#every single time i have scrapped a spread and started over from scratch I am SO glad I did it. ALWAYS.

[wishjacked]

this week i've been working on the last pages of the volume one of my webcomic and they have been fighting me so hard... tonight I was like fine. let's just start these over from scratch. and the good news is that they're WAY better now... bad news is I uhhhhhh added 2 more pages and a lot more panels ahahaha. how come webcomics so rarely get shorter????

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Shadows and Pills - 2

Summary: Some people come away from the Battle of New York with scars and broken bones. Some come away with nightmares and years of therapy ahead of them. Some don’t come away at all. Alexa comes away with a shadow.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Warnings: RAPE, Torture, Abuse, Self Harm, Negative Images of Psychological Services/Mental Health Professionals, Hallucinations, Stalking, Supernatural Horror, Prescription Drug Use and Eventual Abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, Flashbacks of Violence, Flashbacks of Tragedy, Starving Oneself, Isolation, Physical and Mental Exhaustion, Denial, Self Neglect, Gaslighting, Mental Spiraling, Mental and Emotional Abuse

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Author’s Note: This is not a happy story in any sense, at any point. I could only write this at my lowest places, emotionally and mentally speaking, and I had a hard time coming back from it. This is dark, and it does not at any point get lighter. I relied heavily on my own experiences with mental struggles and took a few pieces here and there from my own experiences with mental health professionals. MY EXPERIENCES ARE MY OWN AND ARE NOT TYPICAL, NOT EVEN FOR ME. If you need mental help of any kind, please DO NOT HESITATE TO REACH OUT TO GET IT. This story was an exercise in mental exorcism, in a sense.

For all the Loki lovers out there, I do not shine him anything like a good or redeeming light here. He is evil incarnate, more or less. I love Loki, I love good Loki and redeemed Loki and misunderstood Loki and just about every incarnation thereof. I needed a villain, and he fit the story.

Above all, please be kind. This was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, and it took me years to work up the courage to post it.

A massive thank you to all my friends for support, especially to @glassjacket and @thoughtslikeaminefield . I say it a lot, but you need to know I love you.

18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT PROCEED

Word Count: 1 - 3785; 2 - 3513; 3 - 1068

In Case You Missed It: Part 1 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

...

Shadows and Pills

2

Morning Routine: Already woken up. Shut off alarm with a shriek of terror by heaving it across the room with enough force that it shatters against the wall. Breathing exercises for thirty minutes to lower accelerated heart rate. Shower until the hot water is long gone and hypothermia is close to setting in, but she still can’t get clean. The thick, mucus-like sensation won’t leave her skin, glue and ashes spread thick over her flesh in a foul assault to her tactile senses that leaves her dizzy and faint if she considers it for too long. Throw out every scrap of food in the apartment; just the sight of it makes her gag and retch. Choke down the meds (the only thing she can stomach, at this point). Throw on clothes she’s mostly sure are on the correct end of her body. Grab her keys, and…

Where…

She always puts her keys in the same spot. Dish on the tiny table by the door. That’s her key dish. She knows she put them there. They are always there. She can remember putting them there; it’s one of the precious few things she knows she can do right these days.

So…

Why aren’t they there?

Thirty minutes turning the entire apartment upside down looking for the keys, ignoring the shadow that follows her from room to room, skittering to a far wall whenever the shadow runs too near, pretending that she is still alone, searching, searching, where the hell are they, I always put them in the dish, I know I dropped them in there, I can hear the clink from when I put them away yesterday where could they possibly have got to it’s not like THEY’D WANDER OFF BY THEMSELVES WHERE ARE MY GODDAMNED KEYS-

A searing, ripping pain tears her from her spiraling thoughts and back to the present where her hands are clenched in her hair, her nails dug into her scalp, and something slick and hot slides between her fingers. She releases her clenched fists, but her fingers come away smeared with blood and clumps of hair, and her shoulders begin to tremble, her mouth quivering and eyes stinging with unshed tears.

“I just...need my keys. I need to breathe. I need my keys. I need-”

<clink>

Her head whips toward the sound, and there they are. In their dish. In the same dish she knows she left them in last night. Where they absolutely were not sitting seconds ago.

“But. I didn’t. They-“

No.

She snatches her keys and flees, followed closely by her personal nightmare.

...

The silence stretches out longer than even Alexa is comfortable with. The constant scratching of the doctor’s pen has quieted, and still Alexa sits, unnerved but unwilling to speak without direction. Answering questions is fine, but if she speaks on her own, she’ll start babbling. And there are a few things she needs to not say.

Like how she’s averaging about an hour of sleep a night, according to her clock. The nightmares start every time she falls asleep. She remembers less and less about any of them, to the point where the only way she knows she was even asleep is the inevitable rip back to consciousness.

And she’s not just missing parts of her dreams. Her days are beginning to blur, individual moments bleeding into others until she’s lost whole chunks of time, hours that are a smear in her memory with no real details. The loss, both of her days and nights, shakes her more than the lack of sleep. What else is she losing, along with her memory?

She can’t tell him why she’s wearing a hat or how she has to set reminders on her phone to stop tearing at her hair, how she has to clean her scalp and hold pressure at least once a day to stop the bleeding and try to repair the damage done by digging nails and ripped follicles.

She can’t tell him about how she can’t look in mirrors anymore. Two days ago, she was brushing her hair out into a ponytail with the intention of wrapping it into a skull-aching bun that might help hold everything inside her head and maybe possibly help her keep her fingers out of her hair, and then suddenly the eyes looking back out at her weren’t her own. Brown bled into ice blue then green in a flash; a wicked, cruel smile curved her lips, and she could feel herself smile, but she wasn’t smiling, and-

So, no, she shouldn’t lead the conversation today. Today Alexa needs a little guidance.

She feels the doctor’s gaze, but there’s less scrutiny than usual. His eyes feel a little more sympathetic than she’s used to, but she still won’t look up. He’s good at getting her to talk, and she needs every ounce of self-control just to keep herself held together and not exploding across his polished, pristine desk.

“Alexa, you don’t look like you’re...How have y-”

She must look pretty wretched if even the doctor is at a loss for words. She wouldn’t know. She has actively avoided all reflective surfaces for two days and has no idea of the state of her appearance. She can’ remember the last time she ate. What’s left of her hair is tucked under a knit cap; she’s cold all the time now, anyway, so the cap is a constant accessory. And it helps keep her hands out of her hair. If her looks are anything as bad as the state of her thoughts-

“I’m sorry it’s so bad for you right now.”

The statement is quiet, sincere, and wholly unexpected. Alexa almost drops her guards, almost meets his eyes. Her hands quake with the effort of maintaining her silence, clutching the edges of her chair with aching, creaking fingers. Her control is as brittle as her nerves; she wants to share, wants to not be alone with the shadow that’s her only company these days, but if the doctor knew…

“Are you sleeping anymore at all?”

She nods once, a sharp, staccato gesture that leaves out more than it says. It’s not a lie. One hour, however broken up in however many fragments, is still one hour, and sleep is still sleep.

“Are you following your medication schedule?”

Another single dip of her chin. She gives herself a little credit for not leaving anything out of this answer. She’s even remembering to follow the dosage increases. Maybe even a couple of increases of her own. Anything to numb, to shut out, to keep...it...away.

“Alexa, are you still with me?”

God, she wishes...everything feels muffled and thick, like her existence is coated in petroleum jelly. She's just so tired, and everything is so heavy and...and difficult…

“I can’t help you if you won’t communicate with me. Help me help you. Anything. Just the basic facts.”

Where to even start? Maybe getting locked up would be worth it if he really can help, can really make this...stop…

“I can ease your pain and get you on your feet again.”

She’s pretty sure nothing can help at this point, so really there’s no need to keep anything back. Being hospitalized can’t be any worse than living like this…

“Relax. Can you show Me where it hurts?”

No.

...no...not here, not…

“Your lips are moving, but I can’t hear what you’re saying. Is there something you wish to confess? The good doctor can’t reach you now, but I am ready to receive your prayers. Speak, Alexa. Tell Me everything.”

Get out, get OUT, I have to go, I can’t, you can’t this isn’t - GET OUT!

“ALEXA! Wake up! You’re safe! Come back!”

Fingers, firm in their grip, but warm and clean and so very present, clench around her hand, pulling her out of her mind and back to the office. The rushing noise in her ears fades until she realizes it is the heaving of her own panicked breaths. She clenches her fingers, catching the doctor’s hand before he can pull away.

She hasn’t touched another person since she left the hospital.

“Please...I just need...a minute.”

He sits in the chair closest to her, holding her hand resolutely, despite any personal protocols to the contrary that he has demonstrated in previous sessions.

“As long as you need.” There is no eagerness, no exasperation, only concern and calm, and it soothes her raw nerves in a way nothing else has. She focuses on the warmth, the sheer thereness of his grip, and breathes, squinting her eyes against the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds.

Too bright, too warm, too…

The fingers in her palm chill suddenly, their embrace tightening painfully. Her hand feels slick, not with sweat, and her teeth begin to chatter. Her eyes squeeze shut as her stomach shatters, and a pitiful mewling escapes her lungs.

“Take all the time you need. I possess the patience of millenia.”

Breathe. Breathe slowly, you’re asleep. You’re exhausted, you just fell asleep. Wake yourself up. You can do this. Just...just breathe and wake up.

And then her hand is free of all contact, and the air in her lungs comes easily. The warmth of the filtered sun returns to her frozen limbs, not overly bright in the least.

“I think our session was particularly productive today.”

The therapist's voice comes from farther away, and she opens her eyes to find him back at his desk, pen in hand, legal pad full of fresh notes. She blinks, swallows, and sits up a little straighter.

“You seem to be making excellent progress with your strategies. Go ahead and up your dosage to the next step. Remember, I’ll be out of town on Thursday and Monday, so I’ll see you again in ten days. You have the emergency number if anything goes wrong?”

She nods numbly, unable to process anything beyond the basic requirements of behavior needed at the moment. He eyes her, his forehead wrinkling in sudden concern.

“Don’t hesitate to call that number at any hour,” he finally says, his fingers steepled to show just how serious, how sincere, he is. “Anything at all, whatever you need to talk about, call that number. The nurse will transfer you immediately if it’s an emergency. Will you call if you need to?”

She nods, a little more vaguely than she intends but her throat is paralyzed, her tongue nerveless and useless. He accepts the gesture at face value, though, and dismisses her with wishes for “continued progress and a good weekend.”

…

Afternoon routine: Stay out as late as possible, put off the inevitable. Stay out all goddamned night if she has to. There’s no point in voluntarily returning home; she knows this with a sense of dread as acute and sharp as the pain in her scalp. So she shuffles on, unseeing and unseen in the city that never sleeps, one of a numberless mass who denies reality for the sanity that fantasy provides, pretending that she isn’t being stalked, that she isn’t haunted by a continuous loop of ghosts and flashbacks of the dead from that day reminding her over and over that she survived while they didn’t, that she must remember them, that she isn't losing her mind, that the shadow isn’t constantly whispering to her, commanding her over and over and over to simply let go.

She pretends that she isn’t blacking out and waking to find herself in bed, night after night, in the midst of torment and debasement that her ragged mind can neither handle nor shut out. The shadow rips at her in a thousand ways, and she feels all of them, every shred of her consciousness pulled apart and examined and manipulated until she can’t remember who she was before this fundamental desecration.

Release yourself. I can break you completely, help you forget the pain and the misery. Let Me shatter you, remake you in My Glory. Only then can you truly be free from pain.

She fights. It’s all she has left, this battle of wills, and she clings to the tattered bits of her remaining self with a tenacity that impresses even the shadow.

How you shine, even in My darkness. Let me turn your burn to an icy one, let Me freeze your pain, let go and drift in My adoration. I shall raise you up; only grant Me entrance, give Me leave, and I will bless you, bring meaning and solace to your piteous existence.

God help her, she’s starting to slip. She just wants everything to end. No one will miss her, no one is depending on her. The only noise her phone has made in weeks are the reminders that she has set. She hasn’t sent in an assignment for nearly a month, and no one has so much as emailed. What is she holding on for, anyway?

You have fought so long and so hard. I can reward your valor, provide you a balm for your suffering. I will keep you safe from pain, from truth, from choice, from other poison devils. I can take the very memories from you, just as I did before, save you from yourself.

What?

And then her mind is flooded with a scene, a memory of the attack, but she sees it from outside herself, as if watching a film with herself as protagonist. She flees as debris falls all around, narrowly missing pipes, concrete, and office furniture as it rains down mindlessly, destroying life after life. By the time she reaches the ground floor of the stairwell, everyone is packed tight and covered with blood, dust, unspeakable filth, and the wretched crowd bursts into the lobby in a blind panic. They reach the street in the same state and turn as one to flee in the direction of least resistance.

Alone in the crowd, Alexa is jerked to a halt, nearly losing her feet as bodies plow around and nearly through her, but she is frozen as if glued to the pavement. There is no safety anywhere. A battle rages around them, monsters everywhere, incomprehensible and terrible, and then the glass lobby doors behind them explode, and Alexa knows the brief but exhilarating sensation of flight.

And then she crashes, and she knows the timeless and terrible sensation of fire. And pain. And crushing weight.

Watching the scene passively, she remembers everything, she feels everything even as her other self does, but now she is also an outside witness to the anguish. She knows the lines of suffering etched on her face and knows that she wears them even now. She feels the words echoing through her mind from that day, a thought, a plea, a silent prayer to someone, anyone who can help, can end her suffering.

How long...minutes...hours...years...just help, please…please, I don't care how anymore, just...end it.

