#i was originally going to do something different with the vials but i realised what would be funnier

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

  On-Sheet Notes

Ink remembers when Killer didn't permanently have/steal one of his vials and he's very salty about it

memory is based on posts, on-screen info, or whatever's most convenient

thick soft cape (can be used as a blanket)

fractures/cracks everywhere instead of tattoos

physical attacks can separate a portion of Ink from himself, the smaller half stops being solid

Ink: if i'm one of your favourites and you redesigned me to enjoy drawing me more are you gonna angst me

Creator: no

Creator: maybe

Creator: i haven't decided yet

Ink:

[carpenterswife]

HALF OF ME (i)

SUMMARY: Despite appearances, you’d learnt Soldier Boy was, actually, capable of being a good man. Somehow, you’d wormed yourself into his good books, and had the rarest privilege of seeing him without the suit, the drugs, the ego, the everything. Just as things were going good, his heart somehow getting even warmer for you, the world separates you in the cruelest way.

PAIRING: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 3573

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI. Sexism (set in the 1980’s), typical Soldier Boy behaviour, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, questionable morals (peer pressuring drug use), sexual content, eludes to smut, Soldier Boy may be a bit OOC at times, gore.

SERIES MASTERLIST / MAIN MASTERLIST

Becoming a world famous supe was never something you’d ever wanted. Sure, you’d grown up with their photos on your bedroom walls, your father telling you stories of when the first ever supe came to be, insisting he fought alongside the Soldier Boy in the war

The people around you seemed to idolise them. These… mostly regular people in tight suits, pretending to be better than everyone else.

You knew better. You knew enough. Enough to know supes were dirty, and corrupt, and definitely not the heroes they presented themselves to be. That their hands were more blood than they were skin anymore.

And, frankly, you wanted nothing to do with Vought or Payback — or whatever the fuck those shitty, useless superhero teams were called. (Seriously, what did they actually do? Except sit in their pretty tower and take the peoples’ taxes?)

Your father, however, had different ideas.

So, at 18, you woke up in the hospital, after an ugly head collision, with superpowers you’d never had before. A miracle, the doctors called it, a supe whose extraordinary powers had been hidden for her whole life. When you got home, you forced the truth out of your father. Compound V, he called it, a new chemical made by Vought.

No one was born a supe, he admitted, it all came from a liquid in a vial. The truth hurt you, as much as it didn’t really surprise you. Chosen by God, my ass.

This wasn’t supposed to be your life.

But it’s certainly what it turned out to be.

Payback were as shitty, if not more, than you’d originally thought. Each of them had… many flaws. Soldier Boy, obviously, was the worst. If the Devil reincarnated himself, he’d look and act like Soldier Boy.

Simply talking to the man made you want to shoot yourself.

Well… it did at one point.

Two years down the line, things had changed. Soldier Boy was still insufferable, sexist, arrogant, and a major asshole. But… he wasn’t so much a dick directly to you, as he used to be. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was actually somewhat nice to you. As much as his macho heart could manage, anyway.

You noticed it the first time when he saved your life on a mission. He’d grabbed your waist when a grenade clinked at your feet, whirling you around and to the ground, squashing you against his firm chest, using his shield to protect you both from the hot blast. He’d shrugged it off as nothing; as something any leader would do for his team. Then you watched him hit Gunpowder about for not following his order to a T, and realised… maybe he did treat you different.

It was undeniable these days.

You were the only person on Payback that Soldier Boy could remotely tolerate.

“You need’a be more careful.” Despite the hard look on his face, Soldier Boy was staring down at you, as a Vought doctor wrapped clean bandages tightly around your midsection. It was a bullet to the wound; which, with being a supe, wouldn’t be too bad, but you didn’t heal inhumanely fast like he did. “You’re fuckin’ useless when you’re hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks for your concern, Soldier Boy.”

His eyes narrowed into a harsh glare. “Ben.” He corrected you, for what was probably the 50th time. Each time he did, he got more annoyed with you. “How many times do I have to say it? Is there a brain in that pretty head’a’yours?“

You grunted, spinning on the bed and hanging your legs off the side of it. “Thanks for the compliment.” Ben rolled his eyes at your sarcasm, not offering a hand as you groaned in discomfort and got to your feet. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be healed up by the time we set off for Nicaragua, if that’s what you’re worried ‘bout.”

Ben just grunted, displeased. “Ain’t happenin’.” He immediately shot that idea down. “We leave for Nicaragua in two weeks. You ain’t comin’. Sit this one out.”

You stared, expecting a joke. Clearly, he wasn’t. “Seriously?” You groaned, unhappy. What was it with this guy? “I’ll be fine. It’s a silly little bullet.”

“I was holdin’ your fuckin’ guts in your body.” He walked away, reminding you of just how bad your injury actually had been. He had, indeed, practically been keeping your guts inside of you as you bled out. “You ain’t going. You’re stayin’ here.” You chased after him, pulling your shirt on as you left the infirmary.

“Ben—“

He whirled around to face you. “I said, you’re fucking staying.” He growled, glaring down at you. God, were you glad you were on his side. This man was terrifying. Six feet of pure muscle, strength and violence. “You’re better off here, using that face of yours to get some PR.”

“And, what? The others will back you up?” You scoffed, grabbing his wrist as he went to walk away again. His expression went cold at your touch, but you didn’t flinch. As much as he tried to scare you, Ben wouldn’t raise a hand at you… probably. You had faith in the man. “They can’t fight for shit, Ben. Gunpowder hasn’t even discovered his own dick yet. You think you’re gonna have your back covered out there?”

He ripped his wrist away harshly. “I don’t need my back covered.”

“Everyone needs their back covered.” You argued. “Even you.”

He chuckled, sarcastic and dry. “You worried ‘bout me, princess?” You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look, as he took a step closer, mouth curled into that ever-infuriating smirk. “I’d perform better if you sent me off with a taste of that—“

“Ben.” You interrupted him, unimpressed. You rolled his eyes at his predictable behaviour. “I’m not gonna fuck morale into you.”

“Shame.” His eyes flicked up and down, tracing the curves of your body. “Bet you’d be a firecracker.” He walked away again, and you threw your hands up, groaning. Ben chuckled as he turned the corner. “Think it over, sweetheart.”

“You’ve got a hand.” You called back to him. “Use it!”

Conversations like that were very common with Ben.

It’d be a normal conversation (as normal as it gets with him) — and then he’d start talking about fucking you against the nearest surface, and all pleasantries went down the drain. Seriously, he thought 80% with his dick, and 20% with his actual brain.

And that was being kind.

But, beneath all of his macho assholery, was his genuine worry. You knew he wasn’t letting you accompany the rest of the team to Nicaragua because of your injury, despite how minor it was, and that he was worried you’d injure yourself further.

You’d never slept with Ben, despite how much he’d tried to charm you into his bed. Your relationship was strange. He flirted, you flirted — there were lingering touches. And, sure, he’d never put his dick in you, but his fingers were a different question. And… oh, boy, could that man use his hands.

It was like being in a relationship, just without the sex. Which was odd, as it was Soldier Boy. But, the way he smiled at you and treated you, it made you feel different to the other women.

He was just… shit it showing it.

Poor bastard wouldn’t know emotion if it slapped him in the face.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

“I am not wearing this.”

Okay… scratch all of that. Maybe Ben was just a dickhead.

He lounged back in his chair, grinning lazily, legs spread like he owned the place. He probably thought he did. “Why not?” He took a sip of his whiskey, ice clinking against the sides, eyes never leaving you from over the rim of the glass.

You held up the fabric. “Seriously?”

It was basically a scrap of fabric, with how much it covered up. You didn’t shy away from showing skin. You quite liked short skirts and pushing the line. Because, as a supe, there was a line. Vought liked it when you showed skin — apparently it made your ratings go up with the male fans, no shocker. But, too much skin on display, the male fans started calling you a whore, and the ratings shot back down.

It was a bit like a balancing game, trying to find the perfect amount of skin to make the boys ogle but also respect you. An impossible feat, truthfully.

And this? This was definitely classed as too much.

“I don’t see the issue.” His smirk said otherwise.

“My tits are not gonna stay in this, Ben!”

His smirk just grew. “Again, I don’t see the issue.”

You groaned and put the dress down. “No. I’ll get my own dress. I am not wearing that.” You tell him, arms folding across your chest. You didn’t miss the way he checked out your tits, and the way the placement of your arms accentuated them.

He rolled his eyes, obviously not happy with your decision. Leaning towards, elbows on his knees, Ben’s eyes took you in. “Why?” His head cocked to the side. “You’d look hot. It’d make your ass look great.”

“That’s not a compliment.” You grumbled, pushing a hand through your hair. Ben made a small grunt of disagreement, but didn’t say anything otherwise. “Listen, there’s a certain line. Alright? If I wear that, every guy out there will be callin’ me a whore. Okay? Imma find something else.”

He hummed and sat back. “I think you should wear that one.” Sighing heavily, you just rolled your eyes at his persistence. “All those assholes will be blowin’ their pants just lookin’ at you, sweetheart.”

“Again, not a compliment.”

Ben stared at you, and silently took another sip of his whiskey. He always seemed to think these crude, rather sexist and inappropriate remarks were compliments. Like commenting on your body. Or saying you’d be a freak in bed. Which were obviously not actually compliments.

You rolled your eyes, rubbing your forehead. “I’ll find another dress, Ben.” You told him, definitive. There was no way he was going to convince you to wear that dress.

“What a disappointment.” He grinned, lopsided. “I was lookin’ forward to seein’ you in that dress.”

“Again,” you deadpanned as he checked you out once more, “you have a hand… use it.”

Ben just smirked, and sipped his whiskey again.

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

You wore the fucking dress.

The asshole always won. Always.

He looked so fucking pleased, as you walked into his after-party, wearing the dress he’d picked out for you. His smugness was clear, brushing through the crowd with ease to come to you.

Ben hummed, eyes dilating as he stared you down. His eyes lingered on your tits, as they always did. “You look…” he hesitated, trying to think of a compliment that wasn’t degrading, and failed, “fuckin’ hot. If you weren’t such a bitch, I’d bend you over right here.”

Your face pulled together in disgust, looking at him with your lips pressed together “… gross.”

He chuckled. “Drink?” He offered. “I got your favourite.”

And there he goes again.

Being nice.

It did your damn head in.

Accepting his offer, you shivered as his large hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. They all seemed to part like the Red Sea as he came through, a fact that amused you greatly.

Seriously. These women looked at him like he was Jesus reincarnated, when he’d totally call them in a whore in bed.

Ben silently reached out for your favourite alcoholic drink, pouring it into a glass. His eyes scanned over the room, smirking at a few of the women ogling, sending them rushing to their friends and squealing. He merely chuckled and handed you the full glass.

“Thanks.” You murmured, taking it from him. Your eyes stared up at him for a moment, curious, before looking away again.

What was it with him? How could be such an egotistical one minute, and then be nice and respectful the next? It was like a guessing game, trying to figure out what mood he was in.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm, but not enough to hurt you. “Come with me.” He guided you through the crowd once again, to the doors in the back. As he pushed through into the room, he flashed you a cocky grin over his shoulder. Dickhead.

This room was far quieter. You noticed, immediately, the only people present were supes and celebrities, not the random civilians that’d been granted a pity invite — or the women Ben thought were hot. This was the main party. There were drugs covering every table, with various big names passed out on the chairs, blazed.

Ben lead you to the corner, where he’d obviously already been busy, if the half-snorted lines of cocaine proved anything.

Silently, he offered you a line, which you gratefully accepted.

You didn’t do drugs before you joined Payback. In fact, you’d avoided them, promising yourself you’d never become that type of person. But it was the norm within Vought. Every supe spent their nights filling their bodies to the brim with various drugs, poisoning themselves. So, you started smoking weed to fit in.

Then Ben found out you only did weed, and decided it wasn’t enough. With enough pressure, he’d gotten you onto any other substance he could convince you to try.

It made you more attractive, in his eyes, as you spiralled into addiction like him.

In fact, it got him rock hard, to snort lines or share a joint with you. It was so fucking hot, watching your eyes glass over as you got higher with every hit, with every line. God, it turned him on so bad.

You snorted your third line of the night, when Ben suddenly pushed you back into your chair. Bewildered, you stared at him, as he snatched up a baggie of the white powder. Your heart leapt to your throat, the moment he moved aside the slit in your dress, revealing the bare skin of your thigh. All breath left your lungs, watching him pour some of the powder onto your thigh.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He was about to do a line off you.

He glanced at you through his lashes, smirking at the shocked and flushed expression you wore. He used his pocket knife to cut the lines, mindful of the sharp blade against your soft skin.

God, this was hot. He found it hot. You found it hot. It’d be a damn miracle if you ended the night with your clothes on at this point.

Your skin tingled as he sniffed up the first line, of his hands roughly gripping the top of your thigh to steady you, his other holding a rolled up $100 bill. He groaned in pleasure, body physically shuddering, head shaking, as the drug made his body run hot.

He did the next line, the grip on your thigh becoming tighter as his pupils began to blow up.

Was it getting hot in here? Or was it just you?

Maybe it was the cocaine in your systems, maybe it was the fact Ben was just… so damn hot, but you couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing his hair and forcing his head up as he snorted the final line off your thigh.

He looked up at you, pupils blown, lips parted. Holy shit. This man was sculpted like a fucking God. Your body shivered. “You finally takin’ my offer, sweetheart?” He chuckled, shaking off the immediate effects of the cocaine, raising himself up to your level.

“Fuck me.” You whispered, breathless, practically begging him.

His eyes went dark, almost black, with lust. The smirk on his lips made you squeeze your legs together. “Don’t need to ask me twice.”

━━━━━━ ✦ ━━━━━━

You now understood the hype. You understood why women bent their knees the moment Ben uttered a word to them.

Holy shit, did this man have talent.

Your legs were still twitching, the space in between your legs throbbing and tingling with how many times you’d come on his fingers, his tongue and cock. You’d counted four, before your vision had gone white.

Jesus, he had stamina. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it’d been just over five hours since you’d first fell into Ben’s bed. That super strength was better for more than just fighting, after all. This man should be advertised for his abilities. No shocker he was an American sex symbol.

He’d just fucked your brains out.

And now, he was staring at you with admiration, laid on his side, in the same bed he’d just railed you in. “You feelin’ okay?” He murmured, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah.” You rolled over to face him, a jolt of discomfort and pain in your hips and thighs. You might have to hold back on… doing anything for the next few days, however. “You didn’t break anything.” You joked, soft and breathy.

He chuckled quietly, hand sliding around your waist and dragging you closer to him. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ to do that.” He whispered, uncharacteristically soft and gentle.

“To fuck me senseless?”

He smirked. “Mm, I have dreamt of that.” Your eyes narrowed in mild disgust at the image of him having wet dreams about you, swatting his chest. He grinned and caught your hand. “No… I meant how long I’ve waited to have you. You’re fuckin’ perfect. Not just your body. Everything about you is so sexy.”

Your brows furrowed, squeezing his hand, and then worming your fingers out of his. “What do you mean?” You asked softly.

He seemed to struggle for a moment. He wet his tongue with his lips, making your body tingle again. Jesus. “Let’s get dinner.”

What.

“Me and you.” Ben smiled, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch. “Real fancy. I’ll pay.” Was he… asking you on a date right now? The Soldier Boy, asking you on a date? Instead of fucking you and tossing you out?

