his palms. “Good grief,” he muttered.

It was then that he registered the ringing phone in the kitchen. He considered letting it go. It was six AM, after all. Who the heck was calling him in the night (morning?) anyway? Why did Stan even have a phone? Who had the number? Why six am? Why did this have to happen? What was he forgetting? If he answered the phone and someone told him they had a very special deal for him, he was going to tear the dang thing out of the wall.

Stan struggled to his feet, cracked his back, shuttered, and shuffled in his slippers to the kitchen.

“Stan Pines here, whaddaya want?”

“Uncle Stan! It- it’s happened! Oh my goodness, I can’t even think!”

Stan pulled the phone from his ear. “David? Is that you?” It all came rushing back. Oh! Right! That’s why Stan fell asleep down here in the first place! David’s girlfriend was in labor! “Ey! Congratulations, kid! What’re you gonna name it?”

“Them, rather!” David sounded a little shell-shocked. Giddy, but definitely glazed.

“‘M sorry?”

“Twins, Stan. A girl and a boy!”

Stan blinked. A rather horrible feeling washed over him, a horrible, unfair, selfish feeling. “T-twins? You weren’t expecting twins!”

“No, the doctors are baffled! I’m just- I mean, I’m completely overwhelmed, don’t get me wrong,  we did not prepare for two babies! We only have stuff for our little Mabel and now there’s a boy too! But it’s like, the more the merrier, right? “ He laughed, breathless, “Two kids, Stan! Oh my gosh, how on earth am I supposed to take care of… you know what, I’ll think about that later.”

Stan cleared his throat. “That’s fantastic, Dave!” and he was earnest, really. He couldn’t be happier for his nephew. Even if he and his girlfriend were… quite young. She was older, he believed. Nineteen, maybe?

“Guess twins must run in the family, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“Say, I just got off the phone with Dad. He’s comin’ in with Carrie tomorrow. I know you said you were busy with the Mystery Shack and all…”

The request went unsaid, but Stan knew what David wanted to say. He rubbed the back of his neck. He avoided his family. It was bad enough taking Stanford’s name. He’d rather impersonate him as little as he had too. Luckily for his nephew, David had never known the original Stanford, so it was easier to just be himself around him. He’d planned on sitting this out. He didn’t even know David’s girlfriend- couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. But… the idea of staying in this cabin alone for a minute longer made his head spin. The dream was like a vulture circling around him, and Stan knew, deep in his gut, something he never allowed himself to truly consider. If he ever got that damn portal to work, he would rescue something to lie to rest. His thumb shook on his lip as he pushed the feeling down.

“... I can spare a few days.”

“I don’t want to pressure you-”

“You ain’t pressuring me! I’m coming and you can’t stop me! Twins! Ha! I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? ! Don’t do anything rash, Stan! You don’t have to-”

Stan cackled. “See ya, kid! Rest while you can!”

“... Alright, Uncle Stan. ”

Stan slammed the phone onto the receiver and swallowed. He caught his fussy reflection in the dark kitchen window. He forced a grin, more of a grimace, and patted his disheveled hair. He refused to- No, He didn’t know for certain. “Twins, Ford,” he whispered. “Can you believe it?” His reflection’s eyes grew misty.

Yeah. It was time to get out of this cabin.

________________________________________________________________

   David hated working late, but it happened more and more often. Joe needed help, and he was the only mechanic who was actually half good at his job (if he said so himself) and David needed the money. He’d been right to go to trade school as soon as he found out his girlfriend was pregnant. He was sixteen and a half and that was… well, it sucked, but it was sort of ‘par with the course for the Pine’s family.’  That’s what his dad’s wife said, anyway. He learned later his dad didn’t talk to her for three days after that comment. He did not blame him in the slightest. He didn’t hate Carrie or anything, she just wasn’t his mom and, as such, would... never measure up. She was also an incredible pain in the neck, but that's beside the point. It was a running joke that his dad had snagged a cougar for her money, which had been hilarious until Carrie shrugged airily at the suggestion and his dad turned beet red at the kitchen table, and David suddenly had the thought that oh gosh maybe the joke was- nope. Not going there. He had other things to focus on.

Like his kids and his hot wife and their tiny apartment that she’d turned into something homey and good. It smelled like tacos today. His keys rattled as he set them on the counter and hung up his jacket.

“DADDY!!” came a shrill shriek from the other room, followed by a pitter-patter of feet. A ball of pink giggled madly. He threw her in the air. “Wook, Dad!” She held up a paper… reindeer? Was that what it was supposed to be? “It’s for the chee!”

“For the tree?”

“Yes!! Cissmas chee!”

“You make that in school? I… like all the eyeballs, baby. That’s a lot of eyeballs.”

The kitchen was smoking, and he could hear Anna banging pans. “Mason, four forks! We’re setting the table, remember? Buddy, you can’t carry the- oh dear.”

   Mabel balancing on his feet, David walked through the little living room and into an even smaller kitchen. We’re going to need a bigger house, eventually.

“Hey, honey.”

Anna turned around, Mason halfway picked up, a bundle of cups and forks somehow grasped in the other hand. She pushed a strand of loose brown hair behind her ear with the back of her hand. She was in her scrubs. “You’re home! Dave, it’s almost seven thirty!” Mason squirmed out of her hands and quietly took the cups and forks. He struggled for a moment before sticking the forks into the cups, and then, problem solved, lit up and set the cups and forks on the table. As usual, David was… not getting even a hello from his son.

“Joe had me stay late.”

Anna scoffed, throwing taco meat onto plates and stuffing a taco into her mouth. “e’ can kiss my ah’” She swallowed. “Mabel, we’re going to sit down. It’s tacos!”

“Tacos!” Mabel squealed. “I LOVE tacos!”

“I know, baby. Come on, come on.” She ushered her to the table where Mason was already sitting on his booster seat, attempting to pour himself a cup of grape juice. David joined them, swinging Mabel up into her seat.

“Hey!” Anna yelped, grabbing the bottle of grape juice as it wavered above Mason’s cup. “I said you have to ask!”

“I can pour it myself, Mom!”

“You really can’t, bud,” David volunteered. He got himself a taco and took a bite while scooping meat into Mabel’s tortilla. “‘member what happened in the car seat?”

Mason scowled. But he took the poured cup of juice and accepted the kiss on his forehead by his mother. Mabel hugged her mom around the neck, gushing a very enthused, “Good job for at school, mommy.”

“Thank you, baby.” Anna finally caught David’s eye. Her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, and she gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Love you, babe.” And then into his ear. “Wait up for me.” She squeezed his arm.

Oh, David would.

“And... I’m-” She glimpsed the kitchen clock. Her eyes went wide. “I’m late! I’m late!” She scrambled away. “I love you all! David, don’t forget to load and start the dishwasher! Mason can help!”

“Got it!”

The door opened.

“And their homework! They have… why do they give preschoolers homework- They have homework! Mabel still has to finish-”

“I’ve got it!” David called after her. He leaned forward in the chair to see her through the kitchen. “We’re good! Go!”

She smiled, hastily. And… just like that, she left.

For all of three seconds, the house was silent.

Mabel made a popping noise with her spoon and Mason blinked at her before picking up his own spoon and considering it.

“Okay, okay, let’s not- let’s use the silverware for food, guys.”

Mabel set down the spoon and stabbed the taco. “I’m using my fork for my food!” Mabel said with a grin that revealed the gap in her two front teeth.

“Thank you, I see that.”

“I always use my fork,” came Mason’s inevitable, irritable reply. This was rather typical. He’d probably need to have another talk with him soon. Sometimes they took it for granted that Mason was more… competent than his sister. Not unusually so. He was still a four-year-old. But he could read and he spoke clearer, and he just picked up on more than Mabel did. Maybe it was because he was quiet. He was definitely the microphone to Mabel’s loudspeaker. The two of them were fascinating to watch, if David was honest. It blew his mind sometimes. They were growing into their own little people with their own personalities and quirks. Wild.

Dinner went like it usually did, with Mabel finishing everything and Mason picking through his taco like he was checking it for poison. They cleaned up, and Mason showed David very seriously how his mom liked the dishes in the dishwasher. “No, Dad. You gotta line up the bowls. Like this , see?” David humored him because it made the kid happy.

After dinner, they decided that coloring was a good idea. Mabel needed to finish her homework, and it got finished eventually, though it was a little sparkly.

Mason determinedly drew in the ‘blank coloring book’ (as Mabel said) that he liked. He was an anxious kid, and they’d discovered early on it was easier for him to draw pictures than say out loud what was bothering him. David didn’t have any reason to think they upset Mason, but he had a blue crayon in his fist and his tongue out the edge of his mouth, and he was going at it. Maybe he’d just draw something nice for once.

David almost didn’t want to ask. He doodled a puppy for Mabel, who gasped out loud and took the crayon from him to add “Lots an’ lots of puppies fends.”

Clearing his throat, David dove in. “Whatcha drawing there, bud?”

Mason looked up. His eyes were bright. He shuffled the book around and David’s heart sank a little. It’s okay. He’s got an active imagination.

“This is ‘achnimorph. Like a people spider.”

That was… indeed, what the drawing looked like. Mason was probably going to be rather talented at art when he was older. His dexterity wasn’t great now, of course, but it was clear what he’d drawn. A many-eyed person with eight legs and a massive spider lower half- all drawn in blue crayon.

“Where d'you see that, Massey?”

“I just thought it.”

“You just thought it?”

Mason nodded, unperturbed. He flipped a page. He was leaning halfway across the table in his eagerness to show him. “This is a fairy. They’re mean. This is a cowl.”

“A… cowl?”

“A cow and an owl,” he said, like this was obvious. “They lay eggs with milk in them.”

“Oh.” David didn’t dislike Mason’s… inventions. They were just strange and neither Anna nor David could figure out where on earth he was getting the ideas? Both of the kids got nightmares easily, especially Mason, so they watched little tv, and their teachers assured them they provided nothing that would inspire these sorts of drawings. At least today wasn’t so bad. Anna had called him in a panic when Mason drew a ‘skin couch’ one afternoon, complete with bloody stitching in red marker.

“... it makes the cosmic sand go all,” Mason threw his hands in the air. “And this is my other daddy, and this-”

David straightened. Did he hear him right? He flipped back the page. “What do you mean?”

On the other side of the table, Mabel sighed dramatically and melted down in the chair. She would have to wait.

“Mason?”

Something shifted in Mason’s face. There was a timidity there. He was nervous. “You won’t like it, daddy.”

“I’m not going to be mad. I’m just confused.”

Mason considered this and then pointed at two stick figures. One a broad-shouldered man with a terrifying scowl and square eyes, and the other a stick thin woman. “This is my other mom and dad.”

“Your… other- Mason, you don’t have another mom and dad. You just have me and momma.”

Mason shook his head, “No, before I lived here. In the upstairs house.”

David was… at a loss. They hadn’t moved since Mason and Mabel were born. They’d lived nowhere but here. He must be confused. Was he thinking of somewhere they visited? David took another look at the stick figures, tapping a finger on the table. Suddenly it clicked, and David chuckled. “Mason, that wasn’t your other mom and dad. That’s grandma Caryn and Filbrick. We visited them last summer for Filbrick’s funeral. Caryn’s your great-grandma, not your momma, silly.” Mason didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked like, if David pressed it, he might burst into tears.  David pushed bangs out of Mason’s eyes, running a thumb over the six-star constellation on his forehead with a light hand. It was a good thing that Mabel chose that moment to knock a bottle of glitter to the floor.