And then a figure drops from the heavens, it seems, falling from one of the monsters’ flying vehicles, and it crosses the street and sidewalk as if drawn straight to her by the waning strength of her silent screams.

An impossibly cold hand grasps hers, pulling her up from the rubble, sliding her from underneath the bits of building as if they aren't present and pressing the life from her, bringing her face to face with darkness. The sun dissolves, shadows descend, and she decides that, as deaths go, hers could be worse.

She is lifted as if she weighs nothing, the fingers pressing into her face. A bitter, gelid frost flows through her veins, and the pain is mercifully dulled, lessened to a mere phantom, and then the god (for surely her savior can be no less to have such power at hand) pulls her into an icy, terrible embrace.

I find Myself in need of a conduit. Grant Me some small space of sanctuary, and in return I shall heal your broken body. Allow Me entrance, now, woman, before you depart this plane entirely. I am your God, your only chance of salvation. Do you accept Me?

His voice is black velvet, midnight shadows slipping across the moon, and she can’t find the will to say no. Giving in is so much easier, hurts so much less, and she feels as if she’s been hurting forever, spent her whole life being crushed to death.

“Yes.”

His lips press to her, but there is nothing tender in the kiss. Ice, death, absence rushes into her, infecting a small fraction of every cell, sinking deep into her psyche before erasing all remembrance of its presence.

Alexa thrashes under the weight of the memories, the weight of the phantom debris crushing her down, only to find the man, the god himself lies atop her, pinning her emaciated form to her ruined sheets. His pale skin glows in the night, his ebony hair falling around their faces in an blasphemous mimicry of a halo. His painful beauty rips one last thing loose within her, and she remembers.

I would that you should allow Me leave to heal you once more, to form you into a proper vessel. I shall alleviate your anguish, and you may sink into My worship with euphoric, blissful abandon.

She is tempted, more so than any other time in her existence. She thought her imprisonment under the shattered building was horrible, but now she knows true torment. And yet, she resists.

Why do you continue to battle? You cannot prevail, and submission will bring you such pleasure as you have never known. Am I not your own personal God to worship? Do you not wish to drown in My blessing, to submerge yourself in My oblivion?

But he is the author of her suffering, as well, this would-be god who attacked her city, killed thousands of people for his ambitions and family squabbles. Who is she to tarnish the world’s grief for her own personal relief?

But he knows what is in her heart and her thoughts; it was there he planted the seed that has grown to strangle her sanity and reality, and he sends pressure through the roots of this vine to dig into her very soul. She shivers beneath him with wordless agony.

His face presses against hers, tongue snaking out to trace a tear track up her cheek, back to its source. Frozen lips ghost over her clenched eyelids, and she swallows the miserable moan that rolls up from her stomach.

I saved you once when I could so easily have allowed you to continue your half-life under the rubble until your flame sputtered and died, as it was meant to. And I shall show Myself once more a merciful, benevolent God. For you, My pet, a gift.

And suddenly there is a space in Alexa’s mind, a blank where something, someone, important once lived, someone vital stripped away. She gets a last glimpse of a smiling woman, proudly showing off a photo of a swaddled infant, of a filing cabinet collapsing, of a curling hand, before Brenda is ripped from her mind like so many strands of hair from her scalp. The pain of Brenda’s death, the horror of her last moments, yes, but also every bit of the love between them.

And then the name is gone, too.

Have I pleased you? Do you see now what relief can be had with submission?

“That...wasn’t...she wasn't yours to take-” But even the memory of the violation is fading, leaving only breathless, panicked horror and dull, aching want in its wake.

The shadowed god frowns, displeasure pressed into every line of his face, and his fingers tighten until the bones in Alexa’s wrists shriek in protest.

Must I nail Myself to a cross or rip out My eye to be worthy of your reverence? I grant you one more gift, then, of choice. One day to consider. Embrace My oblivion freely, willingly, joyously, as you know you should, and feel My pleasure. Or suffer in your belief that this pale, pointless realm offers you anything like what I can give. This shall be My last offering. Submission is sweetest when freely given, but so, too, can I revel in seizing what you so stubbornly withhold.

His lips seal over hers, stealing air and screams alike, and she feels him everywhere at once, emphasizing his threat, his promise. Her traitorous flesh, craving any tourniquet to stem the endless flow of pain, cleaves to his frozen form, curving against his body in a mockery of love making that leaves her stomach heaving.

And then he is gone. His presence, his pressure, his shadow, even his laugh lingers, but his form vanishes with her next thought. She falls from the bed, a perspiring, retching, wailing mess. There is nothing left within her to eject, but her digestive tract makes a resounding effort.

It’s hours until the sun comes up, and she counts every second from where she shivers, wedged tight between the bed and the nightstand. ...

3 (end)

[let-it-raines]

your wonder under summer skies (8/?)

Summer in Storybrooke, Maine means one thing for its residents: tourist season. This year, for Emma Swan and Killian Jones, it means relationships ending and friendships changing all the while they attempt to figure out just what their relationship is. It’s somewhere straddling the line between friends and lovers, and there’s no guarantee of a soft landing if they fall into new territory.

rating: mature

ao3: beginning | current

tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 

-/-

“What time are we supposed to be there?”

“Six,” Killian shouts across the apartment, “but it’d probably be nice if we managed to get there early.”

“It’s your party. They can’t start without you.”

Killian runs his hands through his hair and brushes the front strands back before combing a small amount of gel through it so it’ll stay in place. “It’s a barbecue that I think they realized they were hosting on my birthday at the last minute. It’s not my party.”

“It’s your party, little brother.”

Killian clenches his teeth before he swallows his pride. He’s not going to start something, not now. They’ve had a good day together, and the last thing he needs is to have Liam being passive aggressive to him all night long. He’s been cross for a week now, ever since Killian didn’t come home and asked Liam if he’d let Skipper out in the morning for him.

“Where were you?” Liam asked.

“I was with someone,” Killian mumbled as he pushes through the apartment door. “I’ll try to plan better next time.”

“Next time? So you’ve found your seasonal woman then?”

“Shove it, Liam.”

“If you want me to take care of your dog, you at least owe me some answers.”

Killian turned on his heel and narrowed his eyes. “My personal life is my own. Question it again at your own peril.”

“Oh, so maybe you didn’t find someone. You’re usually cheerier after a night like that.”

“Fuck off.”

He’s got to figure out some kind of plan for Skipper if that’s how Liam is going to be every time Killian doesn’t manage to get home before dawn. That night he’d been sitting in a service station parking lot until seven talking with Emma and had lost track of time, but he’ll have to be more careful.

Or get Emma one of those rope ladders in order to climb out the window.

She’d murder him.

Then again, it’d be better than sending her falling out the window.

The rope ladder, not being murdered.

“It’s a barbecue,” Killian sighs as he grabs a flannel shirt off the hanger and pulls it on. It’s too hot for it now, but it won’t be later. The summer heat fades away as soon as the sun goes down, and he’s certainly not going to complain about it when it’s the best part of any late June day. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I’m ready. We’ve got to pick up Elsa on our way there.”

“Her apartment is on the other side of town.”

“She’s at the country club with Emma. We’re picking her up, too.”

“Oh?” Killian raises his brow.

Liam furrows his in response. “What?”

“Nothing,” he lies, not wanting to push anything. “Let’s go. You can drive. It’s my birthday, and I’m not about to be the designated driver.”

“Consider it my gift to you.”

Emma and Elsa are waiting for them in the driveway of the club. Elsa’s in the shorts and polo she wears to work, the only thing missing the apron that keeps the ice cream off of her. Emma, however, is in a form-fitting black camisole tucked into a white patterned skirt that’s nearly see-through in the sunlight. He’s got no bloody clue how she got away with wearing that to work unless Regina wasn’t around, but he’s certainly not going to complain.

Except for the fact that they’re about to be in an extremely public place where he can’t enjoy her attire as much as he’d like to.

“Hey,” Elsa greets as she hops into the back of the truck. “Happy birthday, Killian.”

“Thank you, love.” Emma’s door opens behind him, and she slides in. “Do we need to take you by your place so you can change?”

“What? My uniform doesn’t scream birthday barbecue to you?”

“You have a giant ice cream cone on your shoulder.”

Elsa’s eyes roll. “I don’t need to change. We can go.”

“Aye, aye Captain,” Liam sighs, his lips pulled into a bright smile as he stares in the rearview mirror. Elsa chuckles and returns his smile, and Killian looks away. He’s not intruding, but it damn well feels like it.

Elsa and Liam monopolize the conversation on the drive to the Nolans’ as Elsa fills Liam in on everything having to do with the wedding. The thing isn’t for three months, but as he’s been informed over and over again, that isn’t a lot of time when there’s still so much to be done.

(There are pictures of flowers spread out across his kitchen counter with notes written on all of them, and he has no idea how that is going to help come up with a bouquet or arrangements when there are at least fifty options that will lead to endless combinations and possibilities.)

It’s nice to see Liam involved, though. He’s usually so wrapped up in work that he rarely does anything outside of that.

But this is Elsa, and Liam would do anything for Elsa.

He gets that trait from their mum, Killian thinks. She was always beyond loyal to the people she loved even when that was to her own detriment.

They pull onto the road that leads up to the Nolans’ townhome, and Liam finds a spot behind Ariel’s car. She’s already texted him three times today to tell him how excited she is for it to be Killian’s birthday, and he honestly doesn’t think he’s known a singular person to have so much enthusiasm.

Liam and Elsa fall into step ahead of him, Liam’s arm wrapped around Elsa’s shoulder, and Killian feels Emma’s hand brush against his as a shiver inches across his skin. He looks down to see if it’s still there, but it’s not. She’s got it pushed into the pocket of her skirt, and when he glances up, he can see that she’s looking in the opposite direction.

Is she avoiding him?

“Did you have a good day at work?”

“It was fine. Regina was the worst, but otherwise it was fine.”

“Oh? Regina was there today?”

Emma finally turns to him with an arched brow. “Why would you think she wasn’t there?”

“Because she’s rarely there, and I know for a fact that when she is, you have to be a little more uptight with your clothes.”

Emma stops in front of the Nolans’ open front door and crosses her arms over her chest. “What are you saying about my clothes, KJ?”

Killian raises his hands in the air and takes a step back even as he curls his lips into a smile he knows is his most earnest. Well, in a way.

“You cut quite the figure in that outfit, love, but I can also see almost all of your figure in the natural light.”

Her eyes widen and the sunlight glints across them to illuminate the green. “You can what?”

Killian gestures down to her skirt. “I can see the outline of your legs through your skirt, Swan.”

“Can you see my underwear?”

“Eh.” He scratches his ear. “Possibly.”

“Well, shit. I’ve been walking around like this all day. When is the sun going to set so I can stop flashing people?”

“In a few hours.”

“Great. So I’m about to flash all of our friends?”

“Every single person here has seen you in the small scraps of fabric you call a bikini. I think you’ll be fine.”

She tilts her head back, elongating her neck, and groans. “It’s fine, I guess. It’s too late to change now unless I want to wear Mary Margaret’s clothes, and I like this outfit. Happy birthday, by the way. Did you get the cupcakes I sent you?”

“Aye. I had the lemon one. I saved the chocolate one for you. I figured you’d picked that one out for yourself anyway.”

“I am neither confirming nor denying that.”

“I don’t tend to eat chocolate, and you sent me one chocolate cupcake in a group of otherwise nicely flavored cupcakes. It’s pretty clear.”

Emma shrugs, but her lips curl up in the corners. “I’ve got something else for you, too.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Mhm.”

Killian sways closer to her and cocks his head to the side. “Do I get it now or is that happening when you come over to get your cupcake?”

“It’s for now.”

“Why, Swan, so close to all of our friends? That’s risky.”

She presses up on her toes, and he swears her lips brush over his. “I’m not having sex with you for your birthday, but I do have you tickets to a Yankees game in August.”

“Bloody hell. Really?”

“Really.” She presses forward and brushes her lips against his cheek. “Happy birthday, KJ. Feel free to take whoever you want to the game, but if it’s not me, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Killian throws his head back and laughs before leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Emma. “Will is going to fight you for it, but you’re definitely a contender.”

“Good. Now let’s go inside. A whole host of people are waiting inside to celebrate you.”

“I think they’re here for the food.”

“Eh, don’t get into the specifics.”

Emma’s right. There is a host of people waiting inside for him. It’s rare for all of them to have off on the same day, especially a Saturday night, and even if he is not one to want a big celebration for himself, it’s nice to get to catch up with everyone. Though, he does remind himself that this was never intended for him, but that doesn’t matter when the food is good and the beer is cold against his lips.

Ruby and Will are currently arguing over the best way to make a margarita, Mary Margaret is offering to set up a competition between them, and David is insisting that doesn’t happen because Mary Margaret and tequila are not a good combination.

“Oh come on,” Elsa sighs, “let’s do the competition. I want to relive Mary Margaret’s bachelorette weekend.”

“Can’t that wait until your own bachelorette weekend?” David groans.

“Mine is hopefully going to consist of a weekend at the spa and the exact opposite of Mary Margaret’s because Anna is planning it instead of Ruby.”

“Hey,” Ruby scoffs, “what the hell does that mean?”

“I think it means that if anyone is going host a party with gummy dicks, it’s going to be you.”

“I did for mine,” Ariel adds in.

“Wait? What?” Eric looks over at his wife, and Killian hears Emma snicker in the lawn chair next to him. “You had those?”

“I did. They were really good. I think I still have some of the packets stuffed away in a closet somewhere.”