“You’re serious?” You asked softly, surprised. When he nodded, you grinned, biting your lip to contain it. “Okay, Ben. Let’s get dinner.”

His eyes lit up. Ducking his head down, his lips touched yours, gentle and affectionate. His kiss spoke so many words; his hands gently cradling your body, as he kissed you like you were made of glass. The touch was intimate and loving, widely different to the one he’d used when he’d been on top of you.

No, this was completely different. This was him being vulnerable. This was him showing you just how he felt, without the words.

He smiled against your lips and pulled back, just enough to speak, but his words were still brushing yours. “Yeah?” He whispered, in response to your agreement.

“Yeah.” You stared at him with big eyes.

He grinned, almost boyish in its nature. He stared at you in adoration, seeming to be collecting the words on the tip of his tongue.

You giggled under his stare. You sat up, pulling him with you, grabbing the blanket that he had draped over his headboard. It was fluffy and warm, and smelt like his cologne, and you didn’t hesitate to wrap it around your shoulders, cocooning yourself.

If possible, his gaze softened even more. “You’re adorable.”

Quietly, you laughed. “You sure you wanna do this, Ben?” You stared back at him. Ben was nothing if not a womaniser. Settling down was nothing like him. “Get serious with me, I mean.”

“You’re the only one I’d ever want to.”

Your brows pulled together, confused. “Why?”

Ben soothed a hand through your hair, green eyes drinking in the perfections and imperfections on your face. “You’re the only one I trust.” His voice was gravelly, still heavy with the effects of your recent endeavours. His hand travelled through your hair, and then came down to cup your cheek.

Wrapped up in his fluffy blanket, your head rested on the wooden headboard. “I trust you, too.” You whispered, tilting your head into his palm. His skin was rough, painted with callouses and scars. Every scar on his body had a story. And you’d spend the rest of your life learning every single one.

Despite himself, he smiled at you, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. “I’d kill for you. You know that?” His words made you shiver. Ben killing people wasn’t exactly new… or surprising. But doing it for you? God, it made your stomach heat up — and other parts. “These assholes don’t hold a candle to you, doll. Countess? That whore is— is repulsive compared to you.”

You laughed softly, rolling your eyes affectionately. “Ben.” You scolded quietly, though not with an ounce of anger.

The supe just smirked, chuckling deep in his throat. “You want me to drop that bullshit PR relationship I have with her? I’ll do it. In a fucking heartbeat. I’ll be with you, publicly, if you want me.”

“You’d ruin your reputation for me?” Now that — that meant something. Ben could say anything and everything; he was a master manipulator. He could get anything he wanted with that smile and his suave words. But, if there was one thing he would always prioritise, it was his reputation. He’d do anything to be the alpha male. Anything.

“I’d do anything for you.” He grabbed your hand within his much larger one, guiding it to his chest. He pressed your palm over his heart, allowing you to feel his heartbeat. “I’ll do anything for you, to be with you.” You felt the steady rhythm of his heart. He wasn’t lying. That, or he was a great fucking liar. “I’m never leaving your side. I’m yours.”

Your eyes searched deep within his. “Always?”

Ben smiled. “Always.” He leant forward, gently pressing his lips against yours in a tender kiss.

Three months later, Soldier Boy died in a nuclear meltdown.

A/N: jesus christ this took me so long to write 😭 but i’m so happy with how this first chap turned out. it’s gonna get so much more fun to write we get to the action 👀 pls lmk if there’s any mistakes, as i will go back n fix them !!! hope you enjoyed <3

banners by @cafekitsune

TAGLIST: @onlyangel-444 @deans-spinster-witch @fumolemon @anundyingfidelity

[heres-to-all-that-is-mine]

So that plot bunny, idea, whatever, I mentioned: It's, mm. Can't decide if it should be an origin story for Agent Phoenix of sorts, or if it should be an Alternate Universe on it's own.

Essentially, Phoenix - a smalltown resident newly working for the local news station (not necessarily as a journalist, however much they wish it were so) - begins to notice something happening in their town. Seemingly overnight, a large company called "Zoraxis" has begun to buy out stores and vacant lots, slowly moving to occupy the town.

Phoenix, though not known at the time as Phoenix, becomes suspicious as the circumstances prove to be more fishy than previously thought.

And as such, being a wannabe-journalist as they are, they set out to investigate!

Which, of course, promptly goes wrong. Some time into observing Zoraxis operations (pretty normal, all things considered, but also definitely a little shady. Papers signed in diner booths, hushed conversations, an odd look on people's faces, money changing hands... nothing incriminating, but most assuredly suspicious.) they begin to notice a pattern - late night goings-on, hidden away from the prying eyes of the public.

So, Phoenix decides to do a bit of a stakeout at one of the warehouses the corporation had acquired. It's a last ditch effort, really, because all the snooping is starting to affect their work and they really don't want to lose this job.

Unfortunately, their persistence pays off! Late at night (or maybe in the early moments of the morning, because honestly it was too dark to read their watch), something shady starts going down. Some sort of delivery, a big truck with boxes of parts.

The drivers step out, and the guards posted at the door (sketchy looking people in dark, loosely fitting clothes who cycle out every once in a while, muttering about the chill in the air and smoking either in silence or in hushed conversation) quickly become distracted talking to the guy after a cursory look at the boxes. Something about money, or missing product, or something - both parties are upset, though the drivers seems far more outraged than the other two.

Phoenix, sensing an opportunity, sneaks up under the cover of night to get a peek at what exactly is being transported in all those boxes while the others are busy arguing, and... that's odd. None of these things seem like they should belong to the company, no matter how many different businesses they're dabbling in. It's all vials of strangely labelled chemicals and mechanical parts which, while perhaps looking like they could belong to a factory or lab, definitely don't belong in a warehouse like this.

As they make a note of it, voices are raised outside, and they peek out at just the right time to watch one of the guards draw a gun and one of the drivers collapse, the other backing up with panicked body language and oh shit they think one of the guards just spotted them.

Phoenix sprints off, followed by angry shouting and gunshots, but managing to get away unharmed. Unfortunately, they later realise they'd dropped their pen - which, of course, has the name of the news station on it.

But hey, at least those guys didn't get a good look at their face! It was far too dark at the time, they think.

And then those guards show up at their job.

And essentially I haven't really settled on if it should be Zoraxis or not - could be some other evil organisation, predating Zor or perhaps simply shut down later on, but! Phoenix eventually loses the job but keeps investigating because the stakes are much higher now and they Have To Keep Going (according to them, at least) which inevitably leads to them getting put in danger and eventually almost dying/getting hurt - at which point they stumble into/get picked up by the Agency.

I will take suggestions and questions because I Think It Would Be Fun

[punchdrunkdoc]

Just Breathe - Ch. 20

Summary: Six months after the events in Gotham Square Garden, Bruce is struggling to find balance between his role as Batman and his responsibilities as Bruce Wayne. His life is made even more complicated when he learns that someone knows his secret identity.

Notes: This is a multi-chapter, slow-burn Battinson/original female character story with romance, angst, and crime solving!

Also available on AO3

Masterlist

Reference pics and stuff

Beth perched on the edge of the claw foot bath and contemplated the syringe lying on the counter in front of her. 

After finding the vials of blocking serum, she’d immediately rummaged around in Bruce’s bathroom looking for first aid supplies. Unsurprisingly - given his late night adventures - he had a well-stocked kit under his sink which contained a few packaged needles and syringes.

She’d quickly assembled one and filled it with the blue liquid. 

But now she was hesitating, and she wasn’t sure why. 

With these blockers she could have a taste of the normal life she’d always dreamed of. She could go downstairs and hug Dory, the woman who’d always been so kind to her. She could take Alfred’s hands in hers and thank him for always looking out for Bruce.

Bruce.

She could be with Bruce. 

She didn’t have to wait for some hypothetical, far-off day when her powers were under control, or she was inured to the effects of touching him. 

She could be with him today. She could touch him and kiss him and make love to him and do all the things she’d been dreaming of for months. 

So why the hell was she hesitating? 

Was she worried about the effects of the mood stabiliser contained within the formula? No, it would be a small price to pay for such freedom.

Was she worried about rationing the scarce serum? There were only six vials after all…

No. If the last week had taught her anything, it was that life was too short to worry about the future. 

So what the hell was it then?

Her subconscious whispered the answer: her father. 

Beth gripped the edges of the porcelain tub and clenched her jaw, annoyed at the truth - her father had created that serum, and she didn’t want to accept help from him, even after his death. 

“You’re being an idiot,” she whispered to herself. An illogical, irrational idiot. 

But in five short days, her father had really done a number on her; and she was only just starting to realise how deep the trauma went. 

She needed to get over it. 

Yes, he had created the serum - as a means to protect himself, and control her. But he was dead, and she had a life to live. 

She needed to get over it.

Beth’s head came up as she heard the faint ping of the elevator downstairs. 

Bruce must be back. 

All of a sudden, her trepidation disappeared. Bruce’s presence gave her the clarity she needed; he was the knife slicing through the Gordian knot of her thoughts, unravelling the mess and showing her how simple it all was: her father owed her this.  

After everything he’d put her and her mother through, six measly vials of blocking serum was the absolute least he could do to make it up to her. 

She got to her feet, took a deep breath, and injected the serum into the crook of her arm. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. She smoothed her hair into place and tugged Bruce's oversized shirt back onto her shoulder. She wished she’d worn something a little more alluring, but she didn’t want to waste time changing now.  

Her steps light, and her heart fluttering with anticipation, she left Bruce’s suite and headed to the top of the stairs…

Where the sounds of a hushed conversation stopped her in her tracks. 

“You can’t do this to her again.” It was Alfred, his voice harsh and angry. 

“I’m not doing anything. Not really,” came Bruce’s reply. He sounded…despondent. Sad. So different from when they'd spoken earlier today. 

Where had he been...and what had happened to him?

“We’re not together, anyway. She can’t be with me because of her ability. And I can’t be with her because of my…issues.”

“No. I’ve seen the two of you together. You belong with each other. She brings out something in you that I thought was lost forever. She makes you a better person. Don’t throw that away.”

“She makes me weak,” Bruce protested. “She’s a distraction that I can’t afford. I made a commitment to this city and I’ve been neglecting it for days. I lost all focus because of her. The sooner she moves out, the better.”

Beth slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her startled gasp. She quickly backed away from the staircase, the sound of those words ringing in her ears. 

She felt all the joy and anticipation of the last few minutes drain from her, like blood from a wound. 

She made her way to her old room - Bruce’s suite felt like the opposite of a safe space now - and collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

She felt gutted, hollowed out. The empty spaces inside her reverberating with Bruce’s words.

“She makes me weak.” 

“She’s a distraction.” 

“The sooner she moves out, the better.”

She’d felt the distance between them this morning, the awkwardness when they’d first woke. But she’d figured it was just uncertainty regarding their relationship. She’d foolishly believed that all she had to do was apologise and ask Bruce for a second chance and they could finally be together. 

How egotistical of her. How narcissistic.

It never occurred to her that he would now reject her. 

But it made sense in a way; what she’d been through these past five days had fundamentally altered her perspective on life. It was hardly surprising that Bruce had been changed by the experience too. 

Just…in the opposite direction. 

While she had decided to embrace the wondrous thing between them…he’d apparently decided it wasn’t worth it. He wanted to regress back to the safety of solitude, where there was nothing and no-one to distract him from his crusade to save Gotham.

And she knew how important that crusade was to him. How vital it was. How much being Batman informed his character and sense of purpose.

It’s what had drawn her to him in the first place, after all.  

She laughed at the irony - the huff of breath sounding more like a sob. The thing that attracted her most…was the thing that would keep them apart. 

 ———

 A few minutes earlier….

 Bruce exited the elevator and trudged through the penthouse, his steps laden with sorrow.

George was gone. 

His mother had made the heart-rending decision to take him off life support. The head injury he’d sustained in the car accident had been too severe and he’d been declared brain dead by the doctors. One of his nurses had gotten in touch with Alfred via the solicitor who was dealing with the medical expenses and suggested his 'anonymous benefactor' might want to say goodbye. 

So Bruce had gone to the hospital, with every intention of heading up to the ward and taking one last glance at the little boy he’d failed to save. 

But he’d only made it as far as the parking lot before losing his nerve. 

He could take on a compound full of armed guards; he could go toe-to-toe with the nastiest criminals in Gotham; he could sacrifice himself at the end of a live wire above a flooded stadium…but he couldn’t bear to see a young boy take his last breaths.

He was still too raw from Beth’s ‘death’, and the days he’d spent searching for her. It was painful enough knowing in the abstract that George was dying - seeing it would have been too much. 

He wasn’t strong enough. 

He wasn’t strong enough for any of this. 

And he’d known that his entire adult life. He’d avoided getting close to people for just that reason. But, somehow, over the past few months he’d convinced himself otherwise. He’d deluded himself into believing that he could overcome decades of trauma and be…happy. 

“How did it go?” Alfred asked softly meeting him by the stairs. 

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I understand.” He rested a hand briefly on Bruce’s back in sympathy. “I think Beth is awake - I heard the shower running earlier. Why don’t you go and see her. It’ll make you feel better.”

It wouldn’t. 

Not now. 

Alfred must have seen something in Bruce’s face, because he stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Bruce…what are you thinking?”

“I can’t do it, Alfred.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I can’t be with her.” The words were whispered, his voice broken. As if the admission had been torn from his soul. “I can’t live through something like that again. Losing her. It’s too hard. I can’t do it. I need to-”

Alfred interrupted him, his voice a harsh whisper. "I swear to God, if you say you need to 'distance yourself from her', I'll wring your neck."

At Bruce's silence, Alfred shook his head, his expression pained. “No, not this again. You can’t do this to her again.”

“I’m not doing anything. Not really,” Bruce countered. “We’re not together - she can’t be with me because of her ability. And I can’t be with her because of my…issues.”

“No. I’ve seen the two of you together. You belong with each other. She brings out something in you that I thought was lost forever. She makes you a better person. Don’t throw that away.”

“She makes me weak,” Bruce protested. “She’s a distraction that I can’t afford. I made a commitment to this city and I’ve been neglecting it for days. I lost all focus because of her. The sooner she moves out, the better.”

Bruce hated the words that were spilling from his mouth. It sounded like he was placing the blame on Beth, but it had been his decision to get closer to her. His decision to bring her into his home. And it was his decision to ignore Gotham this past week. Not because of a lack of focus. And not because Beth was a distraction.

It was all because of him, and his fucked up feelings towards this city and the evil that infected it. 

It was the same fucked up feelings he’d been dealing with since his parent’s murders. Three years ago, he’d channeled those feelings into violence, donning a suit to stalk the streets and beat the crap out of criminals. Last week, he’d just channeled them another way - into apathy and distain.

Same psychology, different results. 

And none of it was Beth’s fault. 

Everything he’d just spouted to Alfred had been a pack of lies. But he had to say something to convince him to drop the issue. 

It didn’t work, of course. 

“That’s bullshit, Bruce. I get that you’re scared - George’s death reminded you of the pain you went through with Beth-“

“Exactly, Alfred! I did go through that pain. Remember when you talked about exposure therapy? About imagining what life would be like if she died? I didn’t have to imagine it - I lived it. And I fell apart. There was no ‘coming out the other side’. There was nothing on the other side. It was a great, big vacuum of suffering and nothing else! And I can’t do it again!”