David pushed the instance into the back of his mind, and he didn’t even think to mention it when Anna finally got home to a (moderately) clean house. Mason filled up the little journal, and it ended up at the bottom of his toy chest, and then in a box at the top of the closet. As time went on, Mason stopped with the drawings, mostly anyway. David would find them, sometimes, in the margins of his books, little, idle doodles; eyes with bat wings, faces with too many teeth, that illuminati triangle, bearded ghosts. None of that was worth worrying about. As long as they weren’t bloody- his mother made that rule- Mason could draw what he liked. But even those doodles faded. School was more time-consuming. They moved into a new house (a house they owned!) and if some of Mason’s many journals got mixed up and lost, no one knew about it. If Mason started turning to Mabel instead of his parents after one of his near-weekly nightmares, well, that was just part of growing up, wasn’t it? He was nearly thirteen, after all.

“What was it this time?” Mabel slurred. She was still mostly asleep, her hair spread across her pillow and a wrinkled mark on her cheek. Her plump grey cat was flexing his claws into the blanket beside her head.

Dipper closed the door, shutting off the gold stripe on the carpet. He sat back down on his bed across the room and sipped a glass of milk. It was his go-to for nightmares. His skin was sticky and cold with sweat. He swiped his eyes and gulped down the rest of the glass. “Just the getting-crushed one again. I think. It’s hard to remember.”

Mabel groaned. “You always say that… need some variety.”

“Tell me about it.” Dipper sat in silence, the glass warming in his hand. He wasn’t sure he was ready to lie down again. He didn’t want to blink too slow, in case he saw it , whatever it had been, that scared him so badly. The least his mind could do was let him know what he was so scared of, but apparently that was too much to ask for.

Dipper looked down at the sound of shuffling sheets. Mabel turned to face him. She rubbed an eye with her fist and yawned. “I was dreaming ‘bout summer. We went to Grandpa Shermie’s again, and he gave me caramel but it got stuck in my braces and I couldn’t talk and I wanted to ride the motorcycle with him, but I couldn’t say anything cause… cause a’ the carmel...” Her eyes drooped.

Dipper smiled. He shifted down on his bed, eyes on Mabel, and tucked his blanket up to his cheek. Time ticked past, and before he knew it, the sun was rising. It was the first day of summer vacation.

To be continued...

[talesmaniac89]

Choices - Dean Ending - 2

New to Choices? Start Here

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Choices is an interactive Supernatural choose your own adventure story where your choices determine the outcome and whether it’s a Dean x Reader or Sam x Reader. Go to the intro to start your story now!

Triggers: Serious injury, hospitalization, pain, violence, blood, angst (with a happy ending), serious injuries, heartbreak, gore (series levels blood, hurt and serious near-fatal injuries).

Choice: [You chose to rush Dean to the car]

Y/N = Your Name 

---

You had no time to waste. You had to get Dean to the nearest hospital.

“SAM! Bring the car around. Hurry!” Your voice nearly broke over the heart-breaking words as you forced them out. Letting the pain and panic force the younger hunter outside into action. Sam was your best friend, he’d understand. Just from the way your voice broke alone. 

Turning your attention back to Dean, your eyes met his slightly dull green ones. You had to get him up. Even if it hurt him, even if the pain would be damned near impossible to deal with. Outside and into the car you knew, with 100% certainty, that Sam was rushing to as your shaking hands moved from the wound at Dean’s side to help the hunter sit up. 

You were careful not to focus too closely on the harsh red that covered your hands and threatened to send you barrelling back into uncontrolled panic as you shifted by his side. There was just so much fucking blood. You didn’t have time to panic. You had to get him up. Had to get him help.

“I know it hurts Dean… But we have to get you up,” Your words were more a sobbed prayer to the hunter than an actual push to action, as he choked on a pained moan when you gently lifted him into a seated position. 

“(Y/N)…” Dean’s gasps for air cut off his words, barely getting your name out before his jaw clenched around another shot of pain.

“We need to get you help. You can do this,” You tried to keep your voice pliable. To soothe some of the hunter’s hurt with soft words as you scrambled to your feet and gently helped Dean up. One arm around his waist as the other put his shaking arm over your shoulders, holding onto his wrist. 

“Just a few steps… Please,”

You tried taking the first of several painfully slow steps towards the door, but as soon as he started moving, Dean’s legs buckled under him. Nearly taking you with him as you reached a bloodied hand out and steadied the two of you against the wall. Painting the faded paisley print a violent red. 

“We got this Dean… You got this,” You gritted your teeth as you half carried him towards the door. He’d be fine…. He was Dean freaking Winchester. You were there. He was a mess, but you’d get him patched up. You swore you would. 

“Don’t…. Cry (Y/N),” Dean could barely get the words out. Every sentence turned into a mix of mumbled comfort, curses, groans and raspy breaths. You hadn’t even noticed you were gasping for breath as the violent sobs wrecked your body, until your strong stubborn soldier pointed it out. You were too focused on the light of the door. Too busy listening for the roar of the Impala. 

Yet Dean had noticed. Dean always noticed. Always trying to catch every single one of your tears. Unwilling to share any of the hurt, any of the scars. Though that same sacrificial need to do good, to be the world’s battering ram, was currently slowly killing him. 

He shouldn’t be worrying about your tears. Tears would slow, they’d dry away leaving no traces of the painful verses they were inscribing on dusty cheeks. But Dean’s injury… God. You could feel the steady flow of life leaving him from where your arm rested around his waist, careful not to aggravate the gash in his side. 

“Shhh… Dean, save your strength. I’m fine… You’ll be fine,” Your words were more of a frantic plea as you finally got him into the light. Stumbling a bit under his weight now that you no longer had the wall to aid you. 

You squinted against the light as you gently helped Dean take the two steps down onto the gravel. Relieved to see the ebony car racing towards you with Sam behind the wheel. 

“Sammy’s here. Just… Stay strong for me soldier,”

—

“This is gonna hurt. I’m… Shit. I’m so sorry Dean, but this is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch,” You gritted your teeth as you shifted your hold on Dean. Your hand reached out as soon as the Impala came to a complete stop in front of you. Flinging the backdoor open and carefully manoeuvring Dean onto the leather seats of his Baby. 

“It’s…” Dean couldn’t get the words out as the pain shot through him. Leaving the man to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut. Swallowing down the groans of agony with a deep grunt as they lodged painfully in his chest. 

“You’re doing good… You’ll be fine. We got you,” 

Hurrying around the car, you slid into the Impala and gently lifted his head into your lap. Your eyes shooting to Sam as he’d turned himself fully in the driver seat. Shock, worry and anguish staining hazel eyes as his eyes followed the blood from your arms down to the jagged cut in his big brother’s side. 

“The Demon he… Dean got… We need to get him to the hospital Sammy,” It physically hurt you to force the younger Winchester into action. Knowing you were leaving him no time to process his brother’s injuries. But you were running out of time. Dean would be fine. He’d got you and Sam. You’d always have his back; you’d always pull him out of trouble. 

But right now, you needed to move. And move fast.

“Yeah…. Ok… Hold on Dean. Alright? Don’t you go leaving us now,” Sam’s voice was trembling and wet with unshed tears as he pushed the Impala back into drive. The engine roaring to life just as your free hand found the bag you’d dropped on the floor mere hours earlier. Rooting around in it as you kept your other hand pushing down on his side, you pulled out the shirt you’d stolen from Dean.

You needed to stem the blood flow. Buy him some time. And your small trembling hand just wasn’t fucking big enough. His life was already soaking into the leather seats as your weak attempt of putting pressure on the wound failed against the fucking final full stop that was threatening to steal him away from you. Folding the shirt over, you pushed it against the wound, gritting your teeth and squeezing your eyes shut as Dean hissed in pain from your lap. 

Your eyes left the awful reality of what the flannel was covering as you focused on his paling face again. Only to be met with closed eyes and shaky breaths. No. He couldn’t go to sleep. He had to fight this. He had to be your strong, always reliable Dean Winchester. At least until you could get him to town… Get him fixed up.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep on me, Dean. Keep those big greens on me ‘kay?” You could hear the rising panic in your faint voice over the roar of the engine as Sam drove like a bat out of hell. Taking every twist and turn on the small farm road dangerously fast in his rush to save his brother.

For a split second, it was like the whole damned world stopped existing. Your breath lodged somewhere just behind your breaking heart as you watched for a sign that he could hear you. But just as fast as your world had stopped turning, it came rushing back again at the flash of red rimmed green behind half closed eyelids. 

“Hey… (Y/N), just in case this is…” 

You shook your head violently, careful to keep the rest of your body still to not jostle him more than the bumpy farm road already was doing. Unwilling to listen to any one of his goodbyes, or apologies for checking out early. You would get him through this. You would save him. Even if you’d failed to have his back. Even if it’d cost you your damn soul down the line.

“Don’t you dare say one fucking word more Winchester. You’ll be fine, you have to be fine. Just focus on breathing and getting better for now. You can finish whatever bullshit you’re trying to spout once we’re back in the bunker with a beer in our hands,” 

“I…” A large bump in the road cut Dean’s second attempt at a preemptive goodbye off, turning the end of his sentence into a gasp of pain that died as a whine in his throat. 

“Please Dean… You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. Just… Shut up and focus on me. We’ll get through this. We’ve been through worse, right?” Focusing on putting pressure on the wound, you let your eyes lock with his. Counting the seconds and minutes whenever he as much as blinked as your hand switched between the flannel and wiping away the pained tears from his eyes. Your eyes barely even registered how the clear stretch of highway had replaced the small farm road as you kept your full attention on the man in front of you.

You’d make it… You had to. 

—

Dean’s breathing was weakening as the Impala tore into the Hospital grounds and came to a full stop right outside the doors to the ER.

He’d kept fighting, he’d been strong for you. Just as he always was. His green eyes were dull with pain and wet with unshed tears as they kept looking up at you. Pale lips moving, though no words came out, with unspoken truths and goodbyes you’d be damned sure to prove wrong. 

Sam had been out of the car before it even fully stopped. Rushing in to get help as you kept cradling Dean’s head in your lap. Pleading whispers soaking the air between you as you begged the soldier to keep fighting. 

You were so lost in him, in the need to keep him safe, that you nearly lashed out at the big hand that landed on your back. Stopping just short of hitting Sam as he gently pulled you out of the car and out of the way of the men and women that were going to save Dean’s life. They had to save him. 

“Please… He has to be fine. I swear to God if you don’t…” You knew you were screaming at the wrong people. These doctors and nurses were not the villains. But your anger and pain had nowhere else to go. You needed someone else to take responsibility, now that the actual culprit was just a pile of flesh and bones, left behind in the nightmarish farmhouse. 

Sam pulled you against him, burying your face into his chest and muffling your empty threats to keep you from actually shaking the doctor that was currently trying to save the man you loved. You’d pushed down your panic and anguish to help Dean. But now that you could fully let yourself feel it; the pain was unbearable. You wanted to scream, to punch something, break something, to hurt someone as much as you were hurting. But instead you just sobbed, holding onto your best friend as he pulled you along into the hospital after the rushing nurses and doctors trying to save Dean’s life. 