“Ruby can get you some more,” Mary Margaret says. “She’s got a contact at the company who makes them.”

“Liam, it seems like we’re all set for your party then.”

Liam tosses a cube of ice at Killian, but he misses him as it skims behind him. “I might let you plan it, or I might let Rob takeover. He’s less likely to get us arrested.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means law enforcement finds my face kinder than yours,” Robin sighs. “And you do have a tendency to, well, get yourself in trouble.”

“I’ve never gotten myself bloody arrested!”

“Okay,” Will claps, “I think we can all agree that I will be the host as I am the only one of the lot of you who knows how to have a good time.”

“Oh, why don’t we do one together,” Elsa suggests. “We can take out one of the big boats for a day and just hang out. Like this, but better because we’re out on the water. We can find a day where Anna can come down.”

“I think that’s a brilliant idea, darling. Maybe we could find a house and get out of the city for a weekend.” Liam leans over and kisses Elsa’s forehead. “We’ll even let Ruby get the dick gummies if she really has to have that.”

“I do. I also want birthday cake, so birthday boy, can we please finally cut in before I have to take the entire thing for myself?”

“Let’s eat cake,” Killian demands. “And have the margarita contest.”

David slumps down in his chair and covers his face with his hands.

They don’t actually hold a contest, deciding that no one actually wants to see Will and Mary Margaret argue for the rest of the night, but Ruby does get her cake. Killian’s body has to be made up of fifty percent sugar at this point in the day, but he honestly doesn’t care. The sun sets and the backyard is lit only by the string lights hanging above them and the lights shining through the windows in the houses across the street. Rob’s left to meet up with Regina, her son, and Roland, and Eric had to leave to tend to the restaurant but left Ariel behind. She’s taken that as a sign that she has to talk his ear off about next week’s Fourth of July beach festival.

“Don’t you remember when you first moved here and you thought it was the worst thing in the world?”

“I still think it’s the worst thing in the world.”

“But it’s so much fun! The city brings in rides and games, and the firework show. My God, it’s like magic. Plus, Eric makes a killing at the restaurant from all the extra people that come in. Oh, Emma!”

Killian glances behind him and sees Emma walking by with half a hot dog in her mouth. “What?”

“Don’t you think the carnival is so much fun?”

She covers her mouth and keeps chewing as she walks over to them. “I think it has the potential to be fun, but it usually ends with some kid throwing up on my shoes or me having to go into work because Regina is fuming over the festival we do for our members not being as lavish.”

“Oh, come on, the two of you need to lighten up. It’s going to be fun!”

“I will try to muster half of the enthusiasm that you have, love.”

“That’s all I ask. Are there still hot dogs?”

“A few more, but you’re going to have to fight David for them.”

“Oh, I can definitely take him. I’ll be right back.”

Ariel leaves them, and Emma plops herself down into the chair next to him before propping her feet up on his lap and kicking off her sandals while she continues to eat her food.

“Were you not considering a plate for that?”

“Nope.”

“Classy.”

She shrugs. “I do what I can. So, how’s your night been? I thought you were going to hurl yourself at Liam earlier.”

Killian’s brow raises. “Pardon?”

“When he made that joke about you likely getting them arrested at his bachelor party you looked like you were getting ready to murder him.”

“Did I?”

“I mean, you pretty much always look like you’re going to murder him, but your jaw did that thing where it clenches and moves all broody and angry like.”

He swallows and blinks at Emma, letting his eyes adjust to the ever-darkening night. There must be clouds in the sky for how few stars are showing, and maybe if he stares at it long enough, he won’t have to have this conversation.

He could really use another beer right now.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d get anyone arrested. You like to play scoundrel, but I’m pretty sure you’ve always been the type to play by the rules.”

“Swan, we both know that’s a lie. Even when I was a buttoned-up Naval lieutenant I still hated not being the one in charge. So many of the damn rules were ridiculous.”

“Like what?”

He draws his finger to his neck. “I would be reprimanded if I had a hickey on my neck. The damn things are unattractive, yes, but I don’t think I deserved to be punished for it.”

“That happen to you a lot then? Your women couldn’t keep their hands off of you? Well, their mouth.”

Emma��s laughing at herself, but he feels his stomach sink with her words. But she doesn’t know. He’s never told her.

And now certainly isn’t the time.

“I think you’d be surprised with how I was when I was younger.”

“Yeah?”

“Aye. I mean, I was still this handsome and charming, but I could keep a woman for longer than a summer.”

“I’m sure you could.”

She shifts her foot on his lap and Killian’s hand falls to her ankle. Her skin is as soft as it always is, and he starts aimlessly drawing on her skin. Does no one believe that he’s capable of more than one-night stands and summer flings?

Though, he doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t exactly believe that about himself. It’s been a long damn time since he was capable of more than that.

A long time since he’s wanted to be.

“But seriously? You two okay?”

He shakes his head and forces a smile. “We’re fine, darling.”

“Superpower, Jones.”

“Can’t it be wrong one time?”

Emma shrugs and takes the last bite out of her hot dog. “It’s probably wrong all the time, but I like to believe in it.”

Killian sighs.

Damn perceptive woman.

“Liam has been a little cross with me since I wasn’t home last week to let Skipper out. He does this. He assumes I’m with some woman and gets irritated because he can’t understand that I’m not like him and can’t find someone like Elsa who I want to marry and settle down with. I don’t know. He’s thought of himself as my father for most of his life, and I know he means well, but his intentions don’t always translate.”

“Was that when you were with me?”

“Aye.”

Emma’s foot moves to shift off of him, but he grabs it and keeps it in place before looking up at her. She’s chewing on her bottom lip and has her head twisted to the side. Light reflects off her cheekbones and illuminates the angles of her face and reaches up into her hair. It’s usually golden like threads from a fairytale, but right now it’s a translucent white that matches the smile he’s usually lucky enough to be graced with.

He’s known many beautiful women in his lifetime, but there is something so undeniably different about Emma Swan.

A yellow wildflower in a garden full of red roses. Some people prefer roses with all of their petals perfectly lined up, but he’s always been a fan of flowers showing up in a place they otherwise do not fit and becoming beautiful all the same.

He’s always preferred a wildflower to a rose.

Emma Swan is undoubtedly a wildflower.

“If I’m coming between you guys…” She trails off and worries her bottom lip. “I don’t know. I don’t want that.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She motions over to where Liam is sitting at a table with Elsa, David, and Mary Margaret. “You and Liam. I’m the woman you’re sleeping with. I’m the one who is keeping you from having this stable relationship you so want. And we both know he would implode if he found any of this out.”

“You are not keeping me from anything. If I wanted something stable, I’d have it.” Killian pushes her foot off of him and leans forward until his face is within inches of hers and he can see the green of her eyes and the freckles on her nose. He likes that there are more nearly every time he sees her. “And last week I was with you because you needed me as a friend. I’m always going to be here for you like that. That’s rule one, isn’t it?”

Emma huffs and blinks up at him before she finally stops chewing on her lip and smiles. “Hey, it’s your birthday. We should be having more fun than this, shouldn’t we?”

And he knows it’s a conversation change. He’s not blind. But he also isn’t in the mood to push Emma right now. She will push back, and it doesn’t always end up being pretty.

“What do you suggest we do then, love?”

“Do you feel like an old school classic with some drinks involved or should we go raid David and Mary Margaret’s game cabinet?”

“Oh, classic, definitely. You want to do the cereal box one?”

“Is that the one where we all have to pick it up with our mouths? That’s kind of unsanitary.”

Killian’s brows raise. “Your mouth has touched many places on me, so I think you’ll be okay.”

Emma scoffs and pushes against his shoulder. “Don’t be gross. We’re going to do ‘Never Have I Ever’ because this is your twenty-eighth birthday, and we’re all super mature.”

“Obviously. We should have let Mary Margaret and Will do their margarita contest in preparation for this.”

“Mary Margaret’s would have won. “

“If you tell Will that, it will devastate him.”

She shrugs and stands up, stepping into her shoes. “I’ll let him keep his pride. Now, c’mon, it’s time to ask each other very pointed embarrassing questions in the spirit of celebrating your birth.”

-/-

-/-

@qualitycoffeethings​ @mrtinski​ @klynn-stormz​ @scarletslippers​ @jonirobinson64​ @snowbellewells​ @therealstartraveller776​ @thejollyroger-writer​ @sherifemma​ @shardminds​ @captainsjedi​ @galaxyzxstark​ @galadriel26​ @idristardis​ @karenfrommisthaven​ @teamhook​ @spartanguard​ @searchingwardrobes​ @itsfabianadocarmo​ @jamif​ @shireness-says​ @ultimiflos​ @nikkiemms​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @onepunintendid​ @bluewildcatfanatic​ @superchocovian​ @killianswannn​ @carpedzem​ @captainkillianswanjones​ @mayquita​ @jennjenn615​ @onceuponaprincessworld​ @a-faekindagirl​ @scientificapricot​ @xellewoods​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @stahlop​ @kmomof4​ @tiganasummertree​ @singersdd​ @tornadoamy​ @cluttermind​ @lfh1226-linda​ @andiirivera​

[oikawasass]

I’m in the mood for some really sad angst so take this.

final goodbyes.

‣ pairing : bakugo x fem reader.

‣ oneshot.

‣ synopsis : after a messy and unexpected fight during a training mission, katsuki finds himself forced to say one last goodbye.

‣ wordcount : 2.3k+

‣ warnings : pure angst, swearing, character death, minor gore.

It was supposed to be an easy mission on that cold winter day, one that was simply for training purposes so the students would be able to begin learning what to do in tough situations from experience, rather than a lecture. A quick sweep of a few thugs in the area assigned to the pair and approved by Aizawa himself. 

The two were confident in the mission given to them, knowing that with their combined strengths It would be a breeze, taking them a few minutes tops. Neither Y/n nor Bakugo had expected things to take such a turn the way they did. The simple thugs they were sent to deal with had brought much more of a punch than either of them had expected. A simple battle with a couple of wannabe villain lowlifes, ( in Katsuki’s words, ) had turned into a 2 vs 16, one of those sixteen people being an extremely dangerous and wanted villain in the area who was called “Pressure.” Despite the rather incredible amount of power the teens had combined, the odds weren’t in their favour from the start.

They were outnumbered, and the sheer strength of not only one of the most wanted criminals in the city, but all of his goons backing him up, it was too much for Bakugo and his girlfriend to handle alone as much as they both hated to admit. The two heroes in training held their ground as best as they could, hoping to buy themselves enough time to call for help, or some sort of backup. Even Katsuki knew that their chances of making it out of there on their own weren’t very high at all. 

It was when Pressure had set off an ear ringing, blinding explosion that things really took a turn for the worst. Y/n and Bakugo had been violently thrown away from each other due to the amount force the blast had administered. The last thing they saw before their vision went white, was the couple’s red and scarred hands desperately reaching out for each other. But they were too late. The villains had fleed before the explosion went off, leaving the couple to presumably die. 

Bakugo’s eyes slowly blinked open, a light fog of dust and rubble from the debris of the explosion clouding his vision. His body tried so desperately to pull him back into the sweet lull of sleep as the pain of his injuries and aching body slowly spread throughout his limbs and joints, but the blonde refused to lose consciousness another time. His injuries were nothing severe or fatal, so there was no excuse for him to stay down any longer. How was he supposed to become number one if he allowed a simple blast to knock him down, after all?

With a sharp inhale and a loud groan, Katsuki pushed himself up off the shredded concrete and into a sitting position, allowing himself to come to his senses a bit more before he forced himself to his feet. The boy leaned back on one of his palms, catching his breath for a moment before a single thought overtook his mind, sending him into a panic.

“Y/n.”


He shot up to his feet, not caring to try and balance himself before frantically running to all the large piles of rubble that littered the snow-covered ground around him. He was throwing metal scraps, large rocks, tree branches, anything and everything in his way while he searched for her.

“Y/N!! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!” Bakugo shouted, in hopes of hearing some kind of response from her in the distance. His heartbeat only grew quicker, hearing the fast pulsating ring through his ears as his panic grew. His determination and will to stay calm in situations like these were long out the window by now. All he cared about was finding his girlfriend.

“Y/N!!” Another heart-wrenching scream of her name left Bakugo’s dry throat. She had to be here somewhere, it's not like she just went and vanished into thin air. 


Bakugo rose his forearm to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the blinding light the setting sun was reflecting off the snow in hopes he would be able to see more clearly. That was when he spotted a shadowed human figure lying dead centre in all the rubble surrounding them, there she was.

He bolted over to the frail-looking girl as quick as his legs would carry him, crashing down onto his knees beside her. She looked absolutely horrible, Bakugo felt himself cringe at the sight of her blood-covered face. She had large scratches covering each of her limbs, as well as a small bump that seemed to be poking out of the inside of her chest, showing she had definitely broken a few ribs. And to top everything off, there was a large metal rod piercing through the lower right of her abdomen, and it was in deep.

“Dumbass, you look like shit.” Bakugo said to her, supporting her head with one hand while using his other to mess around with the small intercom jammed in his ear, attempting to get some kind of reception so he would be able to call for help.

Y/n slowly lifted her gaze to look up at him, a pained chuckle falling from her bloodied lips. “J-just. . cause I-I can't move d-doesn’t mean I w. . won't kick y-your ass f-for that.” She choked out through her raw throat. Bakugo tsked quietly and shook his head, amazed at how she was able to crack a joke despite being so wounded.


“Like you could ever kick my ass anyway, shitty girl. Now stop talking, save your breath.” Bakugo continued to mess with his earpiece, finally hearing some static and the voice of his teacher on the other side.