Bruce collapsed onto bottom step of the staircase and dropped his head into his hands. 

Alfred sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Bruce. I really am. I’m just worried that you’re going to make a decision while those feelings are so fresh and raw…and you’ll live to regret it.”

Bruce said nothing, just scrubbed at the tears running down his cheeks. 

The tears that he hadn’t shed at the time. When he’d thought Beth was dead, he’d externalised his grief through rage and destruction - he hadn’t allowed himself to cry. 

In the days after, he’d been so focussed on finding her that he hadn’t had a chance to process his emotions.

Maybe Alfred was right. He was feeling…raw. 

And perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly.

Sensing that he was getting through to him, Alfred continued. “When you thought Beth was…gone…and you were in the midst of all that pain, did you ever wish you’d never known her? That it would have been better if you’d never met?”

The response came to Bruce in an instant. He didn’t have to think back or try to picture himself in that moment again. He remembered vividly the one thought that had consumed him. 

“No,” he said aloud. “I only wished for one more day with her.” It had been a litany - a plea that he’d silently entreated to the universe. 

I’ll do anything - give anything - for just one more day. One more moment with her.

Please.

“Well, there’s your answer. You’ve been given one more day. You’ve been given a lifetime. If you’re brave enough to take it.”

Alfred stepped away with one final pat on the shoulder, leaving Bruce at the foot of the stairs, contemplating his future. 

It was an unfamiliar endeavour. 

When he started the Gotham Project, it consumed all notions of the future. He never considered what he would do ‘afterwards’ - the concept just didn’t exist. Saving Gotham was a life-long venture that he would die in the process of achieving - whether that be in two years or twenty. He’d accepted that.

But then he’d met Beth.

And he’d started to believe there was more to him than just his mission and his life as Batman. He was Bruce as well. 

And maybe Bruce could have a future with a woman he loved. 

But did he want that now? Having had a taste of the pain that could await him? Knowing that because of Beth’s gifts they may never have a normal relationship?

Did he want that?

I’ll do anything - give anything - for just one more day. One more moment with her.

Yes. 

The answer was yes. In the centre of that maelstrom of grief, his true desires had let themselves be known. 

He wanted to be with her. In whatever way she could handle.

He dried the tears from his face and raked his hands through his hair. Then he rose to his feet and started up the stairs. 

Towards Beth. 

Towards his future

 ———

 A tentative knock at the door broke Beth’s reverie. She was still perched on the bed, lost in a daze of heartache. 

“Beth? Are you in there?”

It was Bruce. 

Her heart started racing in panic. He was here to ask her to leave. To tell her they couldn’t be together… 

She couldn’t handle this. 

She said nothing, just gripped the bedspread in her fists, hoping he would leave. 

No such luck. “Beth? I’m coming in, okay?”

Before she could say anything, the door cracked open and there he was. She’d last seen him only a matter of hours ago…but everything had changed since then. She soaked in the sight of his beloved face; the sharp jaw dusted with stubble, the serious blue eyes, the dark messy hair. She tried to memorise his features. 

His was the face of what might have been. 

The one she would always think of, years from now, when contemplating ‘what if…’

Her one true love. 

And he was here to break her heart. 

“Hey,” he said gently. “I’ve been looking for you. I- I have something to talk to you about.” He looked nervous. Anxious. Like a man about to have a difficult conversation. 

He came to sit next to her on the bed and she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut to try to block the tears. 

She wasn’t ready for this. 

She couldn’t bear to hear the words again. 

“Beth, I-“

She cut him off with a kiss. 

She grabbed his face and pressed her lips to his, a desperate act to try to delay the inevitable for a few moments more. 

A cowardly act. 

And a selfish one.

Because she wanted to kiss him again. Just once, before she left, while the serum still blocked her powers. Just one pure kiss, with no unwanted thoughts intruding and no anxiety about what she might discover.

Just one kiss… 

She felt a tear leak from her eye as she moved her lips over his. She tried to concentrate on the sensation of his strong jaw beneath her fingers, his hair in her hands… 

She tried to ignore the shattering of her heart. 

 ———

 The sudden kiss startled Bruce, and at the first contact of her lips against his, he froze. 

But only for a moment. 

Then instinct - and his long-suppressed desires - took over, and he sank into the embrace. 

He turned towards Beth and took her face in his hands, deepening the contact of their lips and slipping his tongue into her mouth, revelling in the sensations of the unexpected contact.  

He'd entered her room with his heart in his hands, ready to offer it to her - a measly gift coming from a man with little experience of love and intimacy, who was bound to struggle at times and screw things up. But he wanted to give it to her anyway, with the hope that she would take his damaged, fragile offering and treasure it, like he treasured her. 

He'd stumbled over his opening, and struggled to find the words, mere constants and syllables unequal to the task of expressing how much she meant to him; how much he loved her. 

So he was grateful when she interrupted him with a kiss.  

A kiss that would tell her everything he needed her to know.  He didn't have to say the words aloud; with every touch of her skin, he could pour his thoughts and feelings into her.  

So he did just that.  

He brushed his thumbs over her petal-soft cheeks as he angled his mouth on hers. 

I love you. 

He trailed his lips down her throat. 

I want you. 

He ran his hands under her shirt, tracing the contours of her back.

I want to build a life with you. 

With gentle pressure, he urged her back on the bed.

I want to be with you…   

He lay down beside her, one arm taking his weight, the other tangling in her hair as he kissed her deeper. 

…always…

She pulled him on top of her, and he sank into the cradle of her thighs.

…forever…

 ———

 Beth crammed the last of her clothes into the suitcase and zipped it closed. When she’d asked Alfred to borrow some luggage to pack up her clothes, he’d looked crestfallen…and not a little confused. 

She didn’t blame him. An hour ago, he’d walked in to find her and Bruce making out, and now she was leaving.

They hadn’t heard the knocking - too lost in each other to notice the outside world intruding. 

“Bruce? Are you in here?” Alfred had called, opening the door. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he’d stammered, finding them tangled in each other on the bed. He’d quickly averted his eyes as Bruce broke the kiss and clambered to his feet. Beth slowly followed suit, tugging her t-shirt back into place and folding her arms across her chest. 

“What is it, Alfred?” Bruce growled. He sounded annoyed, and Beth wasn’t sure why. Their last kiss had to end at some point. 

“I’ve just heard over the police scanner that GCPD are raiding Connell’s mansion tonight with the Feds. The anonymous tip you supplied them was enough to get a warrant. I thought you’d want to be there.”

Bruce raked his hand through his hair, further mussing up the already dishevelled strands. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll go get suited up.”

Alfred left and Bruce turned to her. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

She gave him a small, close-lipped smile. “It’s okay.”

It was a fitting ending to their relationship, even more so than the kiss they’d just shared: he was being called away by his duty to the city…and she was letting him go.  It was their breakup in microcosm. 

“I’ll come find you later and we can…talk,” he said.

Beth fought to keep her smile in place. “Sure,” she agreed. 

She sighed as the door closed behind him.

It was just as well Alfred had interrupted them - that kiss had almost weakened her resolve.

It had been…wonderful. 

The way they’d responded to each other; the way they’d fit together; the passion and the tenderness…it had been perfect. 

Too perfect. 

She’d gotten a taste of a life of intimacy with Bruce, had seen and felt how amazing it could be without her abilities... 

Any longer and she’d have lost all self respect and start begging him to reconsider - to give them another chance. 

Alfred had done her a favour. 

This was better. 

A clean break, without the painful conversation and awkward goodbye. 

She took a seat at the desk in the corner of the room and fished out a pen and some notepaper from one of the drawers. She brushed her fingers over the embossed ‘W’ of the letterhead and smiled sadly. 

She would miss this place, with all its monograms and old-world, musty charm. 

She would miss Alfred and Dory.

She already missed Bruce. She’d started missing him the moment she’d known it was over. 

Trying to ignore the chasm of loneliness expanding inside her - emanating from the place her heart used to reside - Beth uncapped the pen and started writing. 

------

Apologies to the readers who want the angst to be over and the happy ending to begin - its coming, don’t worry! I just think Beth and Bruce have a few things left to hash out beforehand.

I won’t make you wait too long - chapter 21 will be up this time tomorrow...

Taglist: @hollandorks @grunge-n-roses5 @xmxrfx @neptunesands @caramelcandescence  @blossomedfloweroflove @wanderdreamer @angelsarecallin @stephenismyking @rabbitdictionary @starshipvelociraptor @yanna-banana @batmanlovesnirvana  @bees-fart-too @hypnoash @eravanaaaah @anescapistreality @beigetrash @shimmeringgrim @battinsonbaby​ @blue-aconite

[danteinthedevildom]

Like, ok, hear me out. Here’s how I think the Kids event should have gone down, based on the cards and the background:

- Solomon’s working on a new spell. He’s managed to create it using a special type of mutated apple that has very unique properties. He’s aware that it works in a very straightforward way - for each bite taken, the person multiplies - but that it’s only been tested when a physical bite is taken from the apple. He’s curious to see what’d happen if he distilled the apple’s juices, and used it like that.

- He claims to have finished the first batch, and asks if MC could take some with them, maybe experiment on something - just something small, like a frog, maybe - so he can get a read on what it’ll do before he uses it. (Apparently, he’s been banned from doing any new spells unless he tests every ingredient individually, first.) 

- MC returns to the House of Lamentation, and forgets about the bottle of distilled magic apple in their pocket. The next day, the brothers and MC sit down for a meal, made by Satan. When the brothers take their first bites, they claim that it tastes different, but in a good way. Satan happily confirms that it is different; as he was doing laundry the day before, he found a small vial in MC’s pocket. He’d done a small test to see what it was - just in case it was anything dangerous - but had been pleasantly surprised to find it was just apple juice. He guiltily admits that he took it without permission to use in the dinner since the recipe called for a more human-toxic ingredient, and he figured that if MC had it on hand, it was probably safe for human consumption. 

- The brothers happily continue eating, but Satan quickly notices MC’s "strange expression”. Before they can explain anything, however, the brothers suddenly claim to feel odd. Satan’s initially offended, until he admits that he’s feeling a little odd, too. Deciding that the food was probably not a success, they all part ways to turn in for the night, with some of them grumbling about food poisoning. Satan apologises to MC, but says that whatever seems to have bothered them will have to wait till tomorrow, after they’ve all had a rest. 

- MC informs Solomon of the outcome. He seems confused, but admits that this sort of thing does happen in magic, sometimes; what you expect to happen simply doesn’t. Maybe the magic doesn’t work in juice-form, or maybe putting it with other food negated it, or affected it somehow - he can’t say for sure. He thanks MC anyway, and bids them goodnight.

- The next morning, MC is woken by an ear-piercing scream. They stumble out of bed and rush into the hallway, fully expecting someone to be out there (maybe prepared to explain, or to defend them from whatever made the sound) - only, it’s dead silent. They do a quick look around each of the common areas - the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, even some of the bathrooms - but the brothers aren’t there. The scream sounds again, only, now that they’re awake, they realise it sounds sort of... familiar? [Choices would appear for which brother MC thinks made the scream, and they’d shout out that name]. Unsure what else to do, MC runs towards the direction the scream came from. 

- They end up outside Lucifer’s office, the door part-open. Voices come from inside, but they all sound a little odd. Eventually, one of them says MC’s name; another quickly hushes the voice, and a third berates it; then the scream sounds again, this time wailed, and MC suddenly realises it’s a very warbled version of their name. 

- They burst in past the door, and freeze in shock. Seven children are huddled in the room, one of which is still in tears on the floor. All seven of them look up as soon as the door slams open, and the crying child gleefully squeals MC’s name, rushing up to throw himself at their waist. Another of the children looks somewhere between furious and embarrassed, while a third sleepily says they’ve been caught. 

- [The sprites would appear on screen, now; each of the children in turn, with MC slowly recognising each of them.] Lucifer is the furious/embarrassed child, standing up on his desk chair to give himself enough height to tower over the others; Belphie is the sleepy child, curled up on one of the sofas; Mammon’s the one currently clinging to their waist; Asmo’s staring into a mirror, his eyes wide, almost entranced; Beel’s sitting on the sofa, next to Belphie, munching on a bag of chips; Satan’s sitting down by the bookshelf, glaring down at a huge tome he’d somehow lugged on his lap; and Levi - is flinging himself at MC’s other side, demanding Mammon let go. 

- Bewildered, MC does the only thing they can think to do; call Solomon and Diavolo. [So begins the next scene with them having already arrived]. Diavolo is initially ecstatic to see the brothers so small, and delights in how easily riled up a young Lucifer is (especially when he’s called cute), while Solomon flits between amusement and confusion. He’s not entirely sure what’s happened to them, or why. Diavolo questions if they’ve come into contact with anything strange, to which Solomon responds in the negative - until, suddenly, he remembers the distilled juice. He asks MC to confirm if the brothers had ingested it, to which MC says they did, but hadn’t suffered any immediate effects. 

- Diavolo asks what the juice was, to which Solomon explains. He hums in thought and reveals that the apple’s magic has a side effect; the more clones made from a single person, the younger their mental age becomes. He and Solomon theorise that distilling the juice, or perhaps adding it in with the other magical properties of their food, or even just the act of cooking it, might have changed the magic. Instead of mentally altering their age through copies, it physically de-aged them. 

- MC asks if that’s even possible, and Solomon admits it sounds ridiculous, but stranger has happened. Unfortunately, since the magic seems to have altered, they have no idea how to reverse it. Diavolo notes that the original method was to satisfy the copies until they all disappeared and re-joined, but that it might not work that way anymore. At a loss, Diavolo asks if MC could look after the brothers while he and Solomon - with the help of the angels - work on a cure. [MC is allowed to accept - which leads to cheers from Mammon and Levi - or have a “What?! Why me?!” response - which leads to Diavolo laughing and saying he’s not sure he could remove the second and third eldest from their hip if he tried.]

- The event then follows MC trying to keep all the brothers happy and entertained. 

Which I could imagine going down a little something like this:

- It starts with Mammon and Levi, who refuse to leave MC at all. They cling to their hip and argue at each other from either side, with lots of angry demands that the other leave, refusals to leave, and claims that MC likes one over the other more. It ends up with them both almost in tears, and MC has to find a way to calm them down. 

- It doesn’t succeed. No matter who MC tries to soothe, something will kick them off again (Levi getting jealous, if Mammon’s chosen, or Levi gloating, if he’s chosen). A little helplessly, they watch as the boys eventually land on a “MC loves me more” argument, which continues until Levi declares a competition: they each have to find something to give to MC, and whoever’s gift MC likes more is the winner. They’re gone before MC can even try to stop them. 

- Next, MC tries to seek out the other boys. They stumble across Asmo, still in the livingroom, looking into the mirror. No matter what they do, he keeps staring, unresponsive. It takes them a bit to realise that he’s accidentally hypnotised himself. As soon as they take the mirror away, however, he gets very upset, and starts to throw a tantrum. MC gets given a few options of things that’ll make Asmo happier than the mirror; letting him paint their nails, letting him do their makeup, or letting him do their hair. 

- Whichever option MC chooses, Asmo immediately perks up. He scurries off to grab everything he needs, and comes back a few minutes later, struggling with a very, very full bag. MC gets a sudden feeling of dread, but settles down as Asmo directs them, and lets him get to work. Once he’s done, he happily exclaims that they’re “maybe even a little more beautiful than [him]!”. 