Your feet followed Dean’s still and pale body through the doors of the hospital. Your broken, greedy little heart, too pained and still too horribly selfish to let him out of your sight as you broke free from Sam’s arm the moment the big guy stopped to sign Dean in. Desperate to follow Dean all the way to the damned operating room. To have his back, to watch over him as the doctors did all they could to save him where you couldn’t.

Yet, as you reached the first door, a kind, but stern nurse stepped in front of you. Hand out, flat palm facing you as she told you to stop. To wait. The same way Dean had told you to wait for his signal just hours earlier. 

“I can’t… I need to be there with him,” You could hear your own words echo back at you. All feral anger and red-hot desperation. 

Still, even as the hard anger made the nurse flinch and step back, you stood frozen as your heart followed Dean through the door, clinging to his cold limp fingers. Unable to move from the spot and show the same blatant disregard for orders that you’d shown only hours earlier as your legs buckled under you. Hitting the ground just a second before Sam could make it to your side. Leaving you kneeling on the cold, hard floor, as if you were praying to the nurse. To anyone. 

A whispered plea in the sterilised hallway of the hospital. To do what you’d been unable to.

“Please… Save him,” 

—

It felt as if an eternity had passed before the door opened and a tired doctor stepped through it and over to where Sam was letting you lean against his big shoulder. Every second another lifetime as you relived the panicked moments of getting Dean to the hospital. Seeing the life slip out of him, his paling features and dull green eyes in your violently coloured trembling palms. An endless reel of agony; projected in angry shades of red on your skin.

Yet, as the doctor stopped in front of you, you felt as if time couldn’t go slow enough. Terrified that his next words would tear at the rest of your sanity. They had to save Dean. He couldn’t be lost to you. Lying still and cold somewhere on a hospital bed. You wouldn’t be able to go on if he was gone.

Sam’s arm had tightened around your shoulder. The big guy, your best friend, taking the lead as you just watched your still bloodied hands numbly. Unable to look up to determine if there was defeat or promises hiding in the elderly doctor’s eyes. 

“Is he…”

“Yes, your brother will make a full recovery,” 

As the doctor’s voice reached you, you finally managed to look up. Finding nothing but kind truth in the man’s eyes as he looked down at you. Around you, the sounds of the hospital came into focus again, colours blending with light as you watched the doctor spout a lot of big words you couldn’t be bothered to try and understand.

Dean was fine.  

As the doctor talked to Sam you just watched him. Feeling the soft heat of relieved tears against your skin as you waited. Waited for the only words that mattered now that your heart had started beating again somewhere down the labyrinthian hallways of the hospital. 

Licking at chapped lips, you found your voice somewhere among the red raw pain in your throat as you decided to hurry things along. No longer willing to deal with the sedated seconds. Needing to re-join your heart. Needing to be right by Dean’s side, where you belonged. Watching his back as you waited for him to wake up again.

“Can I… Can we see him?”

—

You’d been by Dean’s side for the last few hours. Though your tired soldier was taking his time waking up as you held his hand. But the doctors had promised you he was fine. And you had to believe them. Sam had cleaned himself up in the bathroom, and had forced you to do the same after you’d nearly scared one of the nurses to death with your bloodied appearance. The harsh red coupled with your pale face had left the poor woman thinking she’d walked straight into a ghost.

But past those painfully long minutes, you hadn’t left his side. Your forehead leaning against his fingers and whispering soft prayers into still fingertips, as if you could will them to move with your lips alone. Sam had left a few times, to deal with the reality of the hospital stay. Making up stories and choosing identities to keep the cops at bay where you were too lost in Dean to act or discern reality from daydreams and weak hopes.

Hell, it’d only been a few hours. But you’d already imagined Dean’s hand squeezing yours back more times than you cared to count. Your tired mind playing constant tricks on you. Like sensory daydreams, feeding on your need for him to wake up.

So, when the next squeeze came, you looked up at Sam instead of Dean. Afraid that if you let yourself look at the sleeping hunter, if you let yourself hope he was waking up, you’d just be dragged back into reality by lidded eyes. Yet, as Sam’s tired eyes brightened in a soft smile, you finally let yourself breathe a sigh in relief. He was awake.

Your Dean Winchester was finally back with you.

“Heeeey… (Y/N),” Dean’s voice was a mumbled slur as your eyes turned to meet his hazy unfocused ones. His hand gave yours another weak squeeze as his small half-smile brought colour back into your world.

“Hi there cowboy,” You gave him a small shaky smile back as your words ended in a breathless, relieved laugh. 

“I’m feelin’ all fuzzy. Like all the corners are soft,” Den mumbled, his words coming out slow as he lifted his hand, still holding onto yours. As if the connected hands somehow helped prove his point. The hunter was clearly still high on whatever pain meds they’d pumped him full of during the emergency surgery. Though the doctor had told you it should wear off in a few minutes after he woke up.

“You’re on the good stuff Winchester,” You chuckled, glancing up at Sam to share a short teary laugh at the oldest Winchester brother’s behalf. Relief flooded the air in the room and made it sweeter as you finally managed to breathe properly again. Across from you, your best friend jumped to his feet to find the doctors, leaving you with a slightly high Dean. Sam’s soft smile mirroring your own. You had your soldier back, and he’d be fine.

“Awesome… This is really good stuff. You look so… Bright ‘n pretty,” The soft mumbles that left the hunter chased away the last remnants of pain and shadows as you squeezed his hand and smiled back at his beaming grin. Soothing your heart and soul the way only he could. 

“And… Where am I?” Dean’s words were slowly becoming less slurred as the words left him. The hunter cutting off his own rant about softness as the rest of the world came back into focus around him, sharpening the earlier soft roundness into the cutting edges of reality. The few minutes of soft, hazy bliss were up, leaving the hunter confused, yet still slightly bleary-eyed.

As the worst of his hazy medicated bliss faded, blurry green eyes finally properly focused on you. Any signs of the faded dull light from the rushed race against time in the Impala fully lost to the bright forest in his eyes. Like the last of the early morning dew lifting to make way for another beautifully bright day. 

“You’re in the hospital Dean. You were hurt… Bad. But you’re fine now,” You could hear your own voice break over the words as they brought back pained memories of the close call. Squeezing his hand again you let your free hand brush against his matted sand blonde strands, moving them out of his eyes as his eyes left the room to look back at you. 

“Yeah I… Whoa, whoa! Please don’t cry (Y/N),” 

You hadn’t even noticed the relieved tears streaming down your cheeks until Dean’s hand disentangled itself from yours to wipe at one of your many tears. His green eyes worried as fingertips carefully collected every relieved tear. Not even letting them soak into your skin before he stole the burden of worry from you, to once more place the weight of every single salted drop of anguish on his own shoulders.

“What were you thinking? You could’ve died,” Pulling your head away from his hand you let your tears run freely. The touch of his fingertips, and the familiar worried tinge to his voice, bringing back your earlier desperate anguish in the shape of angry protective worry. 

Curling your hands into the bedsheets, you managed to keep the worst of it under control. Careful to not raise your voice in fear of getting kicked out of the hospital room if you did. You couldn’t bear to leave Dean’s side. Not now. Not when you’d finally gotten him back. 

“I’m sorry (Y/N), but when I saw that son of a bitch rush at you… When I thought of you getting hurt, my body just reacted,” Dean’s hand fell limply to his side, eyes shining in pain at your rejection of his touch. It stung, to see him saddened and hurting. But your worry outweighed it. By a damned metric fuckton. 

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing you,” He added weakly as he watched you angrily wipe away your tears. Your shoulders shaking as you tried to hold back every worried word you wanted to yell at the stupid self-sacrificing soldier in the hospital bed. Damn it, you loved him, but he could be such a stubborn fool. 

“You don’t always have to be a damned shield Dean!” Catching your raised volume, you clenched your jaw to stop from shouting. Aware of the possible eyes on you from the hospital hallway.

“I don’t want to lose you either. I wouldn’t have been able to go on if…” Shivering, you stopped yourself before your own words had the chance to wind you. Knowing that any mentions of him hurt, dying, would just bring back fresh stabs of pain. Even though you knew he was fine. That you could reach out and touch him. 

It was all just too fresh in your mind… Time still had to dull the colours and soften the edges before you could deal with the new scars the close call had carved into your heart.

“Neither would I (Y/N)… I need you to be alive ok? Damn it… You’re one of the last good things in my world,” His low voice shook, barely contained hurt, worry and anger mixing as he watched you. Rough and raw as it broke over the many imagined futures playing out behind green eyes.

“If you died then there’d be no more Dean Winchester. They might as well just toss me on the pyre with you,”

As Dean lifted a hesitant hand again, you stayed still. Not pushing away the soft fingertips that gently traced the shape of your jaw as the hunter whispered the words into the cool air between you. The gentle way he touched you yet another testament to how carefully he treated you. As if you were fractured glass. So utterly breakable that even his fingers could see you shattering into a million little pieces across the hospital floor. 

“You can’t…” Your voice was weak, barely even there, as you let the desperately pained pleading in your eyes convey your words instead. Words you couldn’t make yourself speak, in fear of it being some type of fucking spell that would violently pull Dean away from you. Just out of the reach of your trembling fingers.

Instead you just focused on his fingertips. Your skin buzzing under his touch as soft fingers moved from tracing your jaw to slide down your throat following your collarbone to your shoulder and finally ending as a warm comforting pressure against the back of your neck. His palm gently pushed you closer to him, eyes still locked with yours, as the many words left unspoken echoed in your head. 

You can’t die. Or get hurt. You can’t leave me. Please don’t…

Raising his head up to meet you halfway, Dean gently pulled you closer. Green eyes finding yours just before slowly closing just as his soft lips against yours cut off the endless string of pleas in your mind. Stopping the echoes of pain in your head with an achingly gentle kiss against your trembling lips. Dean barely even brushed against them, before he leaned back to look at you. Hesitant, timid green eyes watching at you, gauging your reaction.

“As I was trying to tell you in the car before you shut me up… I love you (Y/N). I need you to be safe. So, if I have to act like a shield, or distraction, or damned demonic punching bag, I will. Because if they hurt you or worse then, hell… I’m a goner,” 

Looking from the hunter’s green eyes and down to his lips you held yourself back from just kissing him, drowning in him. You’d been so close to losing him without being able to tell him how you felt. Never again. Screw all the promises you’d made to yourself, the endless nights spent painting your bedroom in unshared words of love. You had to let him know. Not just with your lips on his, but with words as well as actions. 

“If you don’t want me to be hurt. Then promise me you won’t do anything like that ever again. ‘Cause I need you Dean. I love you, and I need you here. With me,” 

Letting your forehead touch his, you kept your voice low and soft as you spoke words you’d once upon a time promised yourself you’d never speak. Your lips nearly brushed against his as you returned the tireless soldier’s confession with your own.

“Really?”

As Dean’s eyes widened in awed wonder, you noticed the little specks of gold in them for the first time from your closer, more intimate, vantage point. As if he’s captured rays of sunshine in his eyes. And for a moment, just the briefest beautiful second, those previously unknown shades took your breath away.

“Yes, you stupid, stubborn man. Really,” You chuckled once you finally found your voice again. Still marvelling in your newest discovery, another thing to add to the list of things you loved about him. A list that was sure to keep growing now that you’d made him aware of the heart you’d slipped into his hand oh so long ago, and he’d given you his own in return.