“Ground zero reporting in, (hero name) severely injured. We need help.” His tone was panicked while his words were rushed out of his mouth. The blonde was willing to waste no time in having help arrive, not with his girlfriend's current state of suffering and deformation. 


“Yeah- I'm at location 23AZ, just hurry up and fucking find me, we don't have time to sit here waiting.” Once Aizawa disconnected, he returned his full attention back to the girl who was practically withering away beneath him.


Taking a strong grip on the sleeve of his costume, he tore off the fabric, ripping it into something similar of a cloth to push against her stomach wound, a desperate attempt to stop the crimson blood spilling out of it. A small cry of pain escaped Y/n’s throat at the pressure to the gash, and Katsuki felt himself flinch at the sound. It pained his ears to hear such an anguished sound come from the h/c haired girl he called his, but her bleeding out was absolutely not an option, he wouldn’t allow it. Not now, not ever. It appears the amount of stress Bakugo was under was evident on his face, his furrowed brows and bottom lip caught between his teeth not able to slip past the observant gaze of Y/n.

“W-worried. . .isnt a g-good look o-n you. . .” She smiled sadly, weakly reaching up an unstable and jittery hand to softly cup his right cheek, using her thumb to try and pull the edge of his mouth into a small smile. Y/n knew her time was running short, and she wanted to see him smile in her final moments, not upset. Though she knew her reaction would be the same, if not worse if their roles were switched, so she understood his concerns.


“What the hell else am I supposed to do, idiot? You’re-You-re bleeding out in front of me goddammit.” Bakugo’s words caught in his throat, a small crack in his voice accompanying the evergrowing agony and worry he felt in the pit of his stomach.

“I-its ok-okay, Katsu. . .It hardly. . .e-even hurts anymore.” She was slipping away quickly, her dazed and tired state of mind disabled her from feeling as much pain as she was actually in. It wasn’t good, she would lose consciousness soon, and that couldn’t happen. Bakugo could see her eyelids struggling to stay open, fluttering open and shut every so often as she tried to stay awake.


Bakugo felt his heart sting in pure fear. Katsuki Bakugo never got scared. He was always confident in his ways and knew that losing would never be an option for him. But right now, he was completely and utterly terrified. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t. “Hey, keep your eyes on me, okay? You-You’ve gotta stay awake princess.” That was a pet name she always loved so much. He felt himself leaning into her touch against his ash-covered cheek. The frigid, bitter winter air and lack of blood flowing through her system caused her to be cold to the touch, her normally warm, comforting hands were practically frozen.

“I kn-know. . .but. . .s-so. .tired. . .” Y/n’s lids fell halfway shut, failing to flutter back open like they had been before.

“No. No, you need to keep your f-fucking eyes open, you hear me? Don’t go to sleep. Just-Just a little longer okay?” Bakugo was surprised at his own stuttering and cracks in his voice, but he was even more surprised to feel a drop of blood trickle down his chin. When he raised his hand to wipe it away, he saw no colour on the skin of his hand. It was a clear, shiny liquid.


Bakugo was crying.

Y/n weakly moved her thumb to wipe away another drop that fell from his tear duct. “d-don’t. . please don't cr-cry. . “ her voice was nothing above a whisper now, the little bit of strength she had left to speak leaving her body. “I-I lo. . love you, ‘kay?” she felt a tear roll down her own cheek. “I love y-you so m. . uch.” She was being forced to say goodbye to someone she knew was her first and only love. Her heart was breaking during the exchange. Katsuki and her had planned to spend so many more years together, make so many more sweet and beautiful memories with each other, cross so many more milestones and hurdles life would throw at them, all while they were one. 

Now the harsh reality was, they would never get to experience those years, memories, nor milestones together.

This was their final goodbye.

“I love you more, stop talking like that.” Katsuki’s jaw was clenched tightly shut, his words slipping out of his mouth through gritted teeth. “You’re not gonna fucking die here, goddammit! You can’t fucking leave me behind!” 


Katsuki’s choice of words was important. Y/n was the only one besides Kirishima he allowed to get close to him, it was true. But Y/n was the one who Bakugo was truly able to open up to, without fear of seeming weak or being judged. She was the only one he allowed to really see his true feelings and emotions every moment of every day, even at his weakest points. She was helping him to grow into the great hero he strived to become, she couldn’t leave him. 

“I-I need you, you idiot! How am I supposed to be satisfied with being number one if you aren’t there being a close number two?! You’re supposed to do this with me!” Bakugo was shouting now, trying to get through to her weakening body as he felt her slowly fade away in his arms.


“I-I I know. . you can do-do it. . without me. . .” her eyes fell closed a final time, the hand she held up against his cheek slowly sliding down his skin as her body went limp. Katsuki quickly removed his hand from her abdomen to hold her it up and keep it from falling. No. She couldn’t die here, not like this, not when she deserved to live such an amazing and fulfilled life as a pro hero, not when he had never taken every moment he got to express just how much he did care about her, not when he couldn’t apologize for things like all the fights he’s caused in the past. 

All the lighthearted bickering they shared, all the secret sleepovers they had in Bakugo’s dorm, Y/n hiding from Aizawa in Katsuki’s closet when he had shown up unexpectedly, the sweet words of encouragement she would speak to him ever so softly when he was feeling low, he wasn’t ready for that to end. Katsuki would never be ready for that to end.


“Y/n. . .” Katsuki’s strained voice choked out, waiting for a response. He didn’t receive one.


“Y/n. Answer me.” He spoke more stern this time with a shake to her body, hoping this was some sick joke and a serious tone of voice would force her into an answer.


It didn’t work.

Katsuki’s body fell on top of her, head resting atop her chest as he felt like he was about to be sick to his stomach. There was a sharp, yet empty feeling in his gut, it felt like someone had just stabbed him.

No more calls of her name left his lips, no more shaking her body while trying to wake her up, it all stopped. Now he was left alone, shattered into what he felt was a million pieces. She was gone. And here he was, laying on top of the near mangled body of his first love, still holding her cold and limp hand to his cheek while he felt something build up and sting deep in his throat.

As his hearing went fuzzy, and all he could hear was his own racing heartbeat in his ears, Katsuki screamed.

Katsuki screamed out of the sheer ache and torment his body felt as she lay lifeless in his arms.

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

Rock You Like a Hurricane by Scorpions 1980: The Party

Summary: Getting to know Billy Hargrove over the course of your senior year. Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Female Reader Warning(s): Controversial canon character, Cursing, Drinking, Marijuana use, NSFW 18+ Word Count: 1,622 Notes: See main masterlist

“What?!”

“I said, it’s pretty loud!” Your best friend yells to you from the driveway. The white split level ranch is practically shaking from the volume of the music coming from the house party. Karen. No Kaitlyn. Maybe Katie? Someone with a K-name’s parents had gone out of town to who knows where and decided to hold the get together you had just pulled up to.

In Hawkins, it didn’t matter if parties were or weren’t your thing. You went. The high school was small enough that everyone who heard about a party always seemed to show up simply to have something to break the routine of boredom in the small town.

You scan the rows of cars parked along the street and freeze in the doorway. Parked four cars down from your best friends was a blue camaro that you’ve come to have radar for. He was here. Your heart beat out short, palpitating rhythms that your brain was unable to categorize as excitement or panic.

You push through the packed living room of the party into the kitchen to fill a cup of whatever alcohol was available. Mixed punch looked the most tolerable. After gathering your drinks, the two of you make your way to the backyard where the music seems to be coming from. Layered below the pounding music comes chanting.

Twenty! Twenty-One! Twenty-two!

A small crowd is gathered around a keg in the back corner of the lawn; evidently the source of the chanting. Crap.

There he is. Billy Hargrove stands like a proud king next to the keg from which he just dismounted. You want to roll your eyes. On principle you despised games of machismo and assertion of who’s dick was bigger. You were ready to pry yourself away and then his eyes meet yours.

School had started a month ago. The sweltering summer heat had faded into confused days of mixed weather. Midday when the sun comes out beaming, you found yourself still breaking a sweat as you walked home from school past the Hawkins Pool.  The mornings and evenings, when the sun was gone, were cool and crisp like they are now. You suppress a shiver but you know all too well it has nothing to do with the coming autumn weather.

Despite the chill in the air, Billy stands across the circle with his shirt and jacket open nearly to his navel. His skin is still clinging to the vestiges of summer golden bronze. His necklaces reflect bits of light everywhere from the bonfire crackling nearby. Just like always, a hunger is ignited when you see him. He hasn’t said a word to you all this time. Just passing glances and knowing smirks. Then again, all that could be in your head.

There was no mistaking the eye contact tonight. He stands across the clearing from you, keg abandoned to the new challenger. He pays them no nevermind knowing his title safe, eyes locked on yours. He swipes the dipping beer foam with the back of his hand. It’s sinful and deliborate. You trace the path as the stray droplets carve a path down his neck, past the ridge of his collarbone, and out of sight under his shirt.

You turn on your heel, abandoning your friend to some other conversation she’s started up, and head back inside. There was something far too disarming about his stare. It made you want to scratch your skin off from the burning tingle it incited. It was pitiful, you thought. A stranger shouldn’t trigger this visceral of a reaction. There was no way he knew he’d been the subject of every single one of your daydreams while you touched yourself ever since that day towards the end of summer.  

It took you a frustrating amount of frantic searching to find the bathroom, only to discover the line was multiple bodies deep. Resigning to your failure you raced upstairs hoping to find a different story. No such luck. You test doors tentatively, hoping not to intrude on any couples in the midst of alcohol infused passion. The final door at the end of the hall is all that’s left. You jiggle the knob and open to the master bedroom. Perhaps Katie was hoping this room would remain a safe haven. Seaking a sliver of quiet, you slam the door shut and click the flimsy lock closed.

A cursory glance around the room and you spot your target. Bingo. The master bedroom has an en-suite bathroom. You search around in a couple of the drawers and find a washcloth to douse in cool water. Pressed against the back of your neck, it doesn’t do much to alleviate the warmth that’s overtaken your body. You sit on the toilet lid attempting to purge your mind of the neverending stream of filth. Why does he have to act like that, you think to yourself. Why do I like it? Is the response.

Your thoughts seem set on torturing you, wetness pooling between your legs. You curse yourself for your wild and vivid imagination. Closing your eyes it almost feels real when your fingers trace from your knee to your inner thigh. You can nearly convince yourself it’s Billy tracing invisible patterns on the sensitive flesh. You press your middle finger against the cotton of your panties right in the cleft between your lips. It’s saturated and warm. You trace the smooth channel over the cloth, building the wet spot. You have no doubt if you opened your eyes and peered down the scrap of fabric would be transparent.

You thought the little bit of pressure and touch would be enough until you get home. Instead, it had simply made things worse. Your dominant hand tugs the undergarment aside and your exposed skin feels the cool air for the first time. You lean back against the toilet’s water tank and place a foot on the edge of the bathtub beside it. With your legs spread wide your middle and index circle your clit before dipping inside.

Each thrust of your fingers is Billy’s heavy cock pressing into you while he fucks you up against the wall. You’d snuck into this bedroom upstairs because he just couldn’t wait to have you. He hadn’t even slammed the door before his fingers were up your skirt. The little lock on Katie’s parents bedroom nearly forgotten because he ached to be buried inside you.

“Been teasing me all night, sweetheart,” he mumbled against the crook of your neck before biting the sensitive flesh there. You imagined he’d want you to descend the stairs marked and branded as his own; clear evidence of how he’d claimed you.

Push and pull. Drags and stuttered thrusts.

He’d push deeper still while groping and palming your breasts. All it would take would be a couple swipes and circles around your clit for you to come undone around him. Clenching and panting-

Your eyes crash open. Gentle footsteps come from the  bedroom. You yank your panties back in place, the fabric sensitive on your still electric core. Staring in the mirror you rearrange your skirt. The blush and warmth across your chest and neck couldn’t be avoided.

“Who the fuck is in here? I just wanted to piss in peace.”

The last word dies in your throat. Standing with his back to you at the dresser is a tangle of curls you’d recognize anywhere.

“Didn’t know girls like you said words like piss?” He didn’t turn around but instead uses the mirror to smirk at you. If you’re blushing it wouldn’t matter much. Your post orgasmic glow was already out in full force. His words shock you a bit and distract you from his actions. He’s pensively going through the jewelry box on what you presume is Katie’s mom’s side of the dresser. “Kinda hot though.”

“Sorry?”

“The cussing. Coming out of a mouth that pretty. You wouldn’t expect it,” He takes out the single diamond stud in his ear and puts it in his back pocket. He holds up two different dangling earrings of different styles, shrugs, and then puts one in the now vacant hole. The black stone dangles from his lobe in a way he deems satisfactory. He finally turns to face you. “That’s why it’s so sinful. It’s unexpected from an innocent girl.”

“You don’t know me.” You wonder if he’d still find you so innocent knowing your fingers had just been burried inside your cunt thinking of him fucking you in this very bedroom.

“You’re in my fifth period.” He says nonchalantly. As if that gives him all seeing knowledge of you.

“You’re also in my first and second period. You wouldn’t know that because you never show up.” The wolfish smile makes another appearance.

“She’s got bite this one.” He says to no one in particular; striding slowly towards you. He looks you in the eyes only after lazily trailing them across your entire body. His gait and gaze are predatory, like an animal on the hunt.

“She does.” You assert as firmly as you can manage. Your voice hitches ever so slightly. If he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“You ready to head back to the party, baby?” He’s opened the door for you in a way that’s quite gentlemanly even if his eyes were anything but. He even licks his lips as if to really get under your skin. The music is louder now with the door ajar.