- Since he seems to have forgotten about the mirror, MC is happy to let him go off and play. Just as they’re about to let him rush off, however, the door opens, and in comes Simeon - who takes one look at them and struggles to hold his laughter. Asmo asks him if he thinks he did a good job, to which Simeon (still trying not to giggle) says that MC looks lovely. Asmo happily wanders off, and Simeon teasts them for their new style. 

- Simeon explains that he’s there to give a helping hand. He was helping with the cure, but Barbatos suddenly took him to one side and informed him that they might need a little help - so he’s brought about a dozen things to try and keep the brothers entertained and out of trouble. [MC can either act as if Simeon is their saviour or pout that they wanted to look after the brothers on their own, but either way, he’ll respond teasingly.] He informs them that he’ll keep an eye on Asmo, and try to set up a few things the others might enjoy. 

- MC wanders off again to try and find one of the brothers, eventually being drawn to the library. Inside, they hear someone trying to read, stumbling over each word, until eventually they hear a book being slammed shut. Just as they enter the room, the book is thrown at them, and they just barely duck in time. 

- Satan’s too frustrated to notice them. He stomps in place, tears in his eyes and red-faced, surrounded by books, yelling angrily that they’re stupid, and awful, and he hates them. He startles when MC says his name, and then immediately hiccups before bursting into tears. MC rushes to his side, asking what’s wrong, and he - between wails - explains that he can’t read his books anymore. The words are too big, and he’s forgotten what they mean. Plus, he can’t reach a lot of them - he’s too small, and the ladder’s too difficult for him to push around - so he’s stuck with whatever’s on the floor. 

- MC consoles him, and asks if he’d like to: listen to MC read to him - have MC find him an easier book. Whichever option MC chooses, he slowly stops crying and agrees. They scurry off to find a book that looks easier for children to understand, and have him sit down on the sofa with then. [Either MC finishes reading the book for him, or Satan finishes the book]. Either way, he seems a lot happier, and thanks MC for their help. MC asks if he’d like to go downstairs, but he says he’d just like to read a little more, and admits he’s really invested in the children’s series MC found. He more than happily picks up the next book, and begins reading to himself, completely ignoring MC’s presence. 

- Content that he’s safe to leave reading, MC exits out into the hallway, starting to turn off towards more of the bedrooms. However a sudden crash, and a yelp from Simeon, draws their attention away. They rush downstairs to the kitchen - where they find Beel, throwing a tantrum, the fridge’s door thrown off its hinges, and a wide-eyed Simeon holding a sleeping Belphie. 

- Simeon stammers out that he’s not too sure what’s wrong. Beel was already upset - and the fridge’s door gone - when he found them, and wouldn’t answer him when he asked. He only seemed to get more and more upset, until finally, he just started storming around, trying to destroy the table and chairs. Except that, somehow, seemed to make him even worse. 

- MC crouches down, and tries to ask Beel what’s wrong. Like Simeon said, he’s completely silent; face scrunched up in anger and flushed red, barely even making a sound when he finally looks at them. MC can either ask if he’s hungry, to which he’ll nod, or ask him what’s wrong, to which his belly will growl and he’ll clutch at it pitifully. Either way, he’ll point at the fridge. Inside, MC will see a few things have been munched on, but a lot of them have been spat almost immediately back out. There’s only a few things that were successfully eaten, but it’s barely anything. 

- Simeon notes how strange it is for Beel to not eat, especially when he’s hungry enough to rage. He comments, however, that children can be picky eaters, and suddenly realises that Beel’s probably struggling to find something he actually wants to eat. When he asks Beel if he’s got it right, Beel nods, and Simeon says he’ll try to whip him up something quickly. 

- They get him set at the table, and Simeon plates up some food. Beel takes a single bite... and immediately spits it out. Simeon again expresses surprise; what he made was one of Beel’s favourites. He tries again, and again, but each time Beel spits it out, until he’s starting to look even angrier (and just a little miserable). At a loss, Simeon asks MC if they have any ideas. [MC can suggest either Human World food, or suggest that they look at what Beel ate in the fridge - revealling it to be some of the human-safe foods stored for MC’s consumption]. Either way, Simeon quickly whips up a Human World dish, and places it in front of Beel - who happily eats the whole lot. 

- Relieved that the whole fiasco is over, Simeon takes Beel and Belphie into the livingroom, where Asmo is drawing - just in time for Levi and Mammon to charge into the kitchen, both red-faced and panting, claiming out of breath that they’ve each found the “best present ever” for MC. 

- The two demand that MC pick one present to see first [though MC can also choose for them to be revealed at the same time; this option avoids dialogue where one of the brothers gloats over the other], though regardless will both show off what they got. Levi picked a super-rare figurine, one he absolutely 100% adores, and goes off on a ramble about how good the show is (though mostly focuses on how cool it looks, rather than all the actual facts about the show). Mammon picked a very sparkly gem, one that he thinks is worth a lot and also just looks super pretty. They each say how they just know MC will pick their present, and how much worse the other’s present is, and eventually end up squabbling.

- MC can decide to either pick up both presents or to reject both presents. In either case, it confuses the boys (and makes them upset, if they were both rejected), and they ask why MC didn’t just pick one. MC claims that they care about both boys just as much as the other, and that they’re both special to them, so they can’t pick. In fact, picking would actually make them very sad. [The boys ask if MC would really be sad if they had to choose; they can either simply nod, or pretend to start crying. The second option has the boys panic, and quickly try to backpeddle and comfort MC]

- In either case, the boys get quiet after a moment and very reluctantly agree to a truce. They guess MC can like them both as much as the other. MC thinks that’s the end of it... until they start arguing over which of the two of them loves MC more. Thankfully, Simeon comes to the rescue; he informs them that he’s finally managed to put a DVD on, which immediately gets Levi’s attention, and he rushes into the livingroom with Mammon hot on his heels. 

- Simeon laughs once they’ve gone, and says MC looks a little haggard; they can either say they feel exhausted, or say they’re having a lot of fun. Either way, Simeon will say he’s enjoying it a lot; he loves babysitting, and he has plenty of videos and pics to remember it all by. After a moment, however, he’ll admit that he came to ask MC something, not just to chat; have they seen Lucifer? He’s not seen hide nor hair of the first-born since arriving. MC says they haven’t seen him since Diavolo left.

- Between them, they agree that Simeon will stay looking after the younger brothers while MC goes off after Lucifer; Simeon’s pretty sure he’d respond better to seeing MC than him. So begins another search around the House, through each room, slowly getting more frantic as each one comes up empty. Even Satan’s finally moved himself downstairs to the livingroom, but still no Lucifer. 

- MC can choose whether they should report back to Simeon or keep looking, but neither one truly matters; as soon as the decision is made, they hear a little voice floating down from the attic. They make their way up the stairs, the voice getting clearer and clearer until they can finally make out the words. 

- It’s Lucifer, of course. He’s up in the attic, quietly berating - himself? When MC walks inside, they find him sitting stock-still, back straight, on the bed, his fingers curled into fists on his knees. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights when he notices them, but he quickly recovers, and greets them normally. MC asks if he’s okay, and he says he’s fine. It’s nice to have some peace and quiet, for once. He thanks MC for looking after his brothers, and says they can leave him to enjoy the break. MC notices, however, that he seems strained, and that he’s trembling just a little. 

- MC can either wait him out or ask him what’s wrong, but either way, Lucifer eventually crumples. He hates it. He hates being small, and feeling weak; he hates that it’s harder to control his emotions, and that his voice sounds so high; he hates that he had to awkwardly scramble on the bed, and that he can’t hold a pen properly, let alone write neatly anymore. He starts to tear up, and scrubs angrily at his face when he realises he’s doing it, demanding himself to stop crying. As his frustration mounts, however, he just tears up more, which makes it worse. 

- MC can either hug him right away, or crouch down to comfort him with words; either way, he ends up hugging them and crying against their shoulder, letting them soothe him until he finally stops. They have the choice to reassure him (reminding him that it’s only for a while, and that it’s okay to not be able to do the things he normally can), or to call him cute (which makes him indignant and fluster up), but either way, he thanks them for making him feel better. He asks them not to tell his brothers about his little breakdown, and admits it’s... maybe not the worst thing in the world, even if it hurts his pride. (And maybe sometimes it’s a little nice to be cuddled when he’s upset). 

- They return downstairs together, where Simeon greets them. The movie’s almost over, but they already have another one lined up. Lucifer just nods quietly and goes to join his brothers on the sofa. 

- Simeon informs MC that he got a text from Solomon. He thinks the magic should be out of their systems by the morning, so they shouldn’t need to worry once the brothers are put to bed. MC can either cheer with relief or express a little sadness that it’s ending, but either way, Simeon will laugh, and say he’ll start on dinner. It looks like they need a lie-down, anyway. MC sits down in one of the chairs, and almost immediately drifts off. 

- When they wake up, it’s to Simeon shaking them gently. Mammon and Levi are asleep on their lap, curled up against them - apparently having climbed up there while they were asleep - and the other brothers are likewise conked out across the sofa. He apologises for waking them; they missed dinner since he thought they needed the sleep more than the food, and the brothers are already fed. He made sure to pack up some leftovers for them to warm up later. Right now, however, the brothers need to be put to bed, but there’s a few too many of them for him to take on his own - and the chair probably isn’t a good place to sleep for the night, either.

- Between them, Simeon and MC manage to get each of the brothers back in their normal beds, luckily without waking any of them up. MC can comment that they’re much better when they’re asleep, or can comment on how cute they look (especially swaddled up in beds that are way too big for them). Simeon issues a short comment, but is cut off by a yawn; he flushes in embarrassment, and admits that it maybe took more out of him than he thought it would, even though it was fun. 

- He bids them goodnight, and - still yawning - makes his way back to Purgatory Hall. MC retreats to their room, slips into their bed, and falls asleep almost as soon as their head hits the pillow.

- The next morning, MC wakes up to a very quiet House. They get dressed and head downstairs, but none of the brothers seem to be awake yet. They make themself breakfast, eat in the dining room, and even go back to wash their plate when they’re done, but still, there’s no sign of the brothers. A little worried, they send off a message in the group chat - but even after waiting a few minutes, there’s no response.

- MC gets a choice of which brother to check up on first, but the option doesn’t matter. Before they can actually leave the room, each of the brothers files in one at a time, looking sheepish and embarrassed - except for Belphie, who slept through the whole thing. 

- It’s silent for a while, until Lucifer eventually clears his throat and says that, on behalf of the brothers, he’s thankful to MC for looking after them while they were incapable (moreso than usual, anyway) of doing so themselves. Mammon immediately cuts in that Lucifer was a kid, too, so why’s he acting like he wasn’t affected? Which starts a much more normal back-and-forth that relieves MC. 

- As shenanigans begin - including each brother thanking (and apologising to) MC for what they did (and teasing each other for it) - Satan takes MC off to the side and apologises for taking their things without permission. If he hadn’t, they wouldn’t have been turned into children, and MC wouldn’t have had to look after them. MC can either agree with him (in annoyance), tell him that he’s right but that the ordeal was a punishment enough, or say that it was alright since they had fun, anyway. Either way, he’ll thank them again, and admit it’s nice to be back to normal so he can read his books. 

- Eventually, Lucifer takes control, stating that none of them will ever speak of the incident again. The brothers all agree (though some reluctantly). Just as he’s about to dismiss them, Lucifer’s D.D.D. chimes. Then, each of the brothers’ D.D.D.s chime in turn. They take them out to look at. Of course, each has been sent a picture (or two) from Diavolo of them from the day before, including an ever-ellusive image of Lucifer actually asleep (on the sofa, curled up against Simeon’s side) and Asmo’s new makeup look (which is as bad as you’d expect, despite the proud, beaming smile in the photo). 

- Chaos ensues, until the brothers start demanding where Diavolo had gotten the pictures from. They all turn on MC, who can either gulp (and run) or blame Simeon. In either case, the event ends with Lucifer on the phone angrily demanding Simeon delete the pictures, only for them to be sent even more - much to their joint embarrassment. 

[forevercloudnine]

pre-new 52 scarebat ship meme

 (I actually have no idea what to call this period of comics. The dc wiki calls this the “New Earth” universe... it’s like, everything after Jason Todd was retconned out of being a circus acrobat up to Flashpoint. Anyway like a month ago I asked @heroes-etc​ to send me questions for this version of scarebat from this ship meme but then forgot that I did it because I got distracted by other ships. Sorry Jonathan...)

4. Who can’t keep their hands to themselves?

Bruce does DO physical affection — I mean, how many comic panels do we even have of him making out with Catwoman on rooftops — but he’s not especially forthcoming with it. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that his love interests are more likely to instigate contact than he is, especially when that love interest is a villain like Selina or Talia (can you even IMAGINE him trying to take them off guard in a fight by grabbing their face for a kiss? Because I cannot).

He does occasionally instigate affection with his children/proteges, though usually it’s in instances where they obviously need comfort. Bruce isn’t always great at handling complicated emotional situations, but grief and trauma is something he understands very intimately, and he never hesitates to physically reassure people who are in that kind of pain.

In situations where someone isn’t in the active process of being traumatized, he’s less forward with physical affection. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll reject it if it’s instigated — depending on who you are, of course. I’m guessing he wouldn’t put up with hugs from random members of the Justice League. Superman is his best friend and he would probably try to wiggle out of 90% of Kal hugs if doing so was physically possible. Most of his loved ones don’t really spring physical affection on him unless they need it or it’s an especially emotional moment, however. It’s not really Bruce’s primary love language. 

Jonathan seems even less physically affectionate than Bruce, though obviously doesn’t have a lot of opportunity to demonstrate how he feels either way. Master of Fear offers the only example of him expressing explicitly romantic affection that I know of (unless you count his terrorizing Becky Albright in New Year’s Evil as physical affection, which... might be how he’s thinking of it...?), and it’s entirely instigated by Sherry Squire. He does ask her to the Halloween party, but she’s the one who takes him down to the furnace room for some “one-on-one” time and tells him to kiss her. 

He also notably does not actually get a chance to kiss her, mainly because the whole thing was a prank meant to humiliate him. This might be why he doesn’t try to instigate anything similar with his next crush, Dr. Linda Friitawa (again, unless you count Becky Albright, but I can’t find New Year’s Evil to read anywhere so my only knowledge of his interaction with her comes from Tumblr. I’m like 80% sure he was supposed to be interested in her romantically, but asking someone to do supervillainy with you isn’t the most direct way to express attraction, so I’m taking that as more obliqueness from Jonathan).

He never expresses any direct romantic interest in Linda, but at the very least he clearly cares about her more than he cares for most people, since he, like. Defends her in conversation and apologizes to her for things that aren’t even his fault. Which means a lot, coming from a sociopath with no regard for human life. They do hold hands at one point, but Linda reaches out to him first, and he waits to see if she’s going to back away from his reciprocated touch before he reaches for her other hand. 

He never instigates anything further with her, possibly out of fear of rejection. Unfortunately, it turns out that this was a good call, because Linda was only pretending to be nice to him while Penguin was paying her to experiment on Jonathan without his knowledge. When Batman figures out what they’re doing, she immediately fucks off and starts dating Black Mask.

Even more unfortunately, his 45 seconds of hand holding with Backstabby McMad Scientist is probably the only mutual physical affection Jonathan has ever experienced in his entire life, so honestly I have no idea if he would be more into it as a concept if it was offered to him more often. He’s clearly willing to return physical contact when it’s initiated by someone else, so maybe it is something he would seek out in an actual relationship? He DOES get handsy with Bruce when he has Batman tied up sometimes. 