“Next time let me help you. Let’s work together. Not just shield each other. Deal?” You added, holding yourself back from finally fully feeling his lips on yours, like you’d dreamed about more times that you’d care to share.

“Deal,” Dean, your Dean, echoed, before using the hand that still rested against your neck to angle you into a kiss tasting faintly of golden drops of sunshine to seal his promise with an achingly gentle softness.

Dean Winchester was a lot of things. He was a soldier, a man, a brother, a friend, and a loving, kind man. And though you knew it wouldn’t be easy to turn him away from his overprotective need to shield you, you were determined to stand by his side. To see him through it all.

Shoulder by shoulder. Forever. 

 ---

You reached the end - You got Ending 2: Dean: Sweet Deals & Confessions - Happy Ending

[Click here to return to the start and try again]

[Alternatively, click here for the full masterlist breaking down each path] Note that choices are named so it may spoil the experience.

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Please tell me which ending you got in a message, comment, ask or through a reblog. This took a lot of time to make, and I want to hear from you guys, and see if you enjoyed it. That way I’ll know if I should make more as well as know which parts you enjoyed/where I can improve them. 

I already have some ideas for some other ones; an undercover office based one that’s fluff vs. smut… Plus another hunt based one with TFW. But I won’t start them if it doesn’t seem like there’s any demand for them.

You can also tell me which ending you got by clicking here to answer my poll.

---

[linskywords]

criminal-minds-fanfiction wrote a bunch of questions for authors that you’re supposed to let people ask you, buuuut I felt like answering all of them instead of doing my actual job this afternoon. 😄 Here we go:

1) How old were you when you first starting writing fanfiction?

Like 25 maybe? I started writing about a year after I started reading it. I had a fanfiction-deprived adolescence, y’all.

2) What fandoms do you write for and do you have a particular favourite if you write for more than one?

The hockey boys pulled me in years ago and they haven’t let me go. I do sometimes write other things: I almost always participate in Yuletide, and I’ve actually written a bunch of Animorphs fic under a different name (ask me if you want to see it!). Mostly hockey RPF, though.

3) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.

Haha neither. Well, I guess OC’s, if I had to choose -- I don’t read or write reader inserts. But I tend to keep OC’s for original fiction.

4) What is your favourite genre to write for?

I was very confused about fic having genres before I realized this was probably referring to the genre of the canon works. Um...sports. :D

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?

Don’t make me choose my favorite child. Um, probably the first wolfverse story -- I don’t know if it’s the best one, but I’m very grateful to it for starting the ‘verse!

6) If you had to delete one of your stories and never speak of it again, which would it be and why?

None of them, if that’s an option. If I really had to choose...probably the Kirk/Spock fic I never finished even after uploading it to AO3 and promising to finish it this time. I still want to finish it!! But it would be the first to go.

7) When is your preferred time to write?

I don’t have a strong preference. Afternoon/evening. I like having multi-hour blocks, and I use the Forest app to keep me off my phone while I do it.

8) Where do you take your inspiration from?

Plot bunnies come from all over the place: random thoughts, memes, real-life conversations, suggestions from other fandom people. I tend to have a pretty strong “THIS IS A STORY I WANT TO WRITE” response when something grabs me the right way.

9) In your xxx fic, what’s your favourite scene that you wrote?

Haha this is probably why I’m not supposed to just answer all of these in order. XD I’ll answer for my current WIP: the scene where Geno kisses Sid for the first time. So soft. So angsty. 😈 (My own story has cursed me to love Geno. I am doomed.)

10) In your xxx fic, why did you decide to end it like that? Did you have an alternative ending in mind?

In general: I know how my stories are going to end when they start. Sometimes it does evolve a bit as I write. One thing I’d like to play with is including more of the main characters being together at the end of the story, instead of ending it at the moment when they get together; the latter makes sense from a tension perspective, but I’ve been finding when I read lately that I want more of the happy times at the end, so I’m going to try to move in that direction.

11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

Only for typos, I think.

12) Who is your favourite character to write for? Why?

Ooooh. Either Patrick Kane or Jonathan Toews. There’s something so compelling to me about Patrick’s fanon voice. And every love interest in every original story I try to write is Jonny.

13) Who is your least favourite character to write for? Why?

I...don’t really write about characters I don’t like? I wish Auston Matthews would shave his mustache.

14) How did you come up with the title for the xxx? - You can ask about multiple stories.

About fifty percent of the titles I come up with are desperate scrambles because I’ve got nothing. The other fifty percent I have a perfect song lyric for from the start.

15) If you write OC’s, how do you decide on their names?

I only write OC’s in original fiction, but: I’ve been phonebanking lately, and I’ve been writing down all the good names I come across. The best so far is someone with the last name Quackenboss.

16) How did you come up with the idea for xxx?

MAGIC.

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.

Oh...oh no. Um.

“It doesn’t matter what he was thinking about. His knot popped; that’s the important thing.”

Some of you can probably guess what that’s about. :)

18) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?

Mostly on my computer. I have a lot of beginnings of stories I haven’t finished yet; many of them I’ll probably go back to. I tend not to post things until I’m done or close to done with them. (That one Star Trek fic being an exception. Mea culpa.)

19) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?

YES. The 1988 timer one and the 1988 story where Patrick’s a girl who sneaks onto the Blackhawks in disguise. I’d love to do a Bennguin version of both of those.

20) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?

Hm. Some of them I think I rushed a little. More Than I Could Ever Promise, I think it needs a good old-fashioned battle scene in the mountains at the end to really round out the plot.

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

Have I mentioned astolat? What, only two or three hundred times? I should mention her again, then. Give me that woman’s ability to plot. Inject it into my veins.

22) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?

Haha. I often have slightly cringy moments in my old stories. You Made My Life an Adventure, I definitely didn’t really know what I was doing yet...

23) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?

I usually listen to music.

24) How do you feel about writing smutty scenes?

Turned on.

25) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?

Yes. The sequel to My Heart Forgets to Beat.

26) Which part of your xxx fic was the hardest to write?

The Sid/Geno wolfverse story I’m working on now is maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever written. The language barrier is such a new challenge for me.

27) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?

I don’t formally outline, but I tend to have a sense of the major plot beats. One reason I love writing fic is that the plot and world tend to be straightforward enough for that. I have a lot more trouble doing that with original fiction.

28) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fanfiction?

This will radically reduce the amount of time I spend writing original fiction.

29) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?

Like You Have a Secret I think is less read than some of the others because it’s het, but I really love it. Similarly, some of my stories that are inspired by other works (Tangled, Doctor Who, The Giver) tend to be read less because people think they need to know the source material, when really I deviate from the source material so much it’s not important.

30) In contrast to 29 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?

Huh. Probably not. I’m definitely surprised when some stories take off -- Kinda Narrows It Down I wrote pretty quickly, on a whim, and I was surprised by the extent to which it resonated with people. Turns out lots of people think Tyler was coming out in that tweet. XD

31) Send me a fic recommendation and I’ll post it for my followers to see! (The asker is to send the rec not the answerer)

Ooh. Ignoring the terms of this question, but: I just read this TK/Patty story and loooved it. It’s a different take on werewolves than the one I use in wolfverse, and it’s super compelling:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029188

32) Are any of your characters based on real people?

Hahahahahaha. (I mean...less so than you might think.)

33) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?

I absolutely love it when people write screaming flaily responses to my fic. Also anytime anyone says that they’ve been having a tough time and my story was exactly what they needed. Maybe my favorite was the responses to More Than I Could Ever Promise that told me it read like a novel; that meant a lot to me right then.

34) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?

Fandom is amazing; people almost never give me concrit. I did have someone ask once if I randomly chose when to stop writing and just ended my stories there. I was pretty offended, since of course that’s not true at all, but I can see where they were coming from: my stories tend to wrap up after the characters get together, and sometimes there’s a lot of potential story left to tell at that point. But stories have to end sometime.

35) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?

I tend to share them! I find other people’s enthusiasm to be strongly motivating, and sometimes people have awesome suggestions I wouldn’t have thought of.

36) Can you give us a spoiler for one of your WIP’s?

Well, I only have the one. XD Sid...is about to have an important conversation with Mario.

37) What’s the funniest story you’ve written?

Ooh, I’m not sure I’m the write person to answer! No idea, really. My recent TK/Patty is probably pretty funny. Or maybe Quality Time, where Patrick doesn’t understand why he keeps losing track of time when he’s cuddling with Jonny. Anything with a super dumb protagonist, probably.

38) If you could collab with any other writer on here, who would it be? (Perhaps this question will inspire some collabs!) If you’re shy, don’t tag the blog, just name it.

Wow, I have no idea. I’ve never really written a story with someone, so I’m not sure how that would work. I want to say astolat again but honestly I’d be too intimidated.

...no, I’m gonna say astolat. Even if I made a fool of myself I think I would learn a ton.

39) Do you prefer first, second or third person?

Third. For some original stuff I like first person, but third feels right for the hockey boys.

40) Do people know you write fanfiction?

My close friends do. Most of my friends have the vague idea I write fic, but they don’t know my username or anything.

41) What’s you favourite minor character you’ve written?

Patrick Sharp. No question.

42) Song fic - What made you decide to use the song xxx for xxx.

I will legit listen to a new album with a doc open to write down promising lyrics. Titles are HARD, y’all.

43) Has anyone ever guessed the plot twist of one of your fics before you posted it?

I think people guessed where the Tangled fic was going. Though I also liked the guesses that it would be about Patrick’s mullet. XD I don’t really mind when people guess twists -- in the kind of story I write, it’s more about the experience of reading it than about surprise!

44) What is the last line you wrote?

“His parents have always been very respectful of any choices Sid’s wanted to make. They haven’t pried into his private life when he’s tried to set boundaries. But they’re wolves, and they know him a lot better than Jordy does. Sid isn’t going to be able to keep it a secret from them what he’s going through.”

...no guarantee it survives in that form. :D

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?

Getting the story out of my head and into reality! Spoon out that lake, baby.

I also do love the prospect of posting it for people to enjoy and respond to. It’s one of the reasons I find fic so much more rewarding than original fiction, where the timeline to a readership is so much longer.

46) I really loved your xxx fic. If you were ever to do a sequel, what do you think might happen in it?

Things, probably.

47) Here’s a fic title - insert a made up title. What would this story be about?

This exercise might be going off the rails a bit. (If anyone does want to pose this to me, feel free!)

48) What’s your favourite trope to write?

Ooh. Mutual pining. Friends to lovers. Werewolves. :D

49) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?

The first fic I ever, ever read was a random Kirk/Spock one I found through google, and I was like “OMG IS THIS WHAT AROUSAL FEELS LIKE”

50) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

Oh man. Angst, as long as it can have a happy ending. But it just wouldn’t be the same without the smut.

[eccl3ctic0n3]

This Is My Personal Testimony of How God Found Me When I Was Lost.

I Am A Witness and My Testimony is of Jesus Christ the living Word of God

What you FEEL and what you THINK are valid and extremely powerful as these are the things you BELIEVE to be TRUTH thus this is your REALITY!

This is your belief system. Unless you suffer from mental illness therapy and counseling can be very helpful. Just talking about it and getting it off your chest is therapeutic in itself. No matter if it is a friend or a therapists getting things out instead of bottling them up and holding them in is great relief.