Here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane

Here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane

“Fuck you, Billy.” Your tone is light and there’s no weight behind the blow. He seems to know it too.

“Fuck you too, darling. Let’s go get fucked.”

[headfulloffantasies]

Angel with a Shotgun

An AU I’ve been sitting on a long time. What if Sam and Dean were angels who fell to earth as babies? They are raised by Bobby Singer and grow up to be hunters, with a few extra perks as angels. They spend their adult lives on the road, evading the monsters and angels alike who want them dead.

Chapter 1 below the cut

Bobby Singer was not what you would call a righteous man. He had lived most of his adult life in a drunken haze. He was never an angry drunk. Rather, he was the same person drunk as he was sober; a grumpy belligerent malcontent. Not much had changed from age thirty to forty. His fourth decade passed with incident. The only anniversary he celebrated was his father’s death. He remembered his bastard father by pouring an extra shot of whiskey and searching the house for any traces of his father to toss in the fire. There were fewer and fewer memories in the grate every year.  

On this anniversary Bobby could find only one scrap of an old shirt that had been used as a rag in the basement. As it went up in smoke, Bobby looked into the flames and knew. Next year would be the last. Next year he would scour the house and finally be free.

The constant background of M*A*S*H reruns were broken up by a screeching. Bobby jumped as the whole farmhouse started shaking. Dishes rattled in the cupboard.

Earthquake, Bobby thought with panic. The cable box started squealing and the lights flickered. What were you supposed to do in an earthquake? Should he jump in the bathtub? Hide in the basement?

Before Bobby could make a decision, the lights gave out entirely. Through the window a blinding light streaked across the sky.

A comet. Bobby’s brain supplied. He stood transfixed in the middle of the living room as the burning light passed overhead and crashed spectacularly on the horizon. The resounding boom shook the house again.

Then… silence. Darkness. Bobby’s racing heart thundered in his ears.

Just within sight was a glow of orange where the meteor had landed.

Bobby’s home was pretty far out of town. It would probably be awhile before the proper authorities arrived. In the meantime, Bobby unstuck his jaw from the floor and grabbed his worn cap. Might as well see if he couldn’t keep the fire from spreading.

The smoke and ashes floated like fireflies through the silent night. Not even the distant electric lights from Bobby’s neighbors were visible. The comet must have knocked out the power for the whole county. The wreckage of the crater was a long, burning strip of churned black dirt. Bobby wiped sweat from his brow. There was nothing here he could do, as far as he could see. The fire was already burning itself out. He turned to go. Then he heard it. A cry. Bobby froze. He half convinced himself he was hearing things when the sharp wail came again. There was something in the crater. Bobby approached warily, warding off the smoke with a raised hand. An unbidden thought of radiation from whatever the comet contained rose to his mind. But even if that was true, he was already exposed. Bobby crept closer and peered down into the crater.

Two babies were cradled against each other in the charred earth. Bobby could only stare as the one lifted a defenseless fist and waved delicate fingers. The other appeared fast asleep, undisturbed by the carnage around it.

Bobby was immediately reminded of the Superman comics he’d read as a kid. An alien child crash landed on a farm in the middle of nowhere. It was absurd enough to strangle a laugh from his stunned lips. The little waving baby let out another cry. It was a pitiful sound, the kind a child makes when they are alone and frightened. Bobby cautiously slid down into the crater. He stood over the two babies and stared for a full minute. The child wailed at him.

What was Bobby supposed to do? He didn’t know anything about babies. Even less about alien babies.

The screaming child suddenly quieted and looked Bobby right in the eye. They held each other’s gazes for a moment that stretched into infinity. Green. The boy’s eyes were a startling green. There was an uncanny intelligence in those eyes. The child knew him, Bobby was certain. And now the baby was waiting to see what Bobby would do next. The baby’s companion gave a little sleepy wiggle and blinked open wide eyes that immediately brimmed with fat tears.

That was it. Bobby could deal with one crying baby, two was to much. He leaned down and scooped the tiny infants into his burly arms. They were impossibly warm. But they wouldn’t stay that way out in the middle of the night. Climbing out of the crater was difficult with his hands full, but Bobby managed it.

The green-eyed child seemed content to stare at Bobby with his intensely solemn face as Bobby plodded back home.

His brother, that was how Bobby was going to think of them, had promptly gone back to sleep.

“What am I going to do with you?” Bobby asked the infant softly.

The answering growl did not come from the child.

Between the porch and Bobby stood the biggest wolf Bobby had ever seen in his life. Its black hackles were raised and saliva dribbled out between its massive fangs.

Bobby was frozen in fear. He couldn’t run. That thing would be on him in seconds. He couldn’t fight. Not with two babies in his arms.

“Hey!” A gravelly voice shouted to Bobby’s left. A figure in a trench coat faced down the wolf. The beast turned its snout towards the newcomer and snarled. The sound turned Bobby’s knees to jelly.

“Get inside.” The man commanded. It took Bobby a second to realize he was talking to Bobby. Then the man was running, away from the house with his coat flapping behind him. The wolf howled and bounded after him. Bobby unstuck his shaking legs and ran. He thundered up the porch steps and slammed the door behind him. Leaning back against the wood, Bobby panted hard. His heart couldn’t take any more excitement. But as he gulped lungfuls of air, something steeled in his belly. He couldn’t leave that poor sucker to get eaten by a mutant wolf. Bobby carried the boys into the living room and carefully set the two children down on the carpet. They’d be safe inside the house.

Then he grabbed his shotgun from over the backdoor.

The night was eerily quiet. There was nothing stirring as Bobby crept past the carcasses of abandoned Fords. The old cars stacked in Bobby’s junkyard twisted in towers of crushed metal. Every shadow was a threat. Every crunch of his feet over gravel startled him. Bobby’s heart hammered against his collarbone. Where could that monster wolf have gone? There was no howling, or growls. There were no screams either, thankfully. Bobby tiptoed around his property for what felt like hours. He didn’t find anything. Not a single paw print or drop of blood. No fur, or scraps of trench coat. But the man couldn’t have outrun the wolf. That was impossible. They had to be here somewhere. Bobby didn’t realize how long he actually been searching until the sky was streaked with pink.

Bobby finally gave up. He went back to the house, shotgun still at the ready. He had a notion about calling animal services to come find the darn wolf.

Bobby had almost forgotten about the boys in his house until their screams reached his ears. He raced up the steps, images of them being chased around his living room by the crazy wolf hovering in his mind. Bobby threw the door open. The babies were both sitting up on the floor and screeching at the top of their lungs. They were alone.

Bobby sagged with relief. “You boys hungry?”

Bobby set down his shotgun and went over to the closest child. He scooped him up. This was the one who had slept most of the night. He had a shock of brown hair growing almost straight out from his forehead. The child whimpered and kept crying.

“I don’t think I have anything you can eat.” Bobby mumbled. He made his way over to the kitchen, keeping one eye on the other boy shrieking on the carpet. One handed, Bobby opened the fridge. Bottles of opened liquor stared back. A head of lettuce purchased optimistically. Hot dogs, mustard, and re-fried beans.

“Guess we’ll have to go shopping.” Bobby mused. He thought dubiously about strapping two babies into the back of his beat up car.

“Plan B, then.”

Bobby settled the boys in his lap while he dialed the phone. They had stopped crying, finally, but they still made whining, unhappy noises every so often.

Ellen answered on the fourth ring. “I’m not speaking to you, Bobby Singer.”

She hung up before he could get a single syllable out. Bobby called back.

“If you call me again I’ll drive over there and chop off your bits.” Ellen threatened when she picked up.

“Ellen, wait.” Bobby practically shouted. “I need your help-”

“My help?” Ellen scoffed. “I should have known you’d call wanting something. You’re a bastard, Bobby Singer.”

“You’re right.” Bobby agreed quickly. That shut Ellen up. Bobby used her silence to his advantage. “I’m in a jam, Ellen. I’ve got two babies and I don’t know how to feed them. I don’t even have a jug of milk in my fridge.”

A long sigh scratched over the line. “I don’t even know where to start with that one.” Ellen admitted. “Do I ask why a person in their right mind would leave kids with you? Or do I start with your eating habits?”

“How ‘bout you start by bringing over some baby food and you can lecture me in person.” Bobby offered.

“... I’ll be right there. Don’t kill those children before I get there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ellen opened the door with three shopping bags weighing her down. Bobby met her with both screaming boys in his arms.

“I’d offer to help, but…” Bobby jostled the babies.

“For goodness sake, put them down before you drop them.”

Ellen had both boys diapered, fed, and swaddled in blankets before Bobby could blink. Somehow Bobby ended up side by side on the couch with Ellen, the green eyed baby in his arms.

“Where did they come from?” Ellen asked quietly. The child in her arms was dropping off to sleep again.

“You saw that meteor last night?” Bobby asked. Ellen nodded.

Bobby shrugged.

Ellen stared Bobby down with bug eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me? How drunk were you?”

“Hey!” Bobby protested. He told her the whole story, including the abominable wolf thing and the man in the trench coat.

“Maybe the kids are his.” Ellen offered.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Bobby asked incredulously. “They fell out the damn sky.”

“I don’t believe in little green men, Bobby.” Ellen said icily. “And if you want to keep these boys, you’d better stop thinking like that.”

“I don’t want to keep them. I want to get rid of them as fast as possible.” Bobby groused.

Ellen sighed, rocking the child in her arms absently. “You can call child services if that’s how you feel.”

Bobby frowned. Ellen was clearly trying to make a point, but it was over his head. If she would only speak her mind. But no, Ellen was a puzzle box. And Bobby didn’t have the patience or puzzles.

Ellen handed the kid to Bobby. “I have to go.” She explained. “Jo’s not much older than these two, y’know.”

Bobby walked her to the door.

Ellen hesitated with one hand on the doorknob. “Call me if you need anything else.”

 Bobby spent much of the evening trying to ignore the babies. They seemed content cooing to each other as long as they were fed and changed regularly. At about eight o’clock the boys started yawning. Bobby tried to keep watching TV, but they were yawning so wide he could see their little pink gums. Bobby levered himself off the couch and then a thought hit him. How was he supposed to put the boys to bed? He didn’t have a crib. They couldn’t just lie on the floor, they’d crawl away. He considered calling Ellen. No. He had to figure at least one thing out for himself in this whole baby debacle. Bobby stared down at the boys. He left out a soft curse. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Bobby dressed in sleep shirt and pj pants for the first time in months. He usually fell asleep fully dressed in his chair. Sometimes he managed to stumble up the stairs and collapse on top of his quilt. It had been a long time since he slept properly in his bed. Well, he wasn’t sure he would actually sleep tonight either. Bobby carefully arranged a pile of blankets around the two boys to box them in on one side. He lay down on the other, effectively creating a barrier to keep them from rolling off the bed.

Bobby propped himself up on one elbow and watched the babies. They snuggled into each other, almost holding hands in their sleep. They were clearly brothers, sharing the same facial structure and nose. But there were so many other minute details that separated them. The green eyed one wasn’t as bald as Bobby first thought. He had feathery wisps of blonde hair clinging to his skull. His cheeks were already dotted with freckles. And he screamed a lot more than his brother. But the other could keep eating until Ellen had run out of milk. The brown haired one had brown eyes that flickered open for a split second before he settled again. Their tiny chests expanded and sank in tune with each other. They were so perfectly sculpted, from their tiny toes to their small ears. They were so fragile. Something in Bobby’s chest tightened. He realized he wanted to protect these boys. He felt a fondness for the little tuft of hair on the one, and the green eyes of the other. He didn’t want to give up these perfect boys.

Any notion of handing them off the child services died. He couldn’t abandon them now. Bobby scrubbed a hand over his weary eyes. He never intended to be a father. Not even when his wife had begged him. It seemed like the universe had different plans.

 Ellen came over again in the morning, “To make sure you didn’t kill them in the night.” She said.

Bobby told her he was thinking about keeping them. Ellen’s eyes lit up. “Good.” She said shortly. She plopped herself on the couch and pulled a couple of bottles out of her bag.

“What did you call them?” Ellen asked, cooing over the green eyed one.

“I haven’t yet.”

Ellen straightened and leveled one of her acerbic glares at him. “Bobby Singer, you have had these boys for over twenty-four hours and you haven’t named them yet?”

Bobby ran a hand sheepishly through his hair. “Didn’t seem that important.” He mumbled gruffly.

Ellen propped the blonde one up so they were eye to eye.

“How about Joey?” She asked, wrinkling her nose to the baby’s delight.

Bobby scoffed. ‘They need better names than that.”

“You are not naming either of these boys Zepplin, Bobby Singer.” Ellen warned darkly.

“Of course not.” Bobby said, even though that’s exactly what he had been thinking. “What about Dean?”

“Dean is good.” Ellen nodded. “And the other?”

“I was thinking Samuel.” Bobby answered. Samuel was a good strong name. Samuel Colt had been a legend.

“Samuel Singer.” Ellen mused fondly.

“No.” Bobby said sharply. His gut boiled at the thought of giving these boys his father’s name. They didn’t deserve that, and he wouldn’t give his daddy’s ghost the satisfaction.

“Winchester.” Bobby said firmly. “Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Chapter 2     Chapter 3    Chapter 4   Chapter 5

[satire-please]

My Teeth are like Swords - Part 2

Summary: (I’m tired and can’t transfer this in a way to keep my italics in dang it.) Tim is a detective...who lives with detectives. The other Bat's start noticing something different about one of their own. And Tim realizes that he can't hide forever.