9. What is the most embarrassing thing they have done in front of each other?

Trip out on fear toxin, both of them, hands down. There are few things more embarrassing than, as Jonathan aptly describes it, being “reduced to whimpering quivers” in front of your enemy. Especially an enemy who’s presumably jotting down notes on your worst fears, since Batman/Scarecrow fights tend to just be competitions in who’s more frightening.

11. What do they hide from one another?

I mean, obligatory mention of the fact that Bruce hides things from absolutely everyone (with the possible exception of Alfred, because Bruce trusts him as completely as he is capable of trusting anyone, and also because it’s really hard to hide things from a parent whose involved in every aspect of your life and already knew you before you developed your pathological need to obfuscate your feelings and intentions).

As Wonder Woman pretty aptly describes during the Tower of Babel arc, even Bruce’s closest allies are never going to hear the full story from him. So it’s deeply unlikely he’d ever be 100% truthful with a supervillain, even if they got close AND Jonathan reformed. 

But it’s notable that Jonathan’s fear toxin has actually given him a more honest look into Bruce’s psyche than he would ever purposefully give to people who aren’t close family members. And by “close family members” I again pretty much just mean Alfred. Unfortunately for Bruce, nothing forces emotional transparency like mind altering drugs. Fortunately for Jonathan, nothing forces emotional transparency like mind altering drugs! Not that I’m recommending that anyone drug a romantic partner into being honest with them. But Jonathan is a trained psychiatrist, so I assume his psychological know-how combined with insights gleaned from the dozens of “sessions” he’s had with Batman in the past would leave him more prepared than most to decipher the mystery that is Bruce Wayne. (@heroes-etc: riddler is SEETHING.)

Jonathan meanwhile is more than capable of putting together a clandestine scheme, but in respect to himself he’s actually pretty straightforward. Though his driving motivation in this continuity gets more and more complicated over time, from the early 90’s “I just like fear” to the early 2000’s “my Granny tortured me with birds when I was a child and now I’m obsessed with inspiring the same fear and submission she forced on me onto others,” what doesn’t change is his willingness to monologue about it to anyone who’s listening.

Also, anything that Jonathan is unable or unwilling to go into detail on, Bruce is more than capable of puzzling out himself. In Scarecrow: Year One he successfully tracks down Jonathan’s old home to recover and read through Granny Keeney’s diary, and after Scarecrow’s Master of Fear origin was published, it’s clear that Bruce has done his research on Jonathan’s childhood. There’s even a (presumably unintentionally) hilarious scene where Bruce pauses mid-rescue of a man that Jonathan has kidnapped and traumatized with fear toxin to lecture him on having bullied Jon in high school.

Is this really the time, Bruce???

(@heroes-etc: oh 100% he nailed that timing.)

13. When do they realise they should get together?

Well, circling back to Tower of Babel, it’s revealed when Ra’s al Ghul has Talia steal Bruce’s contingency plans for defeating the Justice League that Bruce has “borrowed” Scarecrow’s fear toxin in case he has to take down Aquaman.

This was back when Scarecrow had a number of different toxins that induced different phobias, or made people hallucinate hyper-specific nightmare scenarios (such as “being eaten alive by roaches from the inside,” for some terrible reason). Batman notes in his contingency files that Scarecrow has already done the work for him; presumably Jonathan had already designed a formula to induce hydrophobia, so all Bruce had to do was steal a vial of it from a crime scene.

(The sentence “Why not make him incapacitate himself... perhaps through fear?” alone is like 90% of why I think these men would get along like burlap on fire if they ever actually cooperated on something. Also, unrelated, but the polaroid of Jonathan he has in the Aquaman file is weirdly adorable.)

Bruce’s plan for Arthur is incredibly effective, and notably also Bruce’s only contingency that isn’t either inherently lethal or a ruthlessly sociopathic betrayal of emotional vulnerabilities that had been revealed to him in trust and friendship (RIP Kyle Rayner).

(Notably, Bruce’s plans for Kyle and several other leaguers directly involve using their worst fears against them, even without a fear toxin conveniently tailored for this purpose. Bruce just really likes using fear as a weapon against people.)

After Tower of Babel, Bruce obviously needed to create new contingencies, since the whole point is that they were secret plans that no one could see coming. In canon, Bruce goes on to create the A.I. satellite Brother Eye for this purpose (which backfires even worse than his first set of contingency plans, because of course it does). But I think an interesting alternative could have been Bruce tapping Jonathan for more toxin strands tailored to taking down the Justice League. If Bruce Wayne offered to pay Scarecrow’s way out of Arkham in order to develop formulas that could neutralize the world’s most powerful superheroes, is there any way that Jonathan would turn him down? I mean, obviously he would plan on betraying Wayne at some point, and Bruce would similarly be working against Jonathan’s best interests. But maybe if they set aside their “who’s scarier” dick measuring contest to work together for once, they could come to recognize their shared passion: scaring the shit of people.

Also, the Jonathan in this continuity really likes books. And you know what’s a reliably sustainable source of books that can’t be confiscated by the authorities? Dating Bruce Wayne. The manor alone probably has an insane amount of rare books that have been hoarded by his family over the years. It’s like a weird reversal of the Beauty and the Beast, where the rude rich guy who gives a library to the love interest he may or may not have technically kidnapped is the pretty one.

21. Where do they get nervous about going with one another?

If they were dating, I’m guessing Jonathan wouldn’t want to go anywhere in public with Bruce at all. Bruce Wayne is a celebrity bachelor, and celebrity bachelors get a lot of attention, and people who take celebrity bachelors off the market get a lot of NEGATIVE attention. The public reaction to Bruce settling into a committed relationship with anyone would be the kind of weirdly resentful gossipy judgement that the girlfriends of famous princes or actors or musicians always get from tabloids and entertainment television, but in Jonathan’s case it would be a million times worse. Not just because he’s a supervillain, because if there’s any town that would expect its most eligible bachelor to eventually date a supervillain, it’s Gotham. But more specifically because “ugly social outcast” is one of Scarecrow’s most enduring character traits. Not exactly the traditional trophy wife. And though Jonathan’s Scarecrow identity seems to distance him from a lot of the shame he suffered growing up, I’m guessing that the kind of spiteful vitriol that would follow him anywhere he accompanied Bruce would at the least bring back some very unwanted memories.

Bruce probably doesn’t have the same discomfort Jonathan would with being seen together in public. He doesn’t care if people think Bruce Wayne is insane or lacking in judgement as long as they don’t think he’s Batman, and I’m sure he’d find a way to spin “dating a man who prefers to dress exclusively in burlap” into something appropriately characteristic of playboy idiocy. But while he'd definitely respect Jonathan's wishes to stay out of the public sphere, he would probably enjoy any opportunity to bring Scarecrow into Gotham high society, since his presence would definitely shake up a party, and Bruce is generally extremely bored at any social event where he doesn’t have anyone to snark with. And with Jonathan’s scathing wit as entertainment, Bruce might one day fulfill Alfred’s wish and actually make it through an intermission sometime.

I’d say that Bruce would be nervous about taking Jonathan out for “field research,” but I’m sure it would be one of Scarecrow’s requirements for any long term collaboration, so it’s something that he would have to get used to pretty quickly. He would probably endeavor to keep Jonathan away from anything that could retrigger his less healthy behaviors. On the other hand, it’s not like Bruce does that for himself, so it stands to reason that he probably wouldn’t be able to successfully control Jonathan in that regard either. 

It doesn’t help that one of Jonathan’s primary motivations in villainy is his childhood, which is... exactly the same thing that Bruce is fixated on. A significant portion of Scarecrow: Year One is the two of them waxing poetic about how similar they are in this regard. 

Relating to this, even though it might be a terrible idea, I don’t think Bruce would be able to resist encouraging Jonathan to reconnect with his mom. Bruce would never recommend for someone like Cassandra to seek out a relationship with her father, but if someone he cares about has a LIVING parent who WASN’T abusive to them? It seems unlikely that Bruce wouldn’t advocate for reconciliation. Jonathan’s dad obviously never cared about the teenage girl he knocked up or their bastard child, but Karen Keeney is a different story. DC Holiday Special ‘09 makes it clear that Jonathan was taken away from her against her will, and she’s spent a significant portion of her life wracked by guilt imagining what the woman who abused her was doing to her son.  

Ultimately she attempts to commit suicide because she feels personally responsible for every terrible thing her son has ever done, which is tragic because really she’s the only member of the Keeney family completely blameless in the creation of the Scarecrow. In Scarecrow: Year One Jonathan clearly resents her for leaving him and moving on to have another baby that she actually did keep, which I would call a really paranoid case of jumping to conclusions if it didn’t seem extremely likely that Granny Keeney told him his mother didn’t want him and left him to be tortured on purpose.

(Side note, it is REALLY weird how young Karen Keeney is depicted in Scarecrow: Year One. At times her son looks older than she is, and it doesn’t help that her second born child is an infant for some reason. Even if Jonathan is only thirty years old here, then unless she had him at younger than fourteen, she should already be in her mid-forties. Why did she only have a second child so late in life? The implication with her abusive husband is that she ended up getting trapped in a bad relationship for survival when her family kicked her out as a teenager for disgracing the family by having Jonathan. It would make way more sense for her child with him to be at least in elementary school. Also the scene would have been way more interesting if Scarecrow’s sister was old enough to talk.)

Thankfully Deadman manages to convince Karen to hold on to life long enough for someone to call 911, and she ends up surviving the suicide attempt. But were Jonathan ever to reform, it seems like reconciliation would be really healthy for both of them, since miraculously Karen still seems to care about Jonathan despite everything he’s put her through, and they’re both clearly still suffering from the after effects of Mary Keeney’s abuse. 

Bruce would be enthusiastic about this prospect for obvious reasons, although he would presumably still be nervous about the possibility of everything going terribly wrong. And even if everything went perfectly right, he would STILL be nervous, because everytime Jonathan goes to see his mother there’s a chance that she will mention the time that she kissed Batman full on the mouth. And that is not information you would ever want your psychologist boyfriend to know, unless you want to be mocked with Freudian buzzwords for the rest of your natural life. 

(...This would also count as a thing that Bruce hides from Jonathan.)

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Glamour - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account.

Geralt is observant. His job calls for it, Jaskier supposes. He’d be a pretty shit Witcher if he was killed by a monster who managed to sneak up behind him in the thickets.

It was probably something ingrained into him during the trails and mutations. Travelling around the Continent together only gave Jaskier an insight into how sharp the Witcher’s instincts really were. He heard things that Jaskier didn’t. In taverns, he would be able to tell what people were talking about at each table: even those who would give them side-eyes and keep their whispers to themselves. The noise always got to him. Jaskier noticed how Geralt could only be in one place for a certain amount of time before the noise grew deafening.

And on most nights, he doesn’t even think that Geralt sleeps. He has every ability to sleep. After a particularly long trek in between towns and cities, or even after a round of lovemaking, Geralt sleeps. But sometimes, noise keeps him awake: the creaking of a floorboard, crows cawing outside, or even the distant hum of conversation floating up to the upstairs rooms of inns.

So Geralt could be one of the most observant people that he’s ever met.

But, gods divine, could he be dense.

Emotional constipation and an incredibly short temper aside, it’s the little things that manage to slip by.

Though, in Geralt’s defence, Jaskier has been wearing a glamour for most of his life. In fact, the more he thinks about it, he isn’t entirely sure when the glamour was placed in the first place. He can remember the first time he saw a mage in his mother’s drawing-room, pouring over some old, leather tome on his lap. He remembers his mother beckoning him over, explaining that the mage was a friend. That Jaskier was ill, apparently. And the mage was very good at making sure that Jaskier would always be healthy and safe.

It wasn’t until he got a bit older, when the glamours started to flicker and fail, did he realise what his mother meant by all of that.

He imagines how the whole thing would have sounded: the Viscountess de Lettenhove had, at some point, fallen into an elf’s bed. The union produced a halfbred bastard – something entirely concealed at Jaskier’s birth, when the Viscountess demanded that the mage be in the room with her, when an army of midwives requested that he stay well out of the business of ladies.

But he understands now.

She just wanted to keep him healthy. And safe. For all that his father knew, Jaskier was his, and that was that. How could he have thought any differently? Especially with the help of the mage who, for all he knew, was only there to monitor the health of his son.

It’s only for his ears. That was the only thing abnormal – though, Jaskier never really liked that word. But he could never find a word that did match how he felt about the entire thing. The faintest arch of the top of his ears: too faint to be belonging to an elf, but enough of an arch to set him apart from human men. Enough of an arch to earn looks.

And he definitely wasn’t the only one who wore glamours. If people actually paid attention and looked, they would be able to see them everywhere.

And it’s not like Geralt hasn’t seen him bare. If anything, he knows the plains of Jaskier’s body better than most. People he had only spent nights with, he didn’t care much for them. They only saw what they were interested in seeing and that was it. Lovers he kept for longer started to scout, but Jaskier never kept them around for long enough to actually map.

Geralt is the only one that holds that kind of information.

And not once did he ever think, or give the inkling of a thought, that Jaskier might have been something else than human.

His ears stayed covered, glamoured to have a rounded arch – a human arch – for most of his life. That was one thing he could hide. Other things were more complicated.

Then Jaskier arrived at the conclusion that Geralt of Rivia was either very bad at acknowledging the passing of time, or he knew what Jaskier was, and made no mention of it.

And Jaskier, knowing Geralt for as long as he has, he’s absolutely convinced that it’s the former.

He met the Witcher when he was starting to claw his way out of his teens. And ageing had kept up well with him; he might have looked like a young eighteen-year-old, but he was eighteen years old nonetheless. And his half-elven blood allowed him to trudge through the years, gaining small little tokens with each year that passes. His skin does start to dull, after a time, and albeit not too noticeably. The faintest of lines scratch at the corners of his eyes and lips. But his blood kept him just out of the reach of whatever claimed other people his age. Or other people that should have been his age. He watched as other people gained white hairs and their muscles starting to slink away. He’s not going to lie and say he didn’t feel a modicum of joy at seeing Valdo Marx squinting at a tome in the middle of Oxenfurt library, adjusting his spectacles, and then huffing when he couldn’t make out anything no matter how close he pulled the book to his face.

Hiding what he was only became complicated when he found himself injured.

Something he can’t hide is how well his body can knit itself back together again. Elf blood is good at extending a life – either through shooing away the effects of time, or making sure that the body it inhabits doesn’t do anything too stupid to kill itself.

He’s never sustained an injury for something like that to be shown. If anything, it’s a very good testament to how well Geralt protects him. The most he’s ever gotten while out on the Path are collections of cuts and bruises – all of them disappearing within a couple of days.

This, though. Jaskier grunts as Geralt lifts him up the last couple of stairs. This could be more difficult.

Then again, it’s the last fucking thing on his mind at the moment.

“Thank you for your help, Witcher!” their contractor calls up the staircase. He’s still covered in rainwater, dripping it on to the floorboards at his feet. Rubbing some manticore blood off of his brow, he offers them both a grateful smile. “I’ll be sure to tell the town about how your deeds here tonight!”