I was diagnosed bipolar type I when I was 23 years old. I am 41 now and it has only been in the last 5 years that I have been able to overcome, heal, grow, and experience breakthrough.

Traumatic experiences such as verbal, mental, emotional, physical, or sexual abuse to losing a loved one or friend has a lifelong affect. Therapy and medicine are just tools to help you and give you the skills, knowledge, and some understanding, so you can cope and learn how to manage with the pain and symptoms that remain.

I don't know who needs to hear this but I am telling you from 18 years of personal experience. Actually, 41 years as its only been 18 since I began treatment. Where doctors and medicine failed me for 13 years God did not fail me. I got lab ratted on all that time with powerful psychiatric medications. I spiraled out of control and my behavior landed me in the psychiatric ward of prison in the infirmary. 10 weeks I was locked in solitary confinement on 24 hour lock. I was deemed incompetent and unfit to stand trial. I was looking at two F1 Felonies with sentences from 5-99 years each. For 10 weeks I literally lost my mind and was experiencing full blown psychosis. It was in an instant that God found me and restored me to sanity. I did not find God. He found me.

I was lost and could not tell the difference between my dreams and reality. I slept in 15 minute intervals. In one dream I dreamt that I murdered my two children. I bashed my daughters head into the wall. My reality was this place I was in where no other person is visible was like a purgatory and I was awaiting my judgment to be thrown into hell.

I was on my knees in my boxers bleeding from my head and knuckles. I was head butting and punching the walls. As I was on my knees I was singing, ''My Girl, My Girl, Talkin Bout, My Girl." I was only thinking of my daughter and that I was never going to see her again.

The guy in a cell next to me screamed, " Shut the fuck up!" I just screamed back and told him to come on over and shut me up. What was he going to do we are in solitary confinement. 😅

I lost track of time and I was still singing and I began to cry out to God. Literally bawling and begging I screamed for God to help me. Don't you know the guy who cursed me came to my door and asked me to call his momma for him to bail him out. I laughed and said ain't you the same mother fucker who told me to shut up? Before he answered I just said whatever! Just write the number on a piece of paper and slide it under my door and I will get to it.

Mind you that for those 10 weeks I could not even read or use the telephone because I just didn't know how. The hands on the clock just spun round and round. Still on my knees sobbing I noticed the piece of paper slide under my door. I forgot all about it and I couldn't read or use a phone anyway. But I looked closer and I seen the red writing. This guy tore the last page of his bible out to write the number on. The red writing just caught my eyes and the first thing I seen was this. Revelations 22:16 I Jesus, have sent My angel to you to testify in the churches. I am the Root and Offspring of David, the Bright and Morning Star. As fast as you could snap your fingers I realized that I could read first of all. I then noticed I felt completely normal. I was just wondering wtf am I doing in my boxers bleeding on this floor? 😅 I got up took a shower and cleaned up. The guard came by and stopped giving me a strange look and asked if I was ok. I just said Im fine Im waiting on lunch its almost noon. I could read the time cause the hands stopped spinning.

Finally I got to use the phone and I called home and asked how long I was there. I said 2 weeks? My mom said you been there almost 3 months. I did 6 months and got both charges dropped down to a misdemeanor and 4 years probation. 2 years was deferred. I literally signed out of jail on a PR Bond. No fines, fees, or court costs at all.

That was 5 years ago in October. I never could forget or deny what happened. I knew immediately what the verse meant and what I was told to do. So I have done it this entire time everyday almost on social media.

I had never read a bible before and I was far away from God. I was really on the fence about the whole Jesus thing. What I know now and I knew at that moment was this. Jesus is God! He is the Father, the Son of God, and the Holy Spirit is the Spirit of God and of Christ. There is only one. Omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, and Sovereign Lord over all of creation.

I believe the words of the verse exactly for what they said. He sent an angel to me which is a ministering spirit and a messenger. I got the message loud and clear. So I do exactly as He has told me to.

It has been 5 years and I have not even had a cold. My doctor is weaning me off medications. It was by no means an easy 5 years at all. I suffered with overcoming addiction and the mental illness symptoms I was and still am learning to cope and manage.

There is one thing I learned in addition to all these things since then in talk therapy. I was raised by two narcissistic, one mentally ill, and completely abusive except sexually.

After all those years and all those medications and numerous doctors did not do for me what the Great Physician did in a moment of time.

Don't get me wrong. God has revealed to me that He has gifted these doctors, nurses, therapists, and the scientists or chemists that make these medications. Give or take these crooked sons of bitches.

Just know that God is Hope. Faith or Belief and any good thing at all about man is of God. He is Love. How is Jesus God? All things are possible with God. Just trust Him. Don't worry or be afraid. He has commanded us to be strong and courageous for He is with us wherever we go. He will never leave us or forsake us. He is faithful to keep His word. If He said it. He meant it. It is the Truth. Jesus said His words are Spirit and Truth. These words are Life and Jesus is the Way. The one and only true living God is the living Word of God. He was manifest in the flesh. The holy bible has been tampered with by man and today even more with hundreds of versions. However, man is foolish to think he could ever stop the Power of the Spirit and Truth that is the Word of God Jesus Christ.

Is the Father the Son or the Spirit? Is He 3 in one or one in 3? Don't split hairs with vain debates and argumentative subjects that no man can answer. There are simply things of God that man will never understand. Our finite minds cannot imagine, fathom, dream, or even comprehend the great things of God. He just said don't trip. I got this. Be still and know. Trust Me and Believe In Me. Have Faith! Never give up Hope. Without Hope this Life has no purpose and we have meaning at all. There is just certain death. Then we are worm food.

If it is all just a big story and we die only to find out that's it just black and nothing then fine with me. If we die and it is true and we chose not to simply believe and have the faith the size of a mustard seed. We'd be cursing ourselves not God from hell forever. We would know He was right and we have no defense or a word to say before the righteous Judge.

Life and death. Facts. Choose life or death. It is the most logical, reasonable, sane, and simple choice for anyone in their right mind. So anyone who says its blind faith and completely disregards facts, logic, or reason. You know just as God says. He has used the foolishness of this world for His wisdom. He makes those who are wise in their own eyes, puffed up with pride, and too stubborn or hard hearted to simply admit they do not know. Men fear what they do not know. Rightfully so. You should fear God. Both revere and be a very afraid of the One that can take your life and cast your soul into hell. He gives and takes away. Simple as that.

So remember no matter what the situation or circumstances shit is just temporary. All good things must come to an end. As do the bad. So suck it up, be strong and courageous. Has He not commanded us? He is with you wherever and nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus.

To anyone suffering right now I am by no means minimizing your pain. I feel you 1000% You don't have to believe a word from me. Just know there is someone who is always with you and you are not helpless or alone. You may be weak and in complete darkness that seems like hell. God is light in the darkness. He has the keys to death and hell. So weather life or death, heaven or hell. You gotta trust and believe in Jesus. If not it is your own doing. Most of our problems are self inflicted we bring em on ourselves.

This may be the hardest part for me to tell someone in depression just dwelling and can't let go. Do you know what depression is. It is YOUR THOUGHTS and YOUR FEELINGS. It is therefore YOUR BELIEF and thus YOUR REALITY!

This is self-centeredness. Depression for a while that is justified is one thing. Wallowing in SELF-PITY with the attitude WOE IS ME. MY LIFE SUCKS and nobody understands or knows what I I I am going through. No one could possibly relate to YOUR SUPERIOR PROBLEMS! GET OUT OF YOURSELF for a while. Have an attitude of gratitude. You are alive and if you can feel emotions and you woke up today then you KNOW that you are alive. LIFE is a gift from of GOD. He so loved all of us that He GAVE HIS LIFE so that anyone who BELIEVES in HIM Should Not Perish...SHOULD NOT! But HAVE RIGHT NOW AS IN THIS PRESENT MOMENT. EVERLASTING LIFE. God gave us HOPE of ETERNAL LIFE the FREE GIFT of SALVATION is the LORD OUR GOD JESUS CHRIST the ONLY BEGOTTEN of the EVERLASTING FATHER the King of Israel is the Holy One (Christ) or Anointed (Messiah) our SAVIOR and REDEEMER. Not by might nor by power but by that Holy Spirit of PROMISE which is the PLEDGE of our inheritance.

The only reason one would die when God gave us His Life so that anyone whomsoever at all Believes. The Way is the Truth and He has become our Salvation. He is the very HOPE, FAITH, and LOVE that abides forever. LOVE being the greatest. No one SHOULD die. It is a choice!!! Just like you choose to wake up and be grateful saying Thank You God. Bless you Lord Jesus for the Spirit translated "Breath or Air" of Life and the LIGHT we all see and we have heard the word of God preached and proclaimed to us all. So no one has an excuse to even say I Dont Believe! That is our free will and choice. Another gift from God. He wants you to choose Jesus and dont worry but be happy. Rejoice!! Make some noise!! God is good all the time. All the time God is good. We all have a reason for the very BREATH of LIFE that was blown into Adam's nostrils and he became a living soul. Adam just means man. Human. In His image and likeness. Male and female created He them. If you believe in Jesus and the Good News aka Gospel of the Kingdom and Eternal Life you have every reason on every Day the Lord has made to be grateful and choose to be happy. The Eternal One is the Alpha and Omega. The Ancient of Days is the First and the Last. The Almighty. Beginning and End. Genesis to Revelation. Death and Life He gives and takes away.

I pray you don't waste another moment having a pity party if you don't have an actual reason to be stuck feeling sad for an excessive period of time. It is selfish. Ungrateful.

Your THOUGHTS and FEELINGS are powerful. They are YOURS though. You and you alone have a God given free gift of grace to Think for yourself and Regulate or Control Your Feelings and Emotions. It takes time and it's a process of growing up and becoming a man or woman. He has not given us a spirit of fear, but of POWER, LOVE, AND A SOUND MIND. SELF DISCIPLINE your MIND. We have the MIND of Christ. The Spirit of God and of Christ. The Kingdom of heaven is within. God the Father, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit is all within. What does it say? The Word is near to you, in your heart, even in your mouth.

It is Finished!

Revelation 22:16 21st Century King James Version (KJ21)

16 “I, Jesus, have sent Mine angel to testify unto you these things in the churches. I am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the Bright and Morning Star.”

Isaiah 44:6-8 21st Century King James Version (KJ21)

6 “Thus saith the Lord, the King of Israel, and his Redeemer, the Lord of hosts: I am the First, and I am the Last, and besides Me there is no God.

7 And who, as I, shall call and shall declare it, and set it in order for Me, since I appointed the ancient people? And the things that are coming and shall come, let them show unto them.

8 Fear ye not, neither be afraid. Have not I told thee from that time and have declared it? Ye are even My witnesses. Is there a God besides Me? Yea, there is no God. I know not any.”

[thisisgracetrying]

My fav lyrics from Folklore.

So I listened to the album pretty carefully and wrote down the lyrics that moved me. Granted this album is full of poetry and majesty verses & bridges. This is just my personal take:

The 1: "we were something don't you think so? Rosé flowing with your chosen family & it would've been sweet, if it could've been me" This song is so beautiful because it is not sad, it is not regretful, its just like a trip back memory lane, what could've been but wasn't, and being okay with that.

Cardigan: "I knew you'd haunt all of my what ifs, the smell of smoke would hang around this long 'cause I knew everything when I was young". I truly felt like I knew everything back then. 