Part 1

Dragon Tim on Ao3

Like finding gold dust on a blood moon, there are times Tim will hear about his Mother. It’s difficult to encounter another drake, they’re too rare, too widely spread that it’s a miracle that Tim has met two. But it’s always a surprise to hear that Janet Drake is considered a romantic, sentimental imbecile to other dragonfolk.

To mate with a human is one thing, but to shift and willingly live beside them in their pitiful metal ant hills? Preposterous.

And to carry young on that state? Inside of their own bodies instead of in a proper shell as hard as diamonds? Unheard of.

What foolish unnecessary risks.

Tim felt his core bubble in warmth whenever he hears such slander. That Mother would care that much. Once, he did approached her on the subject.

“I spent many centuries as a upstanding, model drake.”Janet sniffed disdainfully, steering Tim from a fuming man at one of Gotham’s many galas. The drake from the east is starting to show, smoke passing from his nose uncontrollably. How embarrassing, her Timothy showed more restraint when he was three. “Now I find it much more valuable of my time to do as I please. Besides, the fact remains that my line will continue to endure and adapt unlike most bloodlines that will taste stone and dust.”

Tim summed it up to, ‘I do what I want. Leave me alone or burn.’

She glanced behind her to give the man a subtle sneer. What a fool to think that she would accept such an inadequate betrothal for her son. And, to add insult to injury, the man’s daughter hadn’t even bothered to present herself. “A dragon is a dragon, Timothy. It doesn't matter if you are half, a quarter or only possess a single drop of our blood. Magic doesn't care. It will still take, you will still shift, you will still fly. And if those incessant pathetic hair ribbons say anything different, show them there are still ways to make a dragon fry.”

Tim loved his Mother.

It’s...a shame he’s the only one who knew how she died.

And it wasn’t from that stupid water Obeah left, no matter how traditional to dragon slaying poison is. True it weakened her to the point of inducing a death-like coma, but if Tim lifted an eyelid the iris would still flash and respond. If Tim pressed his hand to her chest, he’d still feel the hint of fire tucked within.

Robbing the cemetery had been a pain though. It’s not like he could just tell Dad that, ‘Um hey, mother’s not dead. No, I know she seems like she’s dead. Yes, I know she doesn’t have a pulse, but you see–’

Yeah, not happening.

He abused his connections for a nice cave carved out of the cliff face next to the manor. It’s not like Mr. Wayne was using it. It could be accessed from the rocky beach if necessary, the entrance tight until you were a couple meters in. Then it stretched enough for his mother’s body to shift unconsciously, so the dragon could heal and sleep in peace.

Tim had thought it was perfect.

It didn’t matter much in the end.

Not when Mother finally woke and could smell Tim’s lie about Dad. Not when she stopped eating. The young teen would find, hunt, and drag dead deer and antelope into the cave only to rot around her body as she stared emptily at the stone walls. She waited for death. Nothing could change her mind...no matter how much he begged and pleaded.

“Please!” He stroked her rough eyelid, thoughts racing for any excuse for her to stay with him. To not leave him alone. “Isn’t there something you still have to teach me?”

His hand falls away as a lazy violet eye cracks open. It’s bigger than his head and the pupil focuses so achingly slow. “You’ve known all since you turned twelve, my pet. Our race never repeats themselves, not with memories like ours.”

“B-But I need–”

“You have my hoard, you will not go without means. You have my brain, you will do well and even thrive. You have a territory, a perfect environment for your future form and most of all you possess a purpose to keep your heart beating. Even if it is as ridiculous as looking after those silly humans. I am satisfied...now let me die in peace.”

“No please, m-mother, stay with me.”

“Oh, my darling. One day you will understand. Our love...is a terrible thing.”

And with that she stopped responding. Tim reasoned, screamed, cried while the reflection of his distraught face became clear in those unblinking glassy eyes. His throat raw as he hit and scratched uselessly at the black scales going grey, like the ashy rock dripping behind them until the camouflage of her skin was truth and she was stone.

Like all dragons when they die.

That’s how Timothy Drake inherited Gotham, sobbing on his knees as the refuge became a crypt.

It takes several years before Tim raids another grave...his father’s.

After all, Mother would appreciate his skeleton crystallizing next to hers. She would have liked that.

Timothy still loves his Mother.

**

It's a slow night and Jason’s gonna explode. He's stopped four muggings, seven car thefts, and a couple of kids trying to make a molotov cocktail. Okay, Jason felt bad at stopping the last one, come on what is he turning into? A twitchy cop? Geez, let kids be kids and fuck the police. He’s about to shoot his own damn foot for some excitement when he sees something in the corner of his eye as he hits the next roof.

Oh-ho? In the curve of hanging gargoyles menacingly scowling at those is a hint of red that tugs a smirk on Hood’s lips.

Replacement.

Well, alright, he hasn't meant that name in a bad way for a while. It's not like Jay wants to carve a new one in Mr. Serious anymore. Sure, he’s an annoying prude with the biggest stick up his ass, hangin’ off Bats’ every word like the good guard dog, the good tool he is, but, hey, he ain't a bad guy. Saved Jay from enough pinches that he feels right and guilty about the whole almost bleedin’ him out thing. So he makes it up the only way he can..with tough love. Plus, the more Jay can shake that Babybird nice and loose, the better. He takes in the former Robin’s figure, how he’s hunched in upon himself. His head of black resting on his knees as the crouch tucks him right under one of the silent stone guardians.

Babybird snoozing on the job? Have some shame.

Not that Jay has any of that. He barely stops himself from snickering, giving himself away when the helmet goes static for it, and creeps closer. Close enough to get the best view of the little shit’s face. It takes a Bat to sneak up on a Bat, you know. A grin spreads wide on his cheeks as he pulls his gun from his holster (it’s only rubber bullets now, calm the fuck down) Then, he aims to the sky and fires.

The crack of the bullet gives Jay the most beautiful flinch and jerk you ever did see–

Boom.

–but the returning blast of burning hot possible death that floods the ledge is not.

It takes every scrap of speed he has to not singe his fucking eyebrows off. It’s more fire than force, but thank Batman for quick reflexes and the tell tale click near Red.

“What the hell, Babybird?” Smoke billows, curling around the two and Jason coughs, waving his arms madly.

“I could say the same for you, asshole.” In the black mess, a spark sputters between Tim’s teeth, just like an annoying lighter that flickers and hurts your thumb the more you try, as he tries to control his shaky breathing. Inhale. Damn, that really startled him. Exhale. His fangs sink into his lower lip, drawing blood over the rude awakening. He shakes his head like a dog, forcing what was sharp canines into blunt square human teeth. “Gunshot really? Gosh, you always have to be a dick, don’t you?”

“Do you always have to throw something flashy when ya wake up? Ain’t that Robin’s way?” Jason brushes his clothes, disgruntled. He didn’t see a flash grenade or anything, but Bats right? More prepared than a Girl Scout.

“Maybe.” Tim wonders how long he’s going to get convenient excuses.

“What? Ya sleep with them or something? Didn’t know ya needed a teddy bear, Replacement.”

Tim smirked, “Oh, come on, Hood, didn’t you learn to let sleeping dragons lie?”

“Ha, ha. Whatever, call it a night, you pyromaniac piece of shit.” Jason puts his gun away and fishes for a peace offering under his collar. He thrusts the white cigarette at the other, “Smokes?”

“Not right now, Hood.”

“Your loss, Replacement.” Jason lights it, dragging a puff to cover up a pout. Hmpf, stuffy princess. Doesn’t drink with him (I’m not legal to drink, Jason). Never smokes with him (We have set an example to Damian, Jason). Jay should be offended cause nowadays Tim carries the hazy scent round like a club’s perfume and Jay knows he’s hiding the good stuff somewhere.

He’s just never seen Tim do it.

Tim observes the turn of Jason’s mouth and jerks his head towards the street below, “Not smokes, but you hungry enough for hotdogs?”

“This is Gotham, baby, when I am ever not down for hotdogs?”

The two shoot their grappling lines towards a vendor who’s too used to this shit to give one. But as Tim rattles off their order, something itches at Jason. Something that’s off.

(The Gargoyle they left above bares new marks along its side. The side that Jason couldn’t see. They were not chiseled in, but Tim is sure most wouldn’t notice the new additions.)

Whatever.

He’ll figure it out.

**

Timmy’s been sleeping more.

Dick is so grateful he wipes at an imaginary tear, sniffs, and whips out his phone to snap a picture again. Tim doesn’t snore, but that’s definite drool on his chin, nicccccccce. Dick takes in the scene and gets another shot from a different angle. He almost has a full album now titled, Behold the Cryptid Sleeps, it’s only fair after all the pictures Tim took of them when he was their cutest little stalker. For now, Dick just calls it karma and texts Babs to back the good stuff up.

But, okay, Dick admits it’s starting to get weird.

And Timmy’s sleeping habits have always been weird. Before he had stolen Bruce’s crown and title of Sleep Dep King. Working on case after case, day after day only to finally pass out, usually with something like,

“How many days does it take to start hallucinating again, Bruce?”

“...Three.”

“Huh, so that’s why you’re purple with seven eyes.”

It usually takes a lot to get Timmy to crash and burn into a bed, usually (always) in the form of Alfred and good food laced with sedatives. It’s not that Timmy doesn’t know that they’re in the food, it’s just that no one says no to Alfred Pennyworth. No one.

But now it’s like Tim is on an egg timer and it’s wonderful.

After about 24 or 26 hours, against his will, Timmy starts swaying on his feet and lurches grumpily towards a safe, soft spot to snooze. True, Dick notes sometimes they’re odd places, like underneath the desk of the bat computer, nestled in much of the wiring. Or head resting on the kitchen table, his angry eyes drooping with, “I don’t understand. Coffee has failed me, Alfred.”

“Our bodies change over time, Master Timothy. One cannot expect caffeine to sustain them forever.”  

“You’re...lying. You did something to the coffee, admit it!”

“I have not...this time.”

“You must have I...can’t even–” But Tim doesn’t get to finish the response.

“Master Dick I believe Master Timothy needs to be escorted to his room. If you would–” Alfred leaves the sentence open, because anytime Dick can hold an unconscious, not struggling brother? You know he’s all over that.

Bruce has even started to prioritize breaks in the patrol schedule for Tim. Or, to be more accurate, he’s encouraging (enforcing) Tim to use the breaks that have always been there.

But…really the switch in the dynamic is kinda odd, especially when Dick finds Tim on one of the Manor’s couches after patrol, his skin paler than milk and shivering in his sleep. When the room is set to 75 degrees….and he’s under at least five blankets.

Dick pads over and cups the younger vigilante face in two hands. “Holy Batman, Timmy, you're as cold as ice.” His brow furrows when Tim barely responds to the statement, his eyes half open to blurrily peer at Dick. That’s not a good sign. Plus, he’s is not kidding. Tim’s skin is cool to the touch, it could compete with one of the dripping stalagmites in the cave.

“S’cold Dick…and tired.” The words push out of his lips clumsily. He raises his arms to grasp the Dick’s wrists as if he was going to push the hands off his cheek and then just forgot. The heat’s too inviting. “Just need sleep, m’fine.”

“I think you're a liar that lies, Babybird.” Dick leans back only to pull the covers off enough to slip beside Tim onto the couch. He tugs the boy in with an arm until Tim's head finds a comfy spot on his shoulder. Heck yeah, it's cuddle time. The best way to share body heat ever. He looks around the den and sees the remote for the T.V. It takes a few tries to stretch in a way to get it, especially without moving too far from Tim, but Dick’s not an acrobat for nothing.

Tim huffs a weary laugh against Dick’s neck, “Well, I'm the guy that lies to Batman, you know.”

“Shhhhhhh, he’ll hear you.” Dick pats Tim’s hair, starts clicking channel after channel (a thousand channels is just not enough) for something to watch.

“M’good, you can go.” Tim didn’t expect it would take so long for his core to normalize. Fire might smoulder under his breast, but damn it, it’s sucking most of the heat from his extremities. To his calculations, it may be months before his body can adjust to the change...if ever. Tim can already imagine the mountain of clothing he’ll need for Gotham’s winter. Mother got away with it by layering and calling in fashion. How is Tim going to spin it when he’s jumping off roof-tops fat with every wool item he can find? Oh. Or he could design heaters in his clothing. That could work. But still, this is the reason why most drakes live near volcanoes. Temperature regulation is a bitch.

Dick hums above him and breaks Tim’s line of thought. Oh well, he guesses he’ll stay here for a bit longer, just until he thaws out and stops being an Tim-icicle. It’s not that Dick minds, right? He fades away at the sound of a bad romantic comedy playing in the background.

He doesn’t see the frown on Dick’s face.

Or hear him quietly whisper into his com, “Alfred, could you run some tests for me?”

**

Alfred would have a conniption.

“Drake, you wretched slob.”

Damian must see to it that the competent butler never visits the former Robin. Ever. The man is old and truly must be spared from any health issues that may occur from witnessing this vile display of chaos. In fact, Damian wishes he could spare himself from the scene, yet Father did request him to fetch the evidence and Dick is off planet. How dare he.

Damian squints pass the entrance only to flinch back. There in the dark, two pinpricks of purple follow his every move...and hiss.

The Robin swallows and forces the door open all the way, allowing the dim light from the basement to flood the room. There are no light switches. It’s...odd. The boiler hums nearby explaining the heat that’s almost sweltering. Heaps of objects litter the floor, making narrow pathways here and there. Fortunately, food must be absent in the debris since the smell lacks rot. Instead what perfumes the air is what Damian associates with his predecessor, the smell of spices burned with a touch of something chemical. Gasoline, perhaps? Damian’s breathing finally evens out when he spots a mess of black hair poking out from a mountain of bedding.