Geralt grunts and takes Jaskier further down the landing, towards their own rented room for the night. As soon as he drags the bard inside, he ushers them both over to the bed. Geralt pulls at the blankets, tossing them down towards the foot of the bed. On the dry mattress, he sets Jaskier down. “Stay here,” he says firmly before wandering over to his bags.

If his lungs didn’t feel like they were caved in, Jaskier would muster up enough air to shout at his Witcher. Where the fuck would I be going? A manticore corpse fell on me. Because of you and your hunting partner not looking where you’re going. Do you know how disgusting that is: a corpse falling on you? Do you know how heavy those fuckers are?

He can’t verbalise it: so staring at the man across the room will have to do. It could have been worse. He’ll give the Witcher that. He could have been pierced by teeth or claws. But gods divine, his right side feels like Roach kicked it. There’s a hefty and deep bruise. He’s sure of it. And possibly a cracked or broken rib.

Or a punctured lung.

Geralt gathers what he needs; a collection of salves and ointments all encased in glass vials and bottles. He sets them at the edge of the bed. As soon as one of the vials is uncapped, Jaskier nose wrinkles. A pungent scent of tea tree coats the roof of his mouth. He turns his head away, staring at the wall at the other side of the room.

Geralt gathers some of the salve in his palm, warming it up a bit, before smearing it along the worst of the bruise. A sharp hiss leaves Jaskier. It might be nothing, but he’s sure that he hears Geralt mutter a soft sorry under his breath.

His blood will knit himself back together again. But it never dulls pain. A design flaw if ever he saw one: living with Geralt is a hazard to his health and wellbeing.

Night fell quickly. Though, winter has long since settled over the Continent, shielding the land from the sun for the past couple of weeks. Any light that does manage to fight its way through the thick, grey, heavy clouds doesn’t last long. The days have grown shorter and the nights stretch out longer. The hunt started when a sun still sat high in the sky. But rainclouds tumbled in, and soon night fell and in all, it has just been a wholly unpleasant day.

With their room only lit by the hearth’s fire and candles sitting on tables, Geralt works mostly in darkness. His eyes aren’t back to their normal gold just yet. Some small trace of black still clings on. Jaskier stares at the wall, holding his breath when Geralt’s hand drifts over a spot that took most of the hit.

Time drifts by. Jaskier blinks when the lip of a glass vial is suddenly set at his lips. “Drink this,” Geralt says gruffly. Jaskier can smell it. Poppy’s milk. It’ll dull the pain, and possibly put him in a coma for the next few days if he takes too much. He lets Geralt tip the vial, judging how much of the potion the bard needs.

Jaskier only tastes a drop of it on his tongue before the vial is gone. He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “This stuff is addictive,” Geralt frowns, putting the vial away completely.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I know that,” he sighs, wincing slightly when Geralt prods at the bruise at his side. “Bards are rarely sober. Especially when they’re in college.”

At that, Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “Did you raid your professors’ opium gardens yourself, or?”

A light laugh leaves Jaskier, though he quells it when his lungs start to tighten. “Gods, no. We would have been found out. They had those gardens on lockdown. We...just became very friendly with passing traders.”

Geralt snorts. He works silently, offering the occasional apology whenever Jaskier’s face screws up in pain. It’s been ebbed with the potion, but it still hurts when Geralt presses his fucking fingers into his ribs—

“It’s not broken,” he says after a time. “But it could be cracked.”

“Then stop poking it.”

“Are you like this with physicians?”

“I never see physicians so I wouldn’t know.”

A small frown creases Geralt’s brow. “You don’t see physicians?”

Jaskier’s tongue swells in his mouth. “...No?”

“I can’t say I’ve met a human with such a strong immunity then,” Geralt goes back to his work. There’s a new ointment now; crushed arnica petals, with a strong scent of pine wafting off of it.

You love the Witcher, something in his brain whispers to him. In an otherwise quiet room, he flinches. The thought seems loud enough that it could be heard within the room. But Geralt offers another apology, before smoothing out the last of the salve. You love him. And he loves you. Shouldn’t you tell him?

And it occurs to him, just then, that outside of his mother, a long-since passed away mage, and himself, that no one knows. He’s never told anyone.

Swallowing a lump clawing up his throat, Jaskier rasps. “Maybe it’s because I’m not human.”

Geralt’s hands still over Jaskier’s skin.

He rushes to amend. “Well. I’m half-human. My mother is human.” Jaskier chews the inside of his cheek. “My father...I don’t know who he is. By all accounts, I suppose, Father is my father. He didn’t suspect anything else. But in a biological sense,” why is Geralt staring at him, “Mother told me that he was an elf. But...I don’t know who he is.”

And if the room wasn’t quiet before, it’s certainly quiet now.

“Say something,” Jaskier breathes. “Please. Stop staring at me and say something. Anything.”

And he swears he can see pieces fitting together in Geralt’s brain. It’s a long time before anything resembling a word leaves Geralt’s mouth. “We’ve known each other for so long. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Jaskier lifts a shoulder – as much as he’s able without his ribs hurting. “It never came up, I guess.”

“It never-” Geralt’s mouth opens, but no more words manage to come out of it. The Witcher catches the bridge of his nose between his fingers before sighing heavily. When he’s finally composed himself, he looks back to Jaskier’s body. “So you’ll heal?”

“Quicker than most,” Jaskier nods, “but not as quick as your lot, I imagine.” He hasn’t dashed out the room yet, or jumped out of the window. That’s good.

Geralt hums. His eyes still run over every stretch of exposed skin lain out before him. The bruise really only takes up one side, spreading from the peak of his hip bone to the foot of his ribs. It’s been almost an hour and it’s already beginning to change colour. What was once red and blue is now turning yellow around the edge. His body is starting to knit himself back together again. And with whatever salves Geralt smeared on him, he’s sure that the worst of it will be gone in a few hours.

Jaskier lifts a hand to Geralt’s jaw, skimming his fingers along the ridge of the Witcher’s jawline. “I’ll be fine,” he assures him. “When the sun rises tomorrow, I’ll be right as rain.”

Geralt stares at him blankly for a moment before nodding. “Alright, then.”

It’s not the nicest inn they’ve stayed the night in. But he didn’t expect much for a small trading town on the axis of a crossroads. But the pillows and mattress are soft, and the sheets are clean. And these days, that’s all he ever asks for.

Geralt has every capacity to be gentle with him. He lifts Jaskier just enough to fluff the pillows behind him, and sets him back down again. He gathers the sheets from the foot of the bed, bringing them up to Jaskier’s shoulders. “Do you want the furs too?” he asks, nodding to a collection of pelts.

Jaskier smiles. “If you wouldn’t mind. The nights are getting darker and colder.” So Geralt gathers them, spreading them out across the whole bed, but making sure that they cover Jaskier from chest to toe.

Jaskier stifles a yawn. The poppy’s milk loosens his muscles. If the bed was any softer, he thinks it might sink deeper and drown. Eyelids become heavy, making them difficult to stay awake. He does though, because Geralt is still padding around the room doing menial tasks. He stokes the fire, placing a spark-guard against it. He strips down to his underclothes and sets his armour, shirt, and breeches over the backs of two chairs.

Jaskier must mumble something that resembles a Geralt. Suddenly the scent of the Witcher is all around him. The bed dips by his side and warmth follows. “I’m here,” gentle words mumble against the shell of his ear. When they’ve settled, a peaceful sort of silence blankets over them. Geralt lies on his side, an arm folded underneath his head. His other hand sits in between them both, twitching to reach out but unsure.

“I have a cracked rib,” Jaskier mumbles, rolling his head to look down at Geralt’s hand. “I don’t have the pox.”

And the Witcher reaches out, fingers gentling along the crest of Jaskier’s collarbone. He shuffles closer, and Jaskier only hums with how warm his Witcher is. The last of the winter chill is chased away.

He’s almost asleep when he hears it. “You know what I am,” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of his chest. “And yet you still stay with me. You love me, despite all of that. Why do you think I would be any different with you?”

Jaskier sighs. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I guess even those who are prejudiced against by others can hold prejudices of their own against something else.” He hears Geralt click his tongue, shushing him. Sleep tugs at him. His body is lax and warm, and Geralt knows where to skim fingertips so sleep can creep up on him more quickly.

“Sleep now,” Geralt gentles, his thumb smoothing over Jaskier’s cheek. He drifts off to sleep like that; a chest suddenly, despite being crushed by a beast, lighter than before.

[briandthemoon]

~ Uploading this WIP here too! ~ {You can see both on my deviantArt too [same username], but with some of the original ideas and thoughts.} So uh, I did what I do best and shoved two things I love and have been hyperfocusing on for the last month together: Sanders Sides and RWBY.

I’ve been binging @thatsthat24 ‘s Sanders Sides videos and fan comics for the last month or so and by god, it’s really lifted my mood. I’m gonna work to get them all lined and coloured soon, but since I’ll be travelling in the next week, I’ll likely have paper sketches and such to upload if I’m lucky.

As for this AU, say hello to Team RNBO [Rainbow]! This is what I have so far in terms of character information; [putting it under a readmore, please do have a look!]

Roman De La Rosa:

- Semblance:  "Picture This" - the ability to conjure an item proportional to the positive emotions he alone is feeling. So the happier and more creative he feels, the better.

- Weapons: “Armas Y Rosas“, a gauntlet-gun [armas] and a rosen rapier sword [rosas]. It’s literally just a Guns N Roses joke.

Virgil Nightshade:

- Black Cat Faunus. I didn’t realise til too late how similar to Blake he is but honestly, idc, I love him.

- Semblance:  "Panic Room" - the ability to conjure a small isolated, soundproof space to trap someone in. Including himself in times of distress.

- Weapons: “Atropa”  and “Solanum”, two knives with dust vials that attach to the end to infuse the metal. He usually uses Gravity Dust because 1) aesthetic and 2) if you have gravity defying Dust? Thats a cool escape my guy.

Logan Blu-Berrie:

- Semblance: “Blu-Screen of Death” -   the ability to perform computer-esque functions via summons, i.e. attacking someone with a text box he just conjured, or browsing data and memories on a summoned screen for accuracy.

- Weapon: “Crofter”, a staff-spear that uses projection similar to Velvet’s weapon to form blades when needed. I.E. turning the staff into an axe or hammer or even forming a fishing line. [Looking at this whole thing, Logan wound up giving me big Scottish vibes in this AU and I’m SO for it.]

Patton Opal:

- Labrador Faunus, best boy 1000/10, didn’t have to re-work his design at all, what a madlad

- Semblance:  "New Trick" - the ability to mark a person and be able to find them via a boosted scent marker. So far Roman smells like strawberries and creme, Virgil smells like smokey wood, and Logan smells like jam. And yes, Patton has tried tracking himself. He smells of vanilla cookies.

Weapon: “Storge”, a shield - axe combo. Mostly used in the shield position unless he’s forced to be active in a fight. Tried to give this weapon BIG Rose Quartz Shield Vibes.

Remus Pepinillo:

- for those wondering, he threw out the De La Rosa name when he left the family to go eat deoderants without judgement. And to go cause havoc.

- Semblance: “Can’t Be Unseen” - Similar to Roman’s semblance, Remus can conjure items but instead based upon other people’s negative emotions directed at him. So things like disgust and fear directed at him make him stronger. 

- Weapon: “Asqueroso”, a mace that can be wielded in pole form or as a chain flail. The name literally is just the spanish for “Disgusting”.

“Deceit“:

- Python faunus. Pretty obvious there. As for a name, I’ll work with whatever becomes canon, tbh. His hat snake isn’t real, it’s just a design, but he has named his hat “Monty”.

- Semblance: “Trust in Me” - Deceit can mimic someone else’s voice to the point of being hypnotic in some cases.

- Weapon: “Kaa”, a microphone that can amplify sounds to use as ammo, or can be combined with dust vials for other effects, such as fire breathing or ice breath. This is absolutely where Virgil got the idea for his knives. 

~~ Little Things In Their Designs Collectively~~

- So mostly Roman and Virgil had a revamp and got added or changed details. I’m personally loving the rose decals for Roman, and the fact that Virgil has to keep sewing his hoodie pocket sides back up because he keeps knee-jerk whipping out his knives and catching them on the sides. Also freckles. I cannot stress enough how much I needed to give one of these cute lil guys freckles.

- Logan and Patton really didn’t change much; Patton came out perfect the first time, and Logan just needed some proportion adjustments. Later I went and added friendship bracelets to each design because I do not believe for a second that Patton wouldn’t make them team bracelets. The card suit beads was just an addition that I added because I am the artist and none of you can stop me from adding the tiniest of references to Homestuck Quadrants. 

- For Roman and Remus, I wanted them to have similar poses but good god, it was still hard to draw Remus’s hands. They look so good in the end though so I’m good with ‘em. I also might give him a little top hat or something at some point and see how it looks, I dunno.

- As for Deceit, I had a bit of trouble trying to pin down his design at first, but once I rolled with the allusions to Kaa from Jungle Book, it went far easier. I quite like that I added the poisonous needles in the bottom of his boots as a “sting in the tail” kind of thing.

- Talking about inspirations and such, Roman, Virgil, and Patton are pretty much just colour based; Roman being red roses [his name literally being Roman of the Rose] as a symbol of romance of course, with Virgil’s whole motif being Edgey and thus going with nightshade purple as his colour, and finally with Patton, his name took me the longest to work out, but Opal seemed to fit really well, and considering it represents Love and Loyalty? Come on, I had to.

- As for Logan, Deceit, and Remus, they all got more story links worked in somehow without me really realising. Logan was really unexpected, but between the Crofters’ Jam link and the blue colours, he gave me sort of Little Boy Blue vibes, and also via the name Logan being Scottish in origin and yknow, everythign else I mentioned? Yeah. I will definitely be adding celtic flair to his design when its coloured. Deceit is more obvious; Kaa was a good choice in influence that I noticed halfway through and just buckled down on. For Remus, he bounced around a bit between Maleficent and Dr Facilier, but in the end, I figured the Shadow Man was a better fit. Also his surname is literally just the Spanish for “Pickle” or “Gherkin”. 

- Final info, if people are wondering, they’d all be centred on Huntsman training at Beacon, but in terms of where they’re from;

Roman and Remus would be from Atlas, obviously. That place spits out rich kids with issues like it’s quickfire Uno.

Virgil would be from Mantle; it’s pretty obviously one of the more run down and hard to live in areas, plus that’d set up the in this universe initial animosity between Roman and Virgil.

Logan is from Vale, so he’s a Beacon native. I considered him being from Atlas because of their tech. However, Vale won me over with Logan’s european influences and such.

Patton would be from Vacuo. I know its a weird choice, but hey, it’s full of faunus and it just fit a bit better than Menagerie or Mistral.

Speaking of, Deceit is 100% Menagerie born, but Mistral bred. He often tells people different conflicting origin stories, and won’t even tell his name to ex-buddy Virgil or ‘best buddy’ Remus.

I think that’s everything so far!!

I dunno if everyone else is as hype to see what comes of all this as I am, but either way I’m going to have fun doing it. <3

_______ PLEASE DO NOT: - repost my art at all - you are not permitted to line or colour this art - you are not permitted to use this art as an icon or profile pic - do not steal these designs, I put a lot of work into them ;; _______ Sanders Sides (c) @thatsthat24 RWBY (c) Monty Oum & Rooster Teeth The sketches belong to me.

[rocinantescoffeestop]

You’ll Make It So Damn Big (for all the world to see)

A/N: A warm-up drabble that turned into an interpretation of Eobard Thawne’s speedforce origins.