The last great american dynasty: "Holiday House sat quietly on that beach free of women with madness, their men and bad habits & then it was bought by me"

honorable mention to: "In a feud with her neighbor she stole his dog & dyed it key lime green" what a master mind Rebekah was. I wish she was my aunt. 

Exile: "Those eyes add insult to injury".

My tears ricochet: "you had to kill me but it killed you just the same, cursing my name, wishing I'd stayed".

Mirrorball: "I've never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try. I'm still on that trapeze, I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me" Honestly, same sis. This reminded me of those times I would completely change myself so people would like me. The constant struggle of not feeling good enough, it feels like it never ends

Seven: "And I've been meaning to tell you, I think your house is haunted, your dad is always mad and that must be why and I think you should come live with me and we can be pirates and you won't have to hide or cry in the closet"

honorable mention to: "before I learned civility I used to scream ferociously anytime I wanted". This song hits differently, I had a childhood best friend (who I still talk to from time to time) and her parents used to fight all the time and it was just very messy, bad and sad, she is okay now. I have plenty of love for her. Also my brother is always telling me that I used to be so happy, free and wild when I was very little, he's always joking saying "idk what happened to you when you got old" and I wish I had the answer lol. 

August: "To live for the hope of it all, cancel plans just in case you'd call". Girl, this song. I've been this girl, many times. The first guy I ever fell in love with, made me believe I was only good enough to be the second option, he was my James, and that stock with me for years. It took lots of self love & therapy to realize that I was worthy of a beautiful and healthy relationship. So I feel deeply for this song. 

This is me trying: "They told me all my cages were mental, so I got wasted like all my potential and my words shoot to kill when I'm mad, I have lot of regrets about that". Is this me? yes, this is grace trying. I've been working on not saying hurtful things when I'm mad, I've gotten a lot better, thank God. Words can be so sharp they can leave the deepest scars.

Illicit affairs: "Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me...". Yup, that's exactly how it feels.

Invisible strings: "Time, mystical time... cutting me open, then healing me fine". Ok so this song is basically me and my husband. We were best friends when I was 14 and he was 16. He was in love with me but I didn't have a clue, we grew apart, but then this invisible string brought us together, when I was living in Argentina & he was living in Colombia, after a few months of talking all day, everyday and long facetime nights, I came here and the rest is story, less than a year from that we got married. He's my soulmate. one single thread of gold, tied me to you"

honorable mention: "one single thread of gold, tied me to you" & "Cold was the steel of my axe to grind for the boys who broke my heart, now I send their babies presents". The growth. 

Mad woman: "I'm taking my time cause you took everything from me, watching you climb, over people like me". It makes me so ANGRY (lol) when people specially men refer to women like "oh she is SO MAD" because no one goes mad for no reason, but sure, let's turn a blind eye to that and just shame the woman. 

Epiphany: "someone's daughter, someone's mother holds your hand through plastic now". I think it's important to remember that every single doctor is someone's relative, friend and partner, we are facing a global pandemic and we need to kind to ourselves and others.

Betty: "If you kiss me will it be just like I dreamed it? will it patch your broken wings? I'm only 17, I don't know anything but I know I miss you". Betty is my favorite song off the album. I love it so much, maybe it's because it's country, maybe it is because the story is adorable (even tho I dislike James for what he did to the August girl) I find it to be sincere and relatable. We have all been Betty and sadly We have also been James, because unintentionally or not, we have all broken hearts and wish we didn't and we find ourselves begging for a 2nd chance. 

Peace: "all these people think love is for show but I would die for you in secret". This verse is just so poetic and heartfelt. I love it.

Hoax: "You knew it still hurt underneath my scars from when they pulled me apart, but what you did was just as dark". Do you feel this one? damn I swear when I first listened to this verse I was goosebumps all over my body. How cruel it is when you give your all to someone, your time, your love your secrets and they just... walk away unbothered. 

So these are my favorites. I loved this album with everything in me, its my favorite so far. This is the album I hoped @taylorswift would make one day. I love the softness, the pureness, the feelings. This album is a gift to us, and I'm forever grateful. I cant wait hear "The Lakes". 

@taylorswift @taylornation

[ngeibheann]

Nobody Needs to Know

don’t ask why i’m doing this just [john mulaney voice] go! FETCH!

For the record, medicine isn't miracles. He's not really sure what it'll take for other people to get that through their thick skulls.

A re-write of The Oaths They Take, almost five years later.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880353

When shit goes south with a dullahan, Worth spends about two hours cleaning wounds, applying runes, and swearing at any little thing that moves. Hanna’s out for the night, medicated to a comfortable sleep on Worth’s insistence that he needs to be asleep unless he makes a break for it to go chasing after the monster again. He puts tall, dark, and dead in charge of making sure he stays asleep, but leaving the room gives him the perfect opportunity to start antagonizing a vampire the second he starts asking questions.

 It’s an awful goddamn pantomime they’ve got going on. Someone gets hurt, someone starts yelling, someone starts punching. It’s a social re-run, with the dialogue blurring together with past arguments. It’s remixed and retooled, and suddenly calling someone a cunt seems fresh and exciting. What’s less fresh would be the right hook to the jaw, knuckles scraping just barely against teeth.

 In their equal defenses, bickering about how much effort Worth had put into stabilizing Hanna probably was going to end with someone swinging. A lot of bloody rage for his apparent ineptitude as a medical professional, a lot of misplaced wish-upon-a-star bullshit about what medicine can do and how fast it works.

 “Medicine ain’t magic, an’ I’m not some fuckin fairy. You, maybe. Not me.”

 The comment is spat out with a tall leer and a bandaged hand running across his face, attention paid to a busted lip. The indignant look Conrad gives Worth isn’t anything new, but there’s a flash of what, regret? That maybe behind all of the bastard bravado there’s something that makes him feel some kind of guilt for hitting him? Shame isn’t tolerated in the clinic, usually.

 Worth crosses his arms over his chest when he realizes the silence is punctuated by that stare. “He’s gonna be out fer awhile. Y’can leave if yer gonna just stare at me like that.”

 Conrad blinks himself out of the daze, mirroring the crossed arms in a bout of defensiveness. “I expected you to punch me back.”

 He doesn’t expect the doctor to roll his eyes, a sigh like a heavy hiss before moving away from his position in their little stage at the center of the clinic, meandering back to a filing cabinet behind his desk. Conrad follows, if only out of morbid curiosity when he hears him mutter don’t feel like it as a response.

 “Wait, wait,” Conrad says, hand dropping onto the scuffed surface of Worth’s desk, only to immediately retract it when he comes into contact with some sort of slick substance that sticks to his hand for a moment. “You’re pissed.”

 Worth doesn’t dignify the analysis with a response, hissing and cursing at the filing cabinet when he rattles it loose on its bearings. It groans and screeches on the rails, metal screams against metal— the contents inside clattering with a glassy clatter and wet noise. It’s enough to cause some flinching on Conrad’s behalf, vampire senses be damned.

 When Worth turns around, he’s got a handle of tequila in hand and a neutral glare on his face. He sidles closer to Conrad, lean-sitting against the edge of the desk and unscrewing the cap of the bottle with deadened abandon. It’s unnatural, his silence stilted and the level of visible malice in him dropped to a complete standstill. It’d be pleasant if it didn’t manage to fill Conrad with curious dread.

 “Don’t tell me you grew a conscience after I decked you,” Conrad says, if only to goad Worth into acting more like himself and less like a haunted mannequin. “I might think you actually—“

 Worth cuffs him in the back of the head, his free hand delivering an open-palmed smack while he takes a belt from the amber bottle. It’s a sharp hit, enough to earn an ow, fuck in response. The look he gets is incredulous, offended, and yet somehow died back to a state of bewildered mystery.

 “Fuck yer conscience bullshit,” Worth finally bites out, bottle hanging loosely from the neck in his grasp. “Yeh wouldn’t be in here pissin’ an’ moanin’ about m’ bedside manner if yeh actually had an ounce a’ competence in your body. All of yeh, fuckin’ amazing.”

 “Oh, so Hanna being attacked by some weird horseman thing is my fault, now?” Conrad asks, and his fists curl at the nod he receives in return to the question.

 “All of yer faults. Stupid as sin, can’t keep that kid outta trouble, then yeh come in and have me patch Little Red Ridin’ Rune back up—“

 “Keeping him out of trouble is like keeping you out of a fucking liquor store, jackass.”

 The interruption earns another swat, only to be stopped mid-swing when Conrad swivels to grab his wrist with some degree of bruising force. Worth swears under his breath, sucks in air through his teeth, and takes another drink.

 Conrad glares back at him, bony wrist still in hand. “So were you always this much of a callous douche, or do you just need therapy and an AA meeting?”

 “What is this, a first date?”

 “Always a dick. Got it.”

 There’s a long pause before Worth thrusts the bottle of tequila in Conrad’s general direction, the tension in his shoulders dropping when he gives a protracted sigh. Conrad doesn’t take the offer, which then lets Worth remember that right, he is a vampire. No matter how much tequila is in his bloodstream, there’s no blood in booze.

 “Take a wild guess why I dropped out.” Worth says, an exhausted command. The bottle sits on the last remaining free space on the desk, atop a stack of messy papers. Conrad finally lets go of his wrist, only to cross his arms and close his eyes in an overblown act of thought.

 “My money’s on illiteracy or completely flunking out.” Conrad says, finger tapping against his arm. He opens his eyes to look back at Worth with a smug grin. “Am I right, or am I painfully right?”

 “I’ve got a BS in pre-med, dickhead,” Worth says, but there’s some degree of a smile on his face. It’s weird, Conrad admits to the existence of some positive expression on Worth as a bizzaro hex, but it’s more welcome than whatever hollow demon was possessing him moments ago.

 “You’re bluffing.”

 “I went t’ fuckin’ NYU. Grossman.”

 Conrad stares back at him, knowing full well the insinuation is that Worth did well, and at some point, had an obscene amount of money. Certainly passed an MCAT along the way, which is possibly the most un-Worth thing he could have ever guessed. But, by the venom in the way he says Grossman, Conrad knows it’s not a lie.

 “So, why’d you leave, then? Money run out?” Conrad asks, and Worth makes a point of looking back to the exam room, as if he could somehow see everything behind the wood of the door. His hands tent together before picking at the gauze on his arms.

 “Yeh ever think about how patient info sounds like bible verses?” Worth asks, which gets a blank stare if only for the insane revelation that Worth gives enough of a damn about the bible to draw that conclusion. “John, 19. Claire, 28. Steven, 14. Like that.”

 Conrad clears his throat to absolve him of any lingering ogling of the way Worth seems to quiet himself when he brings up the suggestion, fixated on his own arms. “Can’t say I have.”

 Worth looks up from his wrists, head slightly tilted. There’s exhaustion in his expression that his voice barely carries. “Y’think about it more when they die.”

 “You dropped out because—“

 “I didn’t have th’ balls t’ watch people mistake medicine fer miracles every night a’ my life? Or maybe it was watchin’ people die?” Worth answers with a question that’s not quite a question, pushing a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. He taps the pockets of his coat, quick to fumble through getting a cigarette and jamming the filter between his teeth.