Blearily, Tim focuses on the intruder. “Damian? What are you doing here?” he sleepily grumbles.

Though Grayson might find the tone endearing, Damian does not.

“I have come for the Spear of Enue. Father requires it and has requested me to retrieve it from you. He said it was in your possession?”

“B needs to leave my stuff alone.” Tim sits upright, staring emptily for a moment and clearly displeased about being awake. Then, with a groan he sluggishly works himself out of the bedding. “But a case is a case, I guess. Yeah, I have it, just give me a sec to get it.”

“The spear is here?”

A hum. “Sure, it is, why wouldn’t it be?”

Well, at least Drake seems more amenable when half-awake. Robin crosses his arms and strives not to look too haughty. Usually collecting data from the older vigilante takes more coaxing (threats) and persuasion (heavy bickering) to get the desired result. Perhaps he should lend his assistance.

“Drake, where are your lights? Two pairs of eyes would obviously be quicker than one.”

“Lights?” A confused tone. “Why would I need lights? I can see just fine.”

“Tch, I’m surprised you can locate anything in this outrageous dump.”

“Mother always said I was a messy hoarder, but I have a strong belief that mess is a matter of perspective. Besides, I know exactly where everything is.”

Tim slinks out of bed and makes his way toward a pile that seems to have earned the category of lethal and shiny weapons. Damian attempts to move towards the same direction, but his foot hits an item and he just manages to make the trip look intentional. Of course, Drake was not even looking. Wait.

“Drake, is that my katana?” He points to the hilt barely poking out from the bottom, half of the weapon slithering from under the bed.

It’s a silly habit that Tim can’t shake from childhood to put the most prized things under his bed, like the old cardboard box full of pictures, a few stacks of spanish golden doubloons marked from a toddler’s teething, a cursed ruby the size of a skull, you know the usual.

“...Yes?” Tim’s head bobs up from his search and glances over at the weapon. Then, he pauses for a moment or two, his expression shifting so fast (Mine, not mine, mine, not mine) that Damian cannot place it, “Oh, sorry. I guess you’d want that back. I mean, of course you do, it belongs to you, I only had it because you were gone and–”

Drake cuts off, making no movement towards the old katana. Damian reasons it must have been acquired while he was not among the living. He doesn’t know how to feel about Drake keeping that kind of memento, yet he notes there is a definite lack of rage that usually accompanies such a theft. In addition, Drake looks like a petulant child.

“It does not matter. I no longer require a child’s katana.” Damian waves a hand to the other heaps. “The spear, however, Drake, Father needs immediately.”  

“Right.”

It is then he notices Drake’s unusual attire. The vigilante groggily separates the pile for what Damian seeks in boxers and a baggy Gotham U sweatshirt that keeps sliding over a white shoulder. How peculiar, Drake never went to college so why...ah, yes, Dick. But what really has Damian’s brows rising is the two thick watches on Tim's wrist. One that he's definitely seen on his father once before and a glint of something shiny peeking from the sweatshirt.

“Do you often sleep in diamonds, Drake?”

“They're nice to look at before bed,” Tim muttered absentmindedly.

“Is that a slogan for this new fashion statement?” Damian walks over and curiously pulls down the collar to look at it more closely. Many of the gems are larger than an egg as they lace together in the metal filigree. It covers a wide band over Drake’s collarbones before cascading towards his sternum in delicate chains. “This piece is familiar to me. Drake, are these the jewels we recovered from Catwoman?”

“One, I demand the fundamental human right to always be pretty, witty, and gay. You’ll understand when you’re older. Two, I bought these from that auction fair and square, so Selina should have keep her mangy paws off them.”  

Suddenly, Damian remembers that specific tackle to take down the thief had been...more enthusiastic and vicious on Drake’s part. Usually Father is the one to handle any incidents with her, but perhaps all it takes is emotional investment to pin down the slippery woman.

Tim pries off Damian’s fingers only to press what he seeks in them. “Here, the spear. Now, get out. If you’re gonna mock and insult me, I want four more hours of sleep first.”  

The spear is heavy, but Damian manages with a tilt to this lips. “Very well, I’ll skin and eviscerate you later, Drake.”

Drake snorts. “And, hey, you have a spear and everything. All you have to do is be knighted and we’d have the perfect fairytale set up. Farewell, Sir Brat.” He waves to the door before collapsing onto the bed, preparing his nest the way he wants it.

Damian watches the ritual all the way to the door. Stops to take in the scene one a final time. It’s strange, but it does seem like a lair from one of his grandfather’s monster stories. Dark, warm like a breathing thing, full of hidden treasure...and danger.   

How right he is.

But he comes to the realization later...much later.

**

Bruce has seen a lot.

He’s fought aliens on ships millions of lightyears from Earth and tangled with kraken under the sea. He’s negotiated with Circe for Diana’s sake and fed viruses to ruin robot armies for Clark’s. He’s handled witches, sorcerers, and time-travellers from around the world. Every night he tries to plug one of Gotham’s bleeding holes as they gush out the vile and the crazy with the Joker, Ivy, Harvey, and more.

Bruce has seen a lot.

But the universe keeps surprising him one way or another. And sometimes? Closer to the heart then he expected.

“So, you’re the drake that rejected my proposal.”

“And you’re the dame that didn’t even bother to show up to make it.”

Bruces eyes flicker back and forth between his third son and the young, literally steaming woman in front of them. Her pale white hair whips behind her like something alive. The villain of the month does the same. Apparently, Gotham has the perfect waterfront property for the taking, especially with the leyline that cuts right through the city or so the warlock just finished monologuing about.

“What are you doing? I said destroy them.” The fuming sorcerer demands pointing at the Bat-clan. Golems rise in various stages around them being the only opponents beyond the man and woman. They’re all near the Manor by the beach, a few miles from the city but even with the home field advantage...Bruce feels a thread of concern to see Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian joining him to put their backs against the cliff face below his family home.

“Just a moment, Master, I have some unfinished business to attend to.” The woman raises a hand and starts to undo her cloak.

“Master? My, my.” Tim flicks his bo to the side. It’s not going to be useful here. Ugh, this is not how he wanted this to go. “Just how low has your line fallen? Mother was right to refuse to even consider you as a candidate. Do you follow his every command or do you just lick his boots?”

“How. Dare. You.” The woman’s eyes glow yellow and her voice’s pitch becomes grating.

Tim snorts. “Look at you. You can’t even control your shift….pathetic.”

“Red Robin, the situation, now.” Bruce tries striking another golem, but Tim ducks to put himself between the Bats and the newcomers.

“You judge me, when you wear human flesh so much that you stink of it? Your true scent barely bleeds through.” The odor of rancid sulfur strikes the air. The woman peels off her clothes, layer by layer until a pile litters the sand. “Half-breed.”

Rude. The human and dragon are both his scents. Tim thinks he smells fine, thanks.

“I said–” The villain tries to command but the dame strides towards Red Robin.

“How are you different from me? The warlock will save my line and give us power, but you? You play at human.”

“I do what I want,” Tim icily states. “Which is more that I can say for you. Now get out of my territory or burn.”

“No, I think I’m going to put a male in his place. Beneath me.” And the woman lets out a cry that turns into a roar. The other Bats watch as the woman’s form hutches over, makes a terrible crack and then grows. And grows. And grows. Scales take shape as her neck elongates and it’s sickening. Before them a white dragon rises and crashes a claw on the beach. It’s the size of a house.

‘Well…’ Bruce thinks. ‘That’s something new.’

“A dragon, come on. You have to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” Jason snarls, shooting at the beast. The rubber bullets do nothing but irritate the overgrown Godzilla-wanna-be.

“Wait, it gets better,” Tim mutters. “So, burn it is. This is why we can’t have nice things between dragons. What a pity...bring it.”

And there is a collective gasp.

Because Tim smirks and the beach is overcome with a violent blast. When the smoke clears...there’s nothing?

Nothing but the golems on the beach, the Bats fighting them and the warlock hissing out commands to a white giant worm, who is diverting much from his cunning plan.

But no Tim.

The white dragon shrieks in fury and raises her giant wings, preparing to crush those on the sand when something large slams into her side. She lurches over and peers over her shoulder. Nothing. But several of her scales are cracked from the impact.

Then, it’s as if thunder booms right in front of them, making their eardrums ring from the force of the sound. Under the blow, the white worm topples forward attempting to steady herself.

It’s shadowy and massive, a heavy body and the thumping beat of wings. It’s slowly moving into the moonlight on the beach, kicking up sand.

The Bats shields their eyes even with the whiteouts down, the gust knocking into kevlar and nomac. Nightwing automatically throws an arm out to keep Robin from falling; Hood makes an unconscious grab to the other arm.

And when he lights down, massive razor-tipped claws digging into the sand, the black scales and shiny leather of wings give the Bats one hell of an answer to all those burning questions.

Timmy’s always cold.

The cave, the hoard.

The night vision.

The ever-ready exploding “pellets”.

All of it comes to a sudden dawning realization.

The baddie of the night looks from one dragon to the other, trepidation leaking in because who would have thought two dragons at once.

Low muttering, winding a spell even as the new dragon throws back his power neck and roars. It shakes them down to their very bones, a sound unlike any they’ve heard before.

The shift of muscle, dark eyes narrowing, and the first lunge is punctuated by the abrupt cries of the Bats who have come to the realization this is one of their own.

But there’s no pause when claws come up to strike, when the first is a good one, raking into his side, putting his first blow into soft underbelly, close to the intended target.

(Only one way to kill a dragon, the heart has to go.)

“Motherfuck--Tim!” But Hood can do nothing but watch the blood, ripe and rich in the night splatter the beach, hoping stupidly it ain’t all Red’s.

“Get to the sides!” the Batman roars, already moving, already reaching for the next weapon in his belt.

He sees the opening when both dragons rear up on hind legs for the next blow, his gauntlet spitting out flash pellets.

It’s go time as the rest of the Robins take it all in and move. Robin pulls a duck and dodge through legs with a batarangs ready for the baddie on the other side.

Hood pulls a whole lotta how ya’ doin’ when the .45s spit a few rubber bullets right on the gouge marks, sliding through the sand as the bigger dragon leans down to latch teeth into Tim’s neck and hold the fuck on.

Nightwing leaps, even with the sand trying to bog him down, both sticks out in a double blow at the exposed weakness behind the white dragon’s ear. He has enough time to cringe at the sound of pain tearing into the night, to see the gleam of claws sinking into her belly in a knee-jerk reaction.

The fight going on behind them, the golem starting to shift and move at the sorcerer’s botched command, and Robin just breathes out a deep damn sigh because honestly, some of us have homework to dumb down. But he shifts, pulling out pellets in rapid succession as he moves closer to the army. The abrupt, “huu,” is just more proof he is a superior marksman. The mental note to pick up the tome from which those accursed spells emanate from is another task on the night’s to-do list.

The abrupt shock of Nightwing’s stick and the barrage of bullets takes its toll, getting the white dragon to jerk away from that black jugular, to rear back with pain.

The claws sink deeper, Red growling low, smoke curling from his maw. His eyes slide to the sides, making sure the Bats are out of firing range before he opens his maw with that familiar and suddenly very telling click.

“Down!” It’s Batman that throws the last exploding batarang within range to the white dragon’s injured belly, so the blast of burning blue flame ignites, sets the soft, vulnerable innards to char.

Red, however, takes the last blow for his own (because she picked the wrong fucking city, the wrong family, the wrong dragon to fuck with), claws sinking in, and the meaty thump in the center is just at the right place to reach.

Low and huffing, “try me.”

“You wouldn’t,” her voice cracks from agony.

“Threaten what’s mine, and I won’t think twice.” He gives just the smallest squeeze to punctuate the point.

“Better not fuck with him, bitch,” Hood’s voice, lazy through the synths while he eyes the army Demon is gonna be taking on, “he ain’t one ta joke.”

The white dragon growls and the iridescent black dragon can feel her tensing up as if to give her last hurrah, to go out with a bang, but he’s having none of that. He snarls, the sound deep from within his chest as he snaps his jaws just in front of the dame’s face, sparks clicking behind his gleaming ivory teeth. “You should know,” he practically purrs, “there are fates worse than death. Don’t. Push. Me.” His words, his threat (a bluff, shh), thankfully, gets the right reaction. She sags with a trailing growl, eyes glittering with malice and defeat.

“Go. Get out of my territory.” The words leave no argument.

“W-Who…” she spits blood, dotting the sand, “who would want...your...shoddy terr-territory anyway.”

Slowly, he retracts, pulling his claws back while the click echoes against the bluff, a warning and a promise. But the dame doesn’t move to start the fight up again. She needs time to heal the grievous injuries. The mage will earn his own fate.

“And now, next on the list,” Nightwing sighs, looking from the dragon to where Robin has starting whipping out the tricks and traps on the moving golem.

“By the way, Timmers,” Hood’s neck cranes as he look up at the massive face hanging low, the chest heaving with that little scuffle. “You ever think, hmm, I dunno to say you might be a motherfucking dragon or some shit? I mean, don’t they say that shit right off the fucking bat?”

The dragon huffs down at him as Hood holds up a hand to demonstrate, “‘nice ta meetcha. Name’s Timmy. Like long flights ‘round the beach, beatin’ the shit outta assholes, and literally roasting my enemies.

Ya know, just the usual shit for Gotham.”