[Read on AO3]

It feels like everybody around him is growing up. The world turns into a frenzy, as every which way the winds are blowing, but Eobard – the young Thawne standing on the precipice of adulthood – looks out on all sides and realises he’s not one of them. The winds are swirling, almost all in the same direction, but his feet are stuck to the ground, cemented in his past, a prison of his own making; His history holds him.

He still feels that, someday, he’ll make a name for himself. Just like his parents did and now want for him, just like the Thawne lineage predetermines, yet the wish he’d make is for the way of getting there – if only it wasn’t riddled with so many holes, hills, walls, and chasms to leap across. He wishes that the way he’d get there – his mandatory future – had support beams and bright lights. However, the only light for him is the hope glimmering at the end – a candlelight only one person cast upon him (a person who doesn’t even know who he is).

The thing about unrequited love is that it almost never pans out, and the back of his mind tells him this every single day. Phrases of You’ll never meet him and Find a different passion, a more sustainable one configure inside his mind, almost all sounding like someone he knows, and whatever configuration the words are in, the idea is the same: give up, go home, fall in line with the whipping whirlwinds, the status quo, and make a mansion inside of that. That’s what his father did, and a highly esteemed politician he made: governor currently campaigning for senator where a bigger name could be made. Make something like that. That’s what his mother did, and prize-worthy, scientific breakthroughs she’s already made, not to mention the world-winning books for which she’s gone on tours.

How many times has Eobard dressed for a public event congratulating his parents on their mighty achievements? How many times has he laid awake at night, wondering how on Earth he was going to top them? How many times did he fume when he saw his brother’s report card on the fridge when his own straight A’s were never satisfactory? How much longer does he have to endure this, how much longer until it’s his name written in the clouds, in the stars, uttered from the lips of people across the nation, across the world?

Hopefully soon.

But it’s just his luck that the one idea he’s rooted to feels like a pipedream.

City lights drown out the stars above. He longs to move someplace rural, far removed from the bustle of everyday, where he can see the cosmos. He doesn’t need a firsthand look (although what an adventure going to space would be!), but he wants the steadfastness, it’s array of little pinpricks of hope, just like his, to make him feel less alone.

Once upon a time, he learned the stars made sounds, so maybe he’ll invent a device that lets a human hear the sounds – the actual sounds, not a recreation. Would that be enough? Would people like that, love that, praise him and his ingenuity for that? Or would they still yearn for a greater greatness, juicing the life out of him until he’s left with the bare essentials, the pulp, the carbon form?

If he could scream ‘STOP!’ and earn a breather, he would.

And if he possessed the powers of The Flash, he could. He would race for the Canadian tundra and catch the northern lights, or race up a mountain and sleep on its peak.

At least he’s close. So close, he can taste promise of lightning in his veins. In preparation of the reaction, he has the chemicals in order and the electricity on standby, and he knows how to contain the dark matter wave. What he needs now is... well, all he ever needed. He thought by recreating the speedforce accident, he’d bestow upon himself the confidence he always lacked, but standing here physically prepared to leap, he hesitates in the realisation that the confidence he needs must come a bit sooner than that, lightning before the storm.

It’s a catch twenty-two.

He sees every step ahead of him in crystal clarity, he sees what he gets out of it, but what he lacks for this first step he’ll gain with his last. Can the stars shed light on this conundrum and tell him what to do?

Unfortunately, stars don’t exist in the city.

Eobard exhales, his lungs fogging up the two a.m. air. The murky navy-brown of sky mirrors in his eyes. Once, they seemed so clear, so decisive. Why can’t he call upon the twenty-year-old him for this? Better yet, his seven-year-old body and mind, all fascination and no doubt. All eagerness, no fear. Perhaps society’s ruined him. Perhaps his parents’ values have snuck their power around him like ivy. Perhaps he isn’t cut out for this after all.

“Of course, you are,” he grumbles to himself. “No one else is bold enough– let alone smart enough– to piece together any of what you did!”

Perhaps he just doesn’t want too.

He lifts his forearms off the railing he’s leaning against, and fingers fasten around the metal, turning his knuckles white.

Amber lights wash over the storage district of Keystone City spreading before him. It’s the cheapest place he found where he could set up his experiments; the undisclosed building he rents reside near a crisscross of highways, over and under-passing each other over. It’s his safe haven for all scientific pursuits – the legal research of a quantum physicist, and the illegal research of a speedforce-enthused young man.

Do you really want this? a part of him insists on asking again. The buzzing silence with which the rest of his mind replies scares him.

Yes. Yes! Of course I want this!

His feet break contact with the fire escape. His hands shove off from the rail.

Then, stop thinking and get the fuck inside.

Eobard spins on his heel and wrenches the emergency exit open. He steps into the rented facility and makes his way through tables and equipment, until he’s reached his chemical set up. There’s a viewing deck – small – cluttered with a couple monitors, matching keyboards, and a mug drained of tea. To the right is the contraption he’ll step inside, shining stainless steel and clear vials and straps to which his wrists and feet will be bound. In all its glory, it looks unpleasant, but appearances don’t matter – he repeats it like a mantra to appease his fluttering stomach – as it’s a means to an end only he will be experiencing. Risks have to be taken if anything is to be made of yourself.

The young Thawne takes to the viewing platform and pulls aside a monitor. Checking levels, checking contraption ability. Checking twice, then thrice. Stalling? No. Ensuring his safety? That’s more like it. The calculations, they appear sound, so Eobard hovers his fingers above go.

When he presses, he’ll have a minute. A minute until true ‘go’, a minute to prepare himself, a minute to slide into the machine and wait. If I press now, he promises, only sixty seconds stand between me and The Flash.

So, press now.

Only twenty-four years old (and a few more months until his next number up), and he’s on the verge of unlocking a brave new world for himself. His father didn’t win his first court case until twenty-seven. His mother didn’t make her first discovery until twenty-six. His brother still hasn’t done anything remarkable. I’ll be ahead of the curve.

So, maybe I’m not as much of a lost cause as everybody thought.

Guilt and the shame shed from his skin the second he presses into the space bar.

Eobard sets himself up inside the machine; steel bands wrap around his wrists and clamp around around his ankles. The machine’s generator starts to whir, glass vials of multicoloured liquid begin to drain, a rainbow, into and underneath his skin. Into me! The machine vibrates– so heavily it vibrates that the floor itself begins to rumble with power. His power, he made it. And he can taste it better than he ever has: a promise.

I’m ready.

—

An explosion rips through his body. It’s of white fire, all his nerves igniting with pure light. His eyes, his nose, his mouth fill with brilliance. His ears ring with blazing song. The metal cuffs dig into his skin as he body tries to fly forward.

At first, he thinks he’s grown numb; perhaps his calculations were off, perhaps he’s dead now and this is it; his stomach rolls and knots itself; but mere seconds after the thought, all thoughts knock away as he slams down. The floor beneath him is cold and rough, and it should have hurt. All he feels, however, is the fire of explosion.

The whiteness dies from his eyes. His eyes return to the compound, everything coming into focus only tinted in red. Around his body, blood still races a warmth, a cosmic warmth, the same warmth he feels gazing at the milky way they’re situated inside while his feet stand on grass – a warmth it is as if the universe were wrapping him in blankets.

Electricity shivers up and down his spine, and peering down at his hands, he notices his nerves aren’t the only thing dancing at impossible speeds. He hands and ankles shiver through the metal cuffs, which fall unceremoniously (and broken) to the floor.

Have I done it?

By analysing the current evidence, he suspects so, and his mind starts leaping to further conclusions and future tests, but at the present moment with relief and excitement and glee and triumph shooting up and flushing the nerves straight out of his system, there is really only one thing to do now. Only one way can he prove if he’s really done it, if he’s really become The Flash of the future...

Eobard steps forward, cautiously optimistic...

That single step takes him to the other side of the room.

Exhilarating!

What would twenty do? he thinks, counting as he bursts out of the building. Thirty? Sixty!? A hundred?!

Eobard Thawne bursts into the night, a streak of red following him the entire way out. Sneakers slapping against the road, he rushes through wind which shoves over trash cans and swirls litter into the air. He follows the curving, ramping highway, beating cars in a spontaneous race. The coat around him heats to an uncomfortable degree, so he throws it off, and once it’s off, it’s void, it’s out of his mind. I’m running! His feet are slapping and his thoughts are racing and every details is sharp, pristine. His heart is pumping, each pound five times stronger than ever before–!

Before long, he’s out of the city.

He’s out of the state–

–out of the country, before he comes out of autopilot.

The lightning fades when his feet skid against permafrost, limbs lit up for a second as red crackles around them, a sign of transferring energy – motion to rest. The air he huffs from his lungs condenses into a greater cloud than it did in Keystone. He knows it’s could, he feels the chill gracing his arms beneath his long-sleeve with goosebumps, but it doesn’t quench the redhot now filling him up inside. Cold is no match against raw power, and this raw power is his gasoline; he can run with it forever and ever, never batting an eye.

He tilts his head to the sky. A beautiful spread of cosmic wonder, through which northern lights flow – a river of green, violet, and red. The stars, at last, are his to see. He breathes, in and out.

You’ve made it, Eo. For all the world to see.

[mizumi-xi]

Sweet Treats

Author’s Note: okay so any writing in ‘these’ is thoughts that the character is thinking it is also been put in a different style so you know and thanks for reading.

Origin: story of seasons (3ds game)

Word count: 1,909

Pairing: Raeger x FReader

Warnings: none really just the harsh conditions that come back from reading my writing.

Summary: (y/n) decided to make Raeger a treat on the anniversary of the time they became friends.

~(y/n) POV~

I took myself out of my bed going over to my calendar, identifying the date as the seventh of summer, recognising it’s an anniversary of mine that I hold dear to my heart, nodding to myself. I wandered over to my closet looking through each of the outfits that I own, discovering the blue and white dress I own what I had Picked out last night to wear for this day.

Taking the hangar out of the closet, I scurry to my bathroom to change out of my nightwear and into the bluebell dress. I set my dirty clothes in the hamper before i exit the bathroom once I’m into the wide area of my house I travel to my full-length mirror to style my (h/l) (h/c) hair.

Turning to face my kitchen, I raise my left hand onto the counter as I reach up to the cupboard on the wall to get down my recipe book with my right hand. Holding it in both my palms, I set the bulky book on the counter. Smiling as I scanned the cover “(Y/n)’s book of deserts by Raeger” flipping the pages scanning each open till I pause on page 29 seeing a small design of a pinkish-red pie with a golden pastry topped with pale green rosettes of cream circling the rim of the pastry.

“That’s the one” I murmur to myself as I learn the ingredients nodding to myself as I placed my apron on as I pick up the equipment that I needed placing them on the counter. Turning my head to the fridge I stride up to it gripping the door before opening it scanning the contents of the fridge spotting the watermelon, watermelon juice, kiwi, double cream, condensed milk, lard and margarine taking each of them out of the fridge and setting them onto the counter I move to the cupboard taking out flour placing it beside the other ingredients.

I glance to the clock before I choose the 4-inch pie dish since I was simply making it for one person moving to the side while I prepare the pastry humming a light tune that ends just as I finish preparing the pastry which I then roll up and cling film and set in the fridge to rest.

Grabbing the condensed milk, watermelon, watermelon juice, and cream, I commence on the filling of the pie crust, forming a watermelon cheesecake mix without the cheese. I stare at the bowl with the batter in uttering a little “very pale” opening a draw beside me stumbling through the things before I pull up natural red food colouring.

Opening the vial up I drop a singular drop into the mix before stirring it to catch the colour get sharper as it wound up a colour akin to that of what a watermelon on the inside looks like moving it to the side to take the pastry out of the fridge to assemble the crust before baking it looking at the complete pie components I realise I’m missing an essential part of the pie quickly whipping up the kiwi flavoured cream I check on the time and look in the oven at the pastry taking it out with oven gloves as the pastry turned a golden colour.

After assembling the pie, I set it in a small white box before noticing two hours had occurred; I put the box in the fridge and rush out of my home to take care of to my animals and field. Walking to my field, I take my watering can and sprinkle the strawberries, speaking to them as I say small encouraging comments to the plants.

“That’s it become big my strawberries you will be the tastiest in town” once I finish watering the plants I waddle over to my chicken hut to look after them arranging the grain into the trough I continue to check on the cows spotting my favourite one Cherry a reddish-brown cow running up to her I pat her head as she happily moos.

“Cherry darling guess what day it is” cherry moo’s as if she can understand me “yes that’s right I will travel straight thereafter I have looked after you all” Cherry lets out another moo as she gradually turns away so I could look after them. Placing water in the water trough, I wipe my forehead a little with my forearm and wander out of the cow shed and back into my home to read the time.

Taking a big inhale of air at what the time is now “oh sheesh it took four hours to cover that” mumbling to myself I glance at myself in the mirror before fixing my attire and picking up the box from the fridge in my hands flying out of my house.

Arriving at the entrance of the central part of town, I search around before I rush to the only restaurant in the centre. Looking at the door I spot a closed sign on the door knocking at it lightly I wait before the door gently opens to a dirty blonde haired male in a chef outfit smiling.

“Ah (y/n) what do I owe the pleasure of your arrival at my shop on this day” tilting my head to the side as a cheeky smile appears upon my face as my eyes narrow.

“What can’t your friend come over for an impromptu visit” he shakes his head, chuckling a moment before opening the door further, stepping to the side with his arm out pointing inside. Walking past him into his restaurant, I look to the island bar moving up to it, setting the box on the counter and hopping onto the seat.

Raeger closed the door, striding over to where I was sitting spotting the box that I had set “oh pray tell what you have brought over” I stare astonished at him, my mouth settling into an o shape.

“I-well-um, did you forget today is the anniversary of when we became friends two years ago” a shocked look sprung onto his face before it transformed into a sad one.

“Oh, it is I’m sorry I have got nothing for you I’ve been rather busy” I shake my hand about, laughing softly as I open the box, removing the small pie.

“That’s okay I brought you something that I made. Do you have vanilla ice cream” his face lights up at the sight of the pie then nods running off to the freezer to bring the ice cream as I pick up a plate and set the pie on it out of the tin.

“Here I go it” you spot him rushing back as his words spill out as I take the ice cream out of his hands my fingertips grazing his as I drag it back to scoop up ice cream and plant it in the middle of the pie.

“There ya go it’s a watermelon pie with kiwi cream and vanilla ice cream its to cool you down in this hot summer heat.” he glances up to me with a modest flush to his face before peeking at the pie gasping.

“You used the recipe book I made you” he has a small taste of the pie before staring at me again, stunned. “this is a cheesecake filling,” I hum a little in agreement.

“Yup, I didn’t like how it was gelatine so I produced a cheesecake filling without cheese so it could bring the flavour out better.” he studies the pie before eating more of it humming.

“I guess I know what I could make you do you mind waiting” he stops eating the pie taking the plate with him and placing it in the sink “you’re wonderful at baking you realise that (y/n)” I giggle at his compliment and settle my head against my hand.

“I learnt from the best. Isn’t that right Raeger” winking at him he spins his face away as he hesitates over a few words as he’s creating something “y-yes you di-did I recall when you first asked me to teach you to how to cook you had the same dress on and your hair was longer than it is back then”.

“Do you recall everything back then?” I interrogate him as he puts something in the oven before he twists his entire body to me.