 There’s a dead silence between them and the click of the lighter, and Conrad finally notices the flecks of red on the gauze covering Worth’s arms. He hadn’t been picking at his skin, but if blood was— jesus christ. Leave it to him, really. Walking around with someone else’s blood on him, despite an apparent attempt to have washed it off if his hands are any sure sign of concern. It’d be poetic if it weren’t so fucking morbid.

 Instead, Conrad opts to put a hand out. “Pass me one.”

 Worth gives him a side eye of insane proportions. “Since when d’ya smoke, princess?”

 Conrad rolls his eyes at the nickname, instead leaning over and taking a cigarette from the coat pocket himself. It’s a risky move, it’s a little too weirdo-intimate, but judging by the lack of protest, it’s probably fine. He mentions something about a metric fuckton of weed in college- art school bullshit and all that jazz. It’s enough of an answer to get Worth to give him a light at least, the two sitting on the table and taking silent drags.

 It was stressful, the bad shape Hanna had been in, and Conrad doesn’t exactly get Worth’s opinion on Hanna, but he knows he has to care somehow. In his own insult you on the operating table sort of way, but it’s still giving a shit. Seeing him visibly shaken feels cruel, almost. Any other day he’d be reveling in the way Worth’s been knocked off his hostile high-horse, but now it’d seem evil. A trespass of some kind.

 He doesn’t know when he started leaning against him, maybe an instinct to hunt for some extra bodily warmth in the chill of the clinic. It’s a bitter late November, and being undead doesn’t do Conrad any favors in the cold.

 He figures it can’t hurt to ask another question, that maybe Worth actually brought it up because he wants to talk about what the hell happened in New York. That maybe he’s moved on from being a petulant child and learned to use his words.

 “Why’d you tell me this?”

 The question is quiet and gets a huff in response, a slow drag hazing the air around them. Worth puts a free hand on Conrad’s shoulder, slowly slinking down his back to give a firm clap against his shoulder blade.

 “Cause,” He says slowly, staring at the front door of the clinic. “Nobody’s ever gonna believe ya if yeh squeal.”

 Of fucking course. Conrad can’t quite make out the tone, if he’s been bluffing the whole time or just pointing out that nobody in their right mind would ever believe he’d ever admit to that, especially to him.

 “Fucker.” Conrad says under a smoke-laiden exhale, opting for the response that gives Worth some plausible deniability to keep up the unshakeable asshole facade.

 “Bitch.” Worth mutters back, hand still idly moving against his back, personal space entirely forgotten in that moment.

 It’s going to be a long night.

[pepperish]

Favorite Folklore Lyrics ♡

Was tagged by my love @marauders-groupie to list my favorite lyrics out of every song on TSwift’s new album, Folklore. My jammm.

1, 2, 3, Let’s go, Bitch!

The 1

We never painted by the numbers, baby but we were making it count You know the greatest loves of all time are over now

Cardigan

I knew you your heartbeat on the High Line once in twenty lifetimes 

    /

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss, I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs, the smell of smoke would hang around this long 'cause I knew everything when I was young I knew I'd curse you for the longest time chasin' shadows in the grocery line I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired and you'd be standin' in my front porch light and I knew you'd come back to me You'd come back to me

The Last Great American Dynasty

And the town said, "How did a middle-class divorcée do it?" The wedding was charming, if a little gauche There's only so far new money goes They picked out a home and called it "Holiday House" Their parties were tasteful, if a little loud The doctor had told him to settle down It must have been her fault his heart gave out 

   /

I had a marvelous time ruining everything

exile

I can see you starin', honey like he's just your understudy like you'd get your knuckles bloody for me Second, third, and hundredth chances balancin' on breaking branches, those eyes add insult to injury

My tears ricochet

I didn't have it in myself to go with grace And so the battleships will sink beneath the waves You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same Cursing my name, wishing I stayed You turned into your worst fears And you're tossing out blame, drunk on this pain Crossing out the good years And you're cursing my name, wishing I stayed Look at how my tears ricochet

Mirrorball

And I'm still a believer, but I don't know why I've never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try I'm still on that trapeze I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me

seven

Please picture me in the weeds before I learned civility I used to scream ferociously any time I wanted

August

Back when we were still changin' for the better wanting was enough For me, it was enough to live for the hope of it all

    /

August sipped away like a bottle of wine 'cause you were never mine

this is me trying

They told me all of my cages were mental so I got wasted like all my potential And my words shoot to kill when I'm mad I have a lot of regrets about that

Illicit Affairs

And you wanna scream Don't call me "kid," don't call me "baby" Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me

Invisible String

Time, mystical time cutting me open, then healing me fine

mad woman

The master of spin has a couple side flings Good wives always know She should be mad, should be scathing like me, but no one likes a mad woman

Epiphany

Someone's daughter, someone's mother Holds your hand through plastic now "Doc, I think she's crashing out" And some things you just can't speak about

Betty

But if I just showed up at your party Would you have me? Would you want me? Would you tell me to go fuck myself Or lead me to the garden?

peace

But I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm If your cascade, ocean wave blues come All these people think love's for show But I would die for you in secret The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me

hoax

My best laid plan Your sleight of hand My barren land I am ash from your fire Stood on the cliffside screaming, "Give me a reason"

The Lakes

I want auroras and sad prose I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet 'Cause I haven't moved in years And I want you right here

   /

Take me to the lakes, where all the poets went to die

That’s a wrap! No, I cannot choose less verses. This was already painful enough!

Will tag @sippedaugustlikewine @bcdaily (if you guys want) and anyone else who feels like doing it <3

[thorinthehottotty]

For the modern thorin verse we got goin on hehe: How would Thorin react to seeing you get into a full fist fight with someone? You're pretty injured, though the other person is pretty worse, and you refuse to seek professional medical attention, so Thorin has to patch you up. You're driving home and bleeding everywhere, how does Thorin cope? (If the blood triggers you, please feel free to ignore this!)

First and foremost, blood does not and will never bother me, but thank you for asking. Im certified in CPR, phelbotomy and first aid. Without revealing too much about me, I come from a very violent family (my great grandma's first husband had a murder suicide and my uncle tried to murder my aunt by burning her alive). I've also dealt with ganggreen, sepsis, vomit, human feces and had to clean some nasty coochies and willies in my time. There is little that bothers me.

Two. Prep, my friend, for this is a topic I know too well for I have not always been the wholesome little darling you all may think me to be.

BEWARE THIS IS KIND OF VIOLET

Let's crack into this.

If you guys are anything like me, you are absolutely not the kind of person one wants to get into a fight with. Dealing with aggressive piss babies, violent jackasses and certified psychopaths hasn't been something unknown to you. It would take a lot to probably get you to the point of physical fighting but once you are there, YOU ARE THERE. You might even completely black out (I have been known to do this I was a very angry child).

It would probably start with a stranger doing something reckless and blaming you. Thorin is caught off guard by the aggressive behavior. Like maybe someone nearly runs you both over and gets out Karen or Kyle style and starts screaming about the whole thing. (I work customer service.) You too a little bit but you quickly cover with a 'yeah, sorry, dude' even though it was definitely not your fault but still to the bewildered Thorin you kinda of just say "hey, maybe they're having a bad day, lets just move on."

And Thorin would start getting visibly angry if they continued to harrass you about it. He'd be about ready to get back at them until sad person tried to lay hands on him. Grabbing him to try to pull him back in a 'don't you walk away' fashion. And instantly you'd be in their face, jaw clenched, fist balled, and instead of screaming you'd just give a really low, quiet warning to them. You're voice tight, controlled as you tell them calmly to remove their hands from his person and walk away before things escalate. This would make the person scoff, especially if you were small. Thorin would maybe be trying to stop you, very carefully, because he would see the fire in your eyes. A dangerous light that borders on mad, as you glare down someone who's probably much bigger than you.

You're holding back as the person taunts you repeatedly, getting in your face, spitting. Thorin would be geared to go at a moments notice but you'd just hold a hand out in a "stay back" kind of way.

You would not swing first. You know better and before Thorin couldn't even react you'd be going into a rage. A hard crack alerting him to some kind of bone breaking as your fist made contact with the person's face. He'd be shocked to see how fast and powerfully you'd move. You were winning, definitely and there was a lot of grunting and violence.

He'd be even more shocked to find people gathering and recording of all things! He'd kind of be in awe of you throwing hands because it was more than punching.

The moment he saw a glint of silver, his stomach would drop out and he couldn't get in between you in time. And all hell breaks loose. You just go completely feral, one second your defensively kicking this person's ass and the next you shattering their nose with your forehead. He doesn't even get the opertunity to see how you do it but the person is screaming as you are throwing them against the ground and just wailing with both fists.

There is a lot of blood concidering. He's dragging you off with quite the difficulty and he's terrified because your face is bleeding and there is definitely something sticking out of you! But he's actually fairly calm (outwardly) since he's seen death and battle.

You've broken the person's nose and both their eyes are turning back but they're nearly unconsious after you slam their head into the ground. Both your lips are split, bloods coating your teeth and your shirt is staining near your wound. He'd be dragging you off and demanding you get medical attention. And your in the car, driving yourself home, cursing and wincing, and he's begging for you to go to a doctor but your refusing and when you get home your pulling out a first aid kit and handing it to him.

Thorin's eager to look at the thing sticking out of your side and youre just grumbling about getting 'shanked with a pen' luckily it doesn't go deep but it still bleeds a lot. He just scolds you for being so reckless as he's holding pressure to stop the bleeding. He'd be nearly frantic.

And when you've both calmed down, he's actually really impressed and proud by how ferocious you were. He's definitely flattered that you actually stepped up to protect him and got hurt in the process but he'd pretend to be more upset because he did not want you getting in more dangerous situations and getting hurt. He would definitely discourage fights.

He knows humans aren't as sturdy as his kin so he'd be worried you'd die from your injuries until you assure him that, you will live. But he takes care of you sweetly and overall more level headed out of the two of you. He makes you promise to seek real medical help the next time and once your not so covered in blood he'd chill out.

But it would lead him to be very curious about your past because it was obvious you'd been in a fight or two prior.

I got inspiration from the song Lydia by Highly Suspect

I think that just about covers that section of it. I got home from work an hour ago and couldn't wait to type this up!

My muscles will contract, your bones will crack

It's just a fact 'cause I am here to win this fight

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Raven”

Y/N is a very unusual metahuman that can use her powerful abilities just once before being turned into a Raven forever; that’s why it’s really strange she decided to sacrifice herself in order to save The Joker’s life. But there’s a reason for everything and maybe the unbreakable curse is nothing more than a blessing in disguise.

“It doesn’t look good,” you hover over The Joker, analyzing the gunshot wound that keeps on bleeding through his green shirt.

“It’s not bad,” he growls, pressing his abdomen.

“Where are you, prick?” someone yells and the echo carries over the words around the abandoned building.

“Do you believe you can escape?” another voice resonates in the vast premises.

“Tick-Tock, Clown!” another man howls in the quietness, certain The King of Gotham has no escape.

“Fuck…,” J tries to get up but he slides back down against the wall.

“I think it’s pretty bad,” you state the obvious. “You’re injured, out of bullets and they are near: your crew won’t find you in time.”

“Shit…,” he groans in pain, the throbbing ache intensifying with each passing moment.

“I’m gonna help you,” Y/N shares her scheme and although the news should make him happy, it doesn’t.