[demondeanismybaby]

When You Try so Hard

Pairing: Jared x reader, mentions of Misha and Jensen

Word count: 1793

Warnings: Mild angst, TW:Self-harm, talks about reader having depression

Summary: You meet Jared and he gets to know the real you, the one you keep struggling to hide, but instead of leaving you something amazing happens.

A/N: So thinking about Jared’s slogan on always keep fighting inspired me to write this. That sometimes it nice to think about how things might not always end so horribly and that sometimes fighting means you could have a future where awesome things happen. Anyway this is single!Jared for the purposes of this fic.

Meeting Jared had been a total fluke. Walking in to the coffee shop, you were desperate for you afternoon jolt, holding a hand to shield your face from the sunny skies. You were so concerned with getting a latte you weren't watching where you were going and smacked against something hard.

"Argh," grasping your nose, "why is this happening?"

You were trying to keep it together but it has been a rough morning. Trying to see past the tears that were forming you could make out the cloudy shape of a dividing wall that you had smashed into.

"Hey? I saw your accident there," a guy was walking up to you and started shoving a napkin into your hand, " I think your bleeding."

You took what he had given you and pressed it against your nose, when you pulled back you could see it stained red. So you put it back and trying to gain your bearings made your way to the bathroom. Eventually the bleeding stopped and your vision cleared. Since clearly the universe hated you, you decided you were going to go home and stay in bed forever, it had already been days since you had been out anyway. You heard a tapping sound and figured that whoever it was could wait to pee for another minute while you collected yourself.

"Hi, I just wanted to make sure you were doing OK," it was the guy from earlier.

His concern helped you to feel a little better so you straightened your hair and dabbed off your face one last time before going back out into the lobby. "Yeah, I'm alright," you said trying to meet his gaze but he was insanely tall, "anyway I'm y/n, thanks for the help." You stated to head back over to the counter, carefully this time, trying to finally get your drink. As you were busy ordering you felt someone slide in beside you.

"Jared," the man said holding out his hand to you, "how do you feel about some company?"

Shaking his hand you figured with those gorgeous hazel eyes, and long brown hair his company might be worth staying out for a while.

"I'd love some."

He chose the table, it was as far towards the back of the place as possible, the light from the windows facing the street hardly touched it. It felt intimate. Soon you were trying not to choke on your drink as you sipped it between stories Jared told you. His whole demeanor was easy and light, he sat backwards in his chair wrapping his legs around the bottom, he was like a giant kid.

"Well," you stood after over an hour of banter, "I should be getting home."

His face fell a little, but recovered as he rifled through his bag pulling it a scrap of paper and jotting something down. Again, he wadded something into your hand, as he wrapped you in a welcome hug. As you pulled away you unfolded it, it was a phone number. "Please call me sometime," his look was nervous.

Trying to reassure him, you told him the truth, "trust me, I will." After that day you had spent more lazy days chatting and getting to know Jared. He worked in television, that's why he was in your area. They filmed nearby and he stayed for part of the year in a small apartment. He told you about his football team, where his family was from, and eventually he told you more.

You couldn’t recall the exact day that Jared figured out your secret. There must have been a precise moment but you started noticing the small changes between the two of you. The days when he came to see you, and your face would still be red and puffed out from crying, or you wouldn't move from your bed the entire time he talked to you. Crawling next to you he would play with your hands or show you funny videos on his phone. He never asked what was going on but he did enough when he saw you to let you know that he understood something was awry.  

Dragging your feet across the muted pink carpet, you winced as your passed by the window. Sunlight poured in, reminding you in the biggest way imaginable that you were yet again, at home alone in the middle of the week. It had been days of calling off work, and there seemed to be no end in sight. Your phone vibrated against your leg, and pulling it out you saw it flash Jared and some long line of text, you shoved it back in your jeans just wanting to be alone.

Trapping yourself in the tiny bathroom, looking down on your arms, you saw the criss-crossing patterns of scars. The blade in your hand caught your attention as the light played off the metal glinting into your eyes. Holding your breath you told your self to stop, you weren’t alone, you didn’t have to do this. Pressing the tip against your wrist you saw a drop of blood well up there, hesitating, then there was a knock at the door. Trying to ignore it, you were torn at what to do, the pounding got louder. The metallic clink echoed off the sink as you threw it down tugging at your sleeve.

Jared stared at you, his brows knit together, inspecting you. “I was knocking for like five minutes, didn’t you hear me.”

“Yeah,” you opened the door but walked away not wanting to look at his face, “I was busy.” Even to you, it sounded like a weak excuse.

“Your bleeding,” his tone was tight, so unlike the first time he had helped you with a wound.

You glanced down at your sleeve, realizing faintly that you must have pressed down harder than you thought, there was blood dripping into your palm and staining your clothes. “Yeah I was cooking something, must have slipped.”

He was running through your apartment, sitting down on the couch you watched him, everything seeming sort of fuzzy. Then he was next to you lifting up the arm of your shirt and pressing a towel against your wrist.

“Please, just tell me the truth, I promise whatever is going on I am here for you.”

It stung slightly, the scratch of the material against the cut. Looking at Jared bent over you studiously examining your sliced up arm, it dawned on you, he was telling the truth. And you wanted to tell him. As he cleaned up your arm, and you felt him carefully wrap some of the bandage you kept on hand around it, you told him everything. Crippling depression kept you stuck in bed, feeling the joy of being alive sucked out of you, the only time you ever felt anything real was when you cut. You told him about your family, your past, and all the while he just listened carefully.

“I get it, you know,” he said after you had lapsed into silence, “there are times when I am supposed to work or do a scene and it just hits me.” It was there, with him crouched on your floor holding your arm delicately between his strong hands, that you felt like you actually knew another person. Not some front that a typical person puts on just to live in the world but knowing them deep down. You had a connection. After a while you both sat there quietly, noticing the silence was so intense you could hear your breathing, then Jared broke through it.

“You know you’ve just got to keep fighting, always keep fighting.”

You felt tears form, and slowly fall at his words, you wanted to fight because you saw that someone else could do it. You weren’t alone.

There were dark days, times when he would be the one in bed, his head heavy on his pillow and you would be the one working hard to see that brief smile flicker on his face. Other times it would be you, he would come to your place and bring you dinner, encouraging you to have one more bite.

After a while he asked you to move into his place, it was weird being so close to the set he worked on. He introduced you to his friends, his co-star Jensen. Suddenly you had friends, people who would come over just to talk even when you silenced your phone because it felt like too much. Misha would walk up to the place, jumping on bed with you and jostling you around until you would crack a smile.

After dealing with being depressed on your own for so long, it was weird, being with Jared was like having a best friend and more. There were times when you expected him to get tired of you, to blow up when you had a bad day and took it out on him without thinking, but he always talked to you always communicated. 

You were standing by the door waiting for the minute Jared was supposed to be home. Everything was all set up, you had cooked dinner and were excited to share the big news, tapping your foot nervously you waited.

As Jared opened the door, he jumped back slightly, dropping the small package he was carrying, “Woah dude, I was not expecting that.” He cocked an eyebrow at you as you stood still in front of the door.

“I’ve got some news,” you were literally bursting to tell him not even caring that he had barely walked through the door. You could see him eyeing the table, it wasn’t a romantic spread but it still wasn’t an everyday occurance, “as you know I have been working hard in therapy, and tonight marks a special anniversary.” You kept plowing on, even though his attention was divided, “it’s been a year Jared, one year since I stopped cutting.”

That did it, he turned looking at only you.

“I know,” he said as he handed you the package, it was small and wrapped in a fairly jovial flower print pattern that had you laughing as you opened it excitedly.

Underneath the childish wrapping paper, what you saw had you choking slightly, it was a tiny black velvet box. You knew what came in boxes like that. You just opened your mouth and gaped at him.

“Open it,” Jared was watching your every movement.

You complied and nestled inside was a glittering diamond ring, set in a white gold band, “what, is, happening?” You couldn’t believe this meant what you thought it did.

When he got down on one knee though you started to cry, but for the first time in your memory, they were happy tears.

[topicprinter]

IntroductionOne of the most common issues that entrepreneurs run into, that no one seems to like to talk about, is the lack of a technical cofounder. In the startup world, it is almost a bit of a taboo to mention that you don’t have anyone that can actually build out your idea. Telling someone this will often elicit from them an exasperated but sympathetic “oh…” accompanied by a glazing over of their eyes as they lose interest. My goal here is to relieve the pain, confusion, and desperation that I so often see this issue causing entrepreneurs. What do you do when you have a great idea and are ready to execute but there is no one on the team who can actually build the product?You have four options. Yes that is right, the decision can actually be distilled into four different options one of which, depending on your unique situation, will stand out as a much better choice than the others. The path you choose has far reaching consequences for the future of your company so don’t make this decision lightly. At various companies and times in my life I have experience with every single one of these options and have seen the resounding successes and devastating catastrophes that can result from each, many times over.Finding a Technical CoFounderThis option is both the best option and the most unrealistic. Finding a technical cofounder is like entering into a marriage, it is an important decision and one which a lot of the time does not work out. If you rush into a cofounder relationship out of desperation there is a high likelihood that it will not end well.On the list of why startups fail “Not the Right Team” is the number 3 reason at 23% (https://www.cbinsights.com/research/startup-failure-reasons-top/).A potential technical cofounder has to have a combination of high commitment, sufficient technical ability, and right cultural fit with the rest of the cofounders which is very rare to find. Often chasing a technical cofounder will result in a long period of fruitless searching after which you are back to where you started, so if you pursue this option, make sure that your budding venture can support this potentiality. Hiring a Local DeveloperThe second option is to pay a developer to code it. This option is split into two sub-options.The first sub-option is to pay a local developer to join the team full time. This is a great option but requires money. A local developer (assuming you live in the states) usually commands a six-figure salary. Most startups that don’t have a product yet just cannot afford this. Furthermore, without a product and traction, it is very difficult to impossible to raise enough money to cover a six figure salary. You are in a bit of a chicken and egg situation with this option where you need the money to build the product and you need the product to raise the money.Hiring an Overseas DeveloperThe other sub-option is to hire an overseas developer (typically somewhere in Southeast Asia or Eastern Europe) to build the mvp. This option can be affordable for most startups (https://medium.com/existek/top-it-outsourcing-countries-in-2019-772df2af7705) but comes with its own host of problems.Typically, chief among the issues are code quality and communication barriers. Overseas developers are priced more cheaply because they tend to produce a lot buggier code and are less fluent in English than their local counterparts. These two things combined can mean you spend a chunk of money on an overseas developer and come out with something unusable that will need to be scrapped and recoded from scratch anyways.There are some ways to mitigate these two issues. If you are fluent in the overseas developer’s native language you can mitigate the communication issues. If you rigorously filter which developers you hire and go slightly upmarket in price you can partially mitigate the code quality issues. Taken to an extreme, with these two strategies sometimes a startup can successfully have their entire dev team overseas. Usually this works best when the startup founders are from the same country as the devs, can fly overseas when necessary, and all the overseas devs work in the same office together with its own management hierarchy and are not remote (i.e. all overseas devs work together in one office in Bengaluru and are not spread out across India). This is the exception and not the most common case. More often than not, going with overseas developers wastes time and money with not much to show for it in the end.Learning to CodeThe final option is for one of the current cofounders to learn to code. Most of the time this is going to be the answer. The strategy takes advantage of what many early stage startups have (time of the cofounders) while not requiring what many early stage startups don’t have (resources). Long term, this strategy also tends to reap the most benefits. The better you understand the technology you are using the better you can manage, understand, and filter developers. Even if you are not always going to be coding the product, it is a worthwhile investment to learn how to so that you understand the technical aspects of the product better down the line. History supports this option as generally the best route. Google, Facebook, Airbnb, and almost all of the other unicorn startups had their founders code the mvp. In fact, it is difficult to find examples of mega-successful startups that did not follow this model.This path comes with its own gotchas however. First, it will take a matter of months to develop the mvp and a huge time commitment. The amount of time taken to code the mvp is a function of the aptitude for learning to code of the cofounder pursuing it, the time they put in per week, and the complexity of the mvp. Tinker with these factors and you can go from having a working mvp in two months (cofounder with aptitude for coding, putting in 12 hours a day, and relatively simple mvp) to never having an mvp (cofounder has a very low aptitude for coding, won’t or can’t put in the sufficient time, or complexity of the mvp compounds a combination of low aptitude/insufficient time).The Final DecisionSo final decision tree goes like this:Can you afford a significant amount of time looking for a technical cofounder and abide by the possibility of not finding one or one not working out?Then try to find a technical cofounder.Otherwise, can you afford to pay out a six-figure developer salary?Then hire a local developer after a rigorous filtering process but keep in mind that most of the time you will be better served by learning to code it yourself.Otherwise, do you have the technical knowledge/native bilingual proficiency to manage overseas developers?Then possibly hire overseas developers but keep in mind that most of the time you will be better served by learning to code it yourself. Finally, if you didn’t fulfill any of the conditions of the routes above, learn to code it yourself.ConclusionA lot of people will tell you that learning to code will take years and is a waste of time. I was told something similar by a lot of very talented technical people at well-known companies. There is a lot of a gatekeeping attitude around coding unfortunately.For someone who is intelligent and committed this is just not true. Learning to code is one of the most useful and rewarding things you can learn as a software-focused entrepreneur that will bear fruits for the rest of your career.Note: I offer this opinion free of commercially influenced bias. I am not selling nor am associated with any product that teaches people to learn to code.​See full post including the charts: https://loopinput.com/what-to-do-if-you-dont-have-a-technical-cofounder/