“of course I recall everything it was the fifth time we had met when you requested that. You even suggested we could practice at your home since you realised I don’t like people who aren’t dear to me in my kitchen.” He draws a deep breath before he proceeded, “it’s also the first time I stayed an outfit I genuinely loved but solely on that peculiar person”.

My head tilts to the side as a wrack my brain, struggling to recall who we passed by when traveling to my house, before removing my head from my hand, hitting my fist into my open palm.

“Oh, Angela yeah she was sporting a nice dress that day I didn’t realise you liked her.” he peered at me with a sad expression before exhaling.

“That’s not wh” the timer on the oven had sounded out as he opens the oven to take the creation out as he gradually assembled what he was creating “close your eyes please (y/n)”.

“Oki” I close my eyes as I feel Raeger's presence in front of me before a small cold item was situated against my lips. “Open up please,” a murmur comes from him as I open my mouth slightly as he sets the treat in my mouth as his fingers rest against my lips as their warmth spread over my lips.

“Soft” I open my eyes hearing the murmur of words said but not following them while I savour the taste of the treat in my mouth “huh what did you say” he sways his head, bringing his hand away.

“Nothing, nothing, just savour the gifts” nodding I pop another in my mouth to devour it, beaming as he just watches me.

“They’re amazing you realise that are these a new item on the menu I bet many individuals have loved them the milk chocolate goes nicely with the watermelon gelatine and the kiwi flavoured chocolate goes nicely with the vanilla shortcake,” he looks at me shocked before his face comes back to natural.

“I just came up with them you gave me the thought and no they won’t go on the menu and I’m truly shocked you could taste every flavour,” he looks at the plate of chocolates then back up to me placing his palm on the side of my face rubbing his thumb against my plush cheek “your so wonderful (y/n)”.

~Raeger POV~

‘She’s so beautiful I love how the dress she’s wearing is what drove me to notice her. I love how she asked me to teach her how to cook and I love how every new recipe I create is because I dreamed of her. She is my friend and my first love and I can’t wait to express to her how much I cherish her’.

“No, you are my favourite chef you are incredible” she beams up at me as my palm stands on her soft cheek.

‘She will be the death of me one day’.

[nerd2614]

April’s Fall - Part 3

Ruffled Feathers

@write-it-motherfuckers​ Original prompt

Part One // Part Two // Part Four

The thoughts were swirling through your mind in time with the thudding of your quick footsteps along the dirt path. Even as you found it hard to breathe, you forced yourself to keep going. Fire coursed beneath your skin. Your breathing was laboured. The trees blurred past as you forced yourself forward. A metallic taste became apparent in your mouth. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears. The emotions you pushed down were threatening to spill over.

You didn’t stop running until the town started to disappear beyond the horizon. After that, you kept your pace quick as you could to escape the town and leave behind the confusion. You had too many questions. Why didn’t you remember getting to the inn? Why did you feel like you had left behind something important? Wh-

Your foot caught on a stray rock and you crashed to the ground. Your thoughts, like the breath in your lungs, were forcefully ejected from you. The trauma you couldn’t consciously remember from the night before finally caught up to you. That and the shock of falling made you burst into tears.

Angrily, you swiped at the tears and gently lifted up your skirts to survey the damage. 

“Not even a graze.” You whispered aloud to yourself, breaking into hysterical laughter. The tears resumed as you hugged your knees to your chest and started rocking gently. Back and forth, back and forth. Since you had met that stranger on the path your life had been turned upside down. You didn’t know who to trust. You didn’t know what to believe.

I’m okay. I’m fine. This is all just a nightmare. I’m fine.

A raven landed silently just out of arm’s reach and observed, its head cocked to the side. The handsome black bird made a soft noise to catch your attention. When it didn’t work, the regal creature hopped closer and made the noise again.

“Oh. Hi there, little one.” Your smile was as watery and thin as your voice. 

The raven obviously took that as an invitation. He fluttered over to stand next to you. Still making soft noises, he nudged you gently with his head. He allowed you to pet him but moved back as you went to pick him up.

He glided close to the treeline and looked back at you. Then came back and repeated the process thrice more.

“What’s in there? Do you want me to follow you?” You asked as you forced yourself to stand.

The raven responded with an urgent noise. He hopped closer to the edge of the path.

“I’m not meant to stray from the path.” You gently scolded him.You looked around for your satchel and noticed the contents had spilled. A sigh escaped your lips as you bent over to pack it.

The raven squawked a warning and you felt a wind woosh passed your head.You whirled around to see a large vulture-like creature attacking him. The raven valiantly tried to fight back but the larger bird was too strong.

“Leave him alone!” You shouted frantically. You looked for a stick or something to shoo off the bird but couldn’t see any. That’s when you saw the rock you had tripped over earlier. You pried it from the ground and lobbed it at the large bird, catching its leg.

The horrible vulture-like creature squawked and turned to eyeball you. With no regard for your own safety, you grabbed a handful dirt and dust from the trail and threw it in the bird’s eyes. You taunted and chased the bird until it flew over the tree tops and disappeared.

You dusted yourself off and made your way back to where your satchel and the raven should be. When you got there, the injured raven had disappeared. The only proof that he was there at all were the stray black feathers littered on the trail. You looked around but could see no other traces of the raven.

The bizarre thing was that when you went to finish packing your satchel, it was already done. You swung the pack onto your back and continued down the trail at a much slower pace. Everything was trying to work itself out in your mind. 

Nothing made sense anymore. 

You were still reeling from the lost memories last night and the mysterious marks on your wrists. Now with this latest incident with the birds, you were struggling to find the significance behind it. Why had the raven come up to you? Why had both of the birds seemed familiar?

The trail was much more quiet the closer you got to home. It was about mid-morning when you noticed a figure bustling down the path. As the figure drew closer, you recognised it as your grandmother. She stopped when she saw you and gestured for you to come to her.

“Where have you been?” Grandmother demanded shrilly.

“I - to town.” You frowned. Did she not remember?

She nodded, turned slowly and started back down the trail towards the house.

“Did you get my herbs?”

“I think so.” You had no memory of going to the little shop. You checked your satchel and saw the herbs so you must have gone in. “Yes, here they are.”

Your grandmother snatched them from you to put them in one of her cloak’s pockets. That drew your attention to her slight limp. Before you could ask about it, she questioned you about the library.

“Yes, I-” A crystal clear picture surfaced in your mind of you going into the library, meeting the new librarian who was kind enough to show you the books on sewing and leaving with a promise to come back soon. “I like the new librarian.”

It sounded more like a question than a statement. Your grandmother grinned knowingly.

“Of course you do, pumpkin. He’s quite the charmer.”

“Indeed.” You agreed absentmindedly. Your gut churned at thinking of the librarian; it made you sick. Something about the memory was wrong.

Grandmother kept muttering under her breath on the way to the house. You were able to make out a couple of words, but they sounded like they were from a different language. 

A light breeze rushed through the trail. It disturbed a bloodied raven’s feather from your Grandmother’s hair.

You froze.

“What is it?” Grandmother demanded roughly, not slowing her pace.

“N-nothing.” You shook your head and caught up to her. It must have been a coincidence.

The walk to the house took longer than usual with your grandmother’s slow, limping gait. The sky was painted with dark pinks and navy when the house came into view.

Your grandmother bustled off into her room. The sound of the door closing seemed to echo around the house. 

After what happened over the course of the day you didn’t have much of an appetite. Though you knew if you didn’t have something you would wake up hungry later. So you wandered into the kitchen and took a measly hunk of bread from the counter. You trudged up to your room feeling exhausted from the day’s events.The bread was soft to nibble on as you unpacked your satchel. As you pulled out the books to stack on the stand beside your bed, you couldn’t help but feel as though something were missing. You shrugged off the feeling and sunk down onto the end of the bed. 

With the bread now gone, you twirled the no-longer-white rose between your fingertips. Hues of orange and yellow blended with the crimson that leached through the petals. Now just the tips were the brilliant white it was originally. Though it had been many weeks since the stranger had first given you the rose, the stem was still a vibrant, healthy green. One of the thorns was stained brown by the residue of the prick it gave you this morning. 

It was still beautiful despite its sharp thorns though.

You raised the colourful flower to your nose, savouring the scent it still retained. It was not the smell of a normal rose, but of the whole forest. It was very soothing. It slowed down your thoughts until you felt a tugging at the back of your mind. The tugging grew stronger until you could feel it on your wrist as well.

I didn’t like that the new librarian had been so bold as to take me by the wrist to lead me down the stairs. He obviously thought I couldn’t do so myself. I tried pulling back but he was insistent. 

“I could have waited upstairs whilst you brought them up.”

“But there’s just too many books on history, April.” I didn’t recall telling him my name… but it is a small town.

There was a door at the bottom of the stairs. He unlocked it and only let go of my wrist once we were both inside a dim room. He closed the door with a click that sounded like a lock shutting. I shrugged it off and walked a few paces back. I landed gracelessly on the hard stone floor after tripping on something. 

The librarian switched on a blinding light. His footsteps echoed closer and I scooted backwards.

“Tutt, tutt, helpless one. I know she made you forget, so why are you scared of me?” He laughed. My back hit the wall. He grasped both my wrists and yanked me up to eye level. Whatever he whispered, I couldn’t hear as my world went dark.

My arms were cramping and incredibly sore. I felt chilled to the bone except for the flaming red heat coming from my wrists. I turned my hazy gaze upwards to see my arms wrapped in rope. The death-like chill was oozing in from where I was seated against the stone ground. As my sight cleared, so did my hearing. 

“- tion or elixir?” I swept my gaze around to see the young librarian hunched over a small mirror holding the vial I was given.

“Bring that to me.” That voice sounded familiar.

“Of course.” He bowed mockingly and tucked the vial out of sight. I noticed that my satchel was on the counter with my lock picking tools beside it.

“I believe your suspicions were true. After I fed her the serum and she kept questioning what’s behind the door.”

“Make her forget. I’ve had enough trouble trying to keep on top of the doses here. She keeps refusing my food and drink.” My heart nearly stopped. I didn’t realise I could become colder still. That was grandmother’s voice.

“Yes.She is awake now. I suggest coming to collect her tomorrow.” The brunet slowly walked over then crouched. “You’ve always been my little trouble maker, haven’t you? Here. Drink up before your prince undoubtedly comes to save you.”

I tried to resist swallowing the murky green liquid, but he anticipated my resistance. He held my nose until I opened my mouth then quickly covered it and gently stroked my throat.

“Until, next time, helpless one.” A cluttering noise came from the stairs as consciousness tried to elude me.

Before you collapsed with exhaustion, you noticed that black had started to seep through the rose’s petals.

***

You woke with a burning need to find out what’s behind that door.

After many failed attempts to fall back into slumber, you decided to go to your window. Perhaps gazing into the night sky would calm you as it did when you were a child. The sounds of the night animals in the forest were familiar. They brought a sense of serenity over you. As you stared at the peaceful heavens, you reflected on what those dreams, the visions that kept coming, could truly mean.

Were they just tricks played on you by your mind, trying to figure out what happened in the blank spaces? Or were they real? You shivered at the thought and clutched your arms together to bring yourself comfort.

The night sounds ceased as a voice whispered your name.

“April. Come out… April… speak to you… please. My love...”

The only rule of your grandmother’s you had not broken was the one you thought was the most reasonable. Rule #5 was to never answer the door, or any calls from outside at night. Guilt churned inside you as you walked silently through the house and to the front door but you just had to find out more.

“Where are you?” You whispered into the night, standing at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Come to the treeline.” The voice whispered back, “She mustn’t see you.” 

You made your way over as the voice commanded. The earth was cold and slightly damp beneath your feet. Just before you reached the treeline an invisible force stopped you.

“Wha-?”

“Don’t try to force it, my darling. She is too strong. Even I can not come much closer to you.” His voice came from a tree to your left. You peered at it and he slowly came into view. He was still as striking as the day you tended to his wound on the trail. You wanted to ask how well it healed but you couldn’t form the words.

His bright eyes drank you in and stopped your thoughts in their tracks. His smile was soft and loving as he gazed at you. You couldn’t help but stare in return. A dark cloak adorned his shoulders which concealed most of his body. Black feathers were woven into his hair along with the golden circlet you saw the first time.

“Do you remember yet?” The stranger from the path asked gently, hopefully. Though he didn’t seem surprised when you shook your head in response.

“I’m sorry.” You blurted, folding in on yourself. Your subconscious recognised him, you felt safe in his presence, but you had no memories of him besides your meeting at the path. And those visions his rose had shown you.

“No, it’s not -” He tried to move forward to reassure you, but the invisible wall forced him back. He took a deep breath and shifted his weight to his back leg. “It’s not your fault.”

“Mm.” You hummed, looking at the ground. 

“April. Look at me.” He commanded softly. You did. “You are not to blame. The witch has you under a powerful spell that is difficult to break. It took us many years to find you. Too many and-”

He shifted again and minutely winced.

“You’re hurt.” You accused, changing the conversation. //Witch?//

He looked briefly surprised then laughed softly, “I could never hide anything from you, my darling.”

You felt warm when he called you that. However you didn’t let that distract you. “Where?” At his quirked eyebrow, you elaborated. “Where are you injured? And who did it?”

His eyes burned, you could have sworn they were literally glowing, with an emotion you couldn’t quite place.

“I am wounded in many places, for the talons of beasts are sharp. It was the witch who did the worst of it. You chased her away from me this very afternoon.” He moved his hair back and tilted his neck so you could see the gruesome marks. You gasped at the sight and what he had said.

“She…” You remembered your grandmother’s limp and the bloodied feather you dismissed earlier. “The vulture. That was her?” He nodded gravely.

“But witches don’t exist.” You tried to reason. “Just like Gods, dragons or elves. They’re made up. Just stories. Grandmother said -”

“Am I just made up then? Can you not see my tapered ears? My eyes that glow?” He interrupted softly.

“I-” thought I was seeing things, you finished in your head. “Who-?”

“Again, love, I can not tell you for I doubt you will believe me. Though I now see she has brainwashed you more than we thought. You are part of the elves too. She stole you.”

You searched his eyes, hoping to find a lie in what he was saying. He didn’t need to say anything else for you to find the answer you were looking for. Dread filled your bones.

“Take me away from here. Please.” You tried to break the force that was keeping you separated.  

“I want to. Believe me, I do.” He looked stricken. “But I can’t. She enforced the wards after last time - I was emotional and came too close.”

“Why can’t you break through?”

“As I said, her hold is too strong. I can not get any closer just like you can not come home to me.” His voice was full of longing and his body language screamed despair. Your heart ached in response.

“Use these to get into the door.” He tossed a small pouch. It arked gently through the air and you caught it effortlessly. The pouch was woven from long grass but it seemed deceptively sturdy. Inside were tools.

You hesitated. “These are the ones I bought?”

The handsome not-stranger laughed softly, “No, dear one. These were made by our people, imbued with magic that will unlock any door. I assure you they are much better than the ones that blacksmith made.”

You decided firmly that you would find out what was behind that door. Whatever was being kept secret from you, you would discover tomorrow night with the help of these new magical tools.

His ear twitched and his face hardened. “You must go now. She is stirring.”

Something inside you wanted to reassure him that it would be alright. All you could do was raise a hand to the invisible wall.

“I miss you. Come back to me soon, April.”

As you ran inside and stashed the tools beneath your mattress, you had a feeling he was talking about your memories too.

Next

Tags: @scuzmunkie @wordsaremylife