“W-what do you mean?!” The Joker stutters even if he knows the implications of such statement. You’re quiet and he continues: “Why would you do something like that?...”

You smile at his bafflement, the affirmation completely surprising him:

“Because you’re the only one that never asked.”

“You shouldn’t use it on me!” J’s truthful reply is interrupted by the henchmen entering the desolated space where the fallen Prince of Crime has found refuge. “Who am I supposed to talk to if you’re gone?” the genuine question makes you realize there’s actually a soul in this world who’ll miss you.

“We didn’t really talk too much,” you softly chuckle and turn to confront the men halted in their tracks seeing you’re positioned in front of The Joker.

“The freak is here,” a goon whispers loud enough to be heard by the ones arriving behind him.

“Hey Y/N!” their leader detaches from the crowd. “What are you doing here?!”

The lack of an answer combined with the feral expression on your face prompts the mobster to wave his pistol as a sign for truce.

“Let’s not do anything hasty, shall we?... …. Hm?... I’m aware you had so many offers over the years; consider mine again: if you wield your powers to finish the green haired asshole, I will triple the amount of money from the highest bidder!”

You scoff at the absurd idea, describing how stupid you considered the monetary proposals suggested by numerous individuals in the past:

“And what am I supposed to do with the riches once I cease to exist?!”

A bullet shrieks by your ear, ending up in the wall behind where J collapsed a couple of minutes ago.

“Sorry I missed, boss!” the man apologizes and this is enough to set you off; you turn your head to gaze at The Joker, delivering a last warning.

“Close your eyes or you’ll go blind!”

“Don’t let her clap her hands!” the kingpin shouts but it’s too late: a deafening bang fills up the air and the strong light emanating from your body burns J’s closed eyelids. He covers his face with bloody fingers while the screams and smell of torched flesh makes him nauseated; it’s so disgusting he gags yet the insane King can’t help a smirk at the sweet victory, even if comes  with such a heavy price.

Gurgling noises and muffled cries persist for another 15 seconds before they abruptly halt.

“Meet me in dreams,” is Y/N’s final sentence and immediately after the sound of flapping wings queue The Joker to finally open his eyes.

The view is cringe worthy: puddles of steamy, boiling tar scattered all around bearing witness to the consequences of your rage: nobody’s alive anymore except J and the Raven picking at the clothes you wore earlier.

His cell phone goes off and he has difficulty searching the purple jacket for the item he has no need for.

“Sir! We’re coming! Almost on the 32nd street!” Frost reports in a frenzy and The Joker sneers, wheezing from the effort of trying to stay awake.

“Nice timing,” and he hangs up, muttering to himself: ’”Goddamned jerks…”

The bird suddenly flies in his lap, curiously checking him out.

“I think I’m gonna pass out…” the damaged Clown slowly blinks before losing conscience which is alright since he had to speak to you anyway.

Every time you meet in dreams, you are always waiting for him on this deserted, calm beach staring at the waves in the distance. Today is not different.

He takes a sit by the woman that saved his life, silently analyzing her features: The Joker knows he won’t see them again except in this place.

When you said you didn’t speak much, it was true; if he tries to remember the first instance you showed up in his life, the moment blurs out and disappears in the background of his troubled mind. You would just randomly pop up while he was alone, keeping each other company for hours and often barely uttering a sentence. The eerie Y/N preferred J’s presence simply due to his lack of interest in her unusual power and he tolerated her because she never sought any kind of reward from their awkward connection. In the matter of fact, J never even tried to touch you; it was relaxing to be with an individual that plainly didn’t want anything from you whilst the rest of the world begged for attention: how many requested you aid them and manipulate your ability in order to annihilate their enemies? How many promised compensations beyond measure in exchange of your mighty gift? Way too many.

Yet The Joker didn’t care about it; the most he would do was to share his favorite drink after a new brand of grape juice hit the market.

And now the person he shared with was gone forever.

“Your team is almost at the warehouse,” you address him, bending your knees until your chin touches them. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried,” J indifferently replies. “Told you it’s not serious.”

You snicker at his stubbornness, pointing out the evident reality:

“That’s why you fainted and started to dream about me?”

Your escort huffs, struggling to confess stuff hard to articulate in these circumstances.

“Thank you for…umm…for…”

“You don’t have to thank me; it was my choice and I fulfilled my destiny. It’s over and I’m free. I’ll still visit, ok?”

“Mister Joker! Sir, can you hear me?” Frost’s voice interrupts J’s dream: the gang is searching the deserted property for their leader and the only thing he notices is The Raven flying in circles above his head.

***********

Three weeks later, 9:37pm

The Joker extends his arm and you land on it, gently digging your claws in his skin for equilibrium.

“Where were you all day?!” he scolds and you caw, evoking complaints from the man that can’t sleep without his bird. “I wish you were a nightingale, this way you can chirp some cute songs.”

You fly on his shoulder to peck at the diamond earring, annoyed at his remark.

“Ouch! Ouch!” he shrugs, but doesn’t chase you away. “I recognize crows appreciate shiny things, but it hurts.”

Poking escalates and J vaguely apologizes on his own terms:

“I meant Raven! Raven!!” he repeats and struts inside The Penthouse where your pillow awaits. “Are you hungry?” the Prince of Crime offers a bunch of crumbs and expensive seeds he ordered for the spunky pest. You hop on the nightstand and play with the food, not particularly captivated by the lavish feast.

The Joker rolls in bed, gesturing for the pillow next to him.

“My girlfriend’s out of town, you can crush on her side of bed,” the affirmation makes you float to her cushion, instantly plucking the fabric with your beak, then jump up and down, cawing some more.

The Clown laughs, entertained at the temper tantrum.

“I know you don’t like her and the feeling is mutual,” he caresses the soft, black feathers as you continue to shred Lara’s pillow. “Stoooop! These are fresh sheets!” he pleads and distracts you by showing his patched up abdomen from under the t-shirt. “Look, my lesion is healing; wanna see?” a corner of the bandage is peeled for the guest to properly inspect the stitches.

Y/N bounces on The Joker’s chest, cautiously examining his wound.

“Cool, huh?” he grins and reaches his hand for the book resting under his pillow, surprisingly enough containing your favorite poem. “The Raven. By Edgar Allan Poe,” J emphasizes and you spread your wings with delight, quickly rushing to his neck and cuddle against the playing cards tattoo.

The King of Gotham holds the book with one hand and pets you with the other, his husky tone recites the verses you love so much.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary…” the beautiful, dark rhyme soothes a tired Y/N scarcely recalling what it means to be human.

Yet being near HIM reminds her on how much she longs for what was lost when she willingly sacrificed herself to save the one that didn’t ask to be saved.

*************

Following morning, 8:21 am

The Joker is swimming outside on the terrace and you’re having a blast in the inflatable pool he set by his lounge chair for the enchanted, feathered companion. This is a thousand times extra enjoyable when his new girlfriend is not home!

She’s a complete nutcase, totally obsessed with The Clown and certainly doesn’t understand why he’s paying so much attention to a filthy, gross creature.

Who the hell gets a crow as pet?! Apparently her boyfriend, although he didn’t tell her who you truly are. Why bother? It’s a secret you and J share; nobody has to find out, although plenty of concerned parties would spend a fortune for an update: Y/N hasn’t been spotted recently and it’s troublesome.

“Raven Queen!” J emerges from the pool since he has to take it easy; the doctor said no more than 15 minutes of physical activity every day. “I have a little present,” he yanks at the towel on the lounge chair, unraveling a box full of gold rings, Rolexes and chains under it.

Oh my God, so shiny and sparkly in the morning sun!!!

You fly from your pool straight into the container, happily tapping at the treasures. The Joker dries his body and chitchats with his bird, excited you enjoy the shimmering gems.

“You can steal them and hide them,” he winks and you sure are taking advantage of it as soon as possible. “Do you have a nest?” J inquires and teases afterwards: “Did you find yourself a Raven King?”

That’s pretty rude, you think and swiftly attack him, careful not to scratch his face in the process.

“Cut it out!” The Joker demands and gives up the fight really fast. ”OK, OK, I surrender!” he chuckles as you rise up, gliding in the wind gushing above The Penthouse. The plan is simple: charge at the toxic green locks and pull on the strands, assuring at least two or three hairs will be removed as revenge.  J takes a defensive stance, preparing to catch and keep you captive in the fluffy towel until you calm down.

BANG! the gunshot halts the fun and The Clown Prince of crime watches in horror as The Raven falls to the ground in front of his girlfriend.

“Babe, are you alright?” Lara squeals, kicking the bird at her feet. “I told you having a wild animal as pet it’s an awful idea! I saw the crazy bird attacked you, it might have rabies!!” she kicks you again and the small body convulsing on the hard concrete makes him lose his marbles. “Thank heavens I returned sooner than expected,” the woman explains, nervous to detect the angry Joker stomping towards her.

“What the fuck are you doing??!!” he screams and violently pushes her, slapping the gun out of her hand. Lara stumbles on her own steps, not comprehending why her partner is livid rather than showing gratitude.

“What do you mean?” she gulps and J bends over to pick you up when you let out a cry, the sinister noise resembling a human’s wailing. “The bird was attacking you, I was afraid!”

“It wasn’t attacking me, we were messing around!”

“Messing around?!” the woman mumbles, confused.

“Get a hold of Frost and tell him I need a veterinarian! NOW!!!” The Joker barks as he enters The Penthouse.

“Jesus…,” Lara sniffles and texts, irritated at his behavior. “Why is he so mad about?! The dumb beast is nothing but an outbreak of infection and bacteria!” she maliciously grumbles, sending the message to Jonny.

Something whooshes by her and before she has a chance to see what it is, a bunch of ravens and crows unexpectedly storm at the petrified Lara: they are answering your call, mercilessly tearing and scraping at the enemy.

“J!!! J!!!!” she runs without noticing where she’s going, panicked at the multitude of birds relentlessly chasing her; it’s a miracle she stumbles upon the tiny shed which stores pool supplies and manages to squeeze inside.  

The birds keep on bombarding her temporary hideout as she begs for assistance:

“J !!! J !!!! Please help me!!! J!!!!”

Yet The Joker can’t hear: he raced upstairs to the master bedroom and placed you on the comforter, trying to assess how severe the injuries are; one of the wings is bleeding and there are probably broken bones also.

“Don’t die…” J whispers because it sure seems Y/N is fading away: the bird can barely breathe and for the first time in ages he feels sad. “If you leave, we won’t be able to meet in dreams…”

The King of Gotham crawls in bed, unsure if he should caress you or not; what if he dislocates something else by accident? Instead he kisses the top of your head, the velvety feathers tickling his lips.

The sudden glow radiating from The Raven makes him close his eyes tight: it’s so strong it burns just like when you used your powers to rescue him. It doesn’t last longer than 10 seconds and sensing the light dimmed, J decides to open his eyes. A few black quills still drift in the air and he glares at the tearful Y/N, shocked to see her:

“Everything hurts,” you start sobbing and the bloody arm, plus the bruised torso urge him to cover your naked body with the corner of the quilt. “H-how am I h-here?!” you stammer and grab his thumb while The Joker is in a trance, speechless at the witnessed phenomenon because it’s impossible to come up with a logical reasoning.

Such a shame neither of you realize that even affection coming from a rotten heart can be pure enough to shatter an unbreakable curse.  

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can follow me in AO3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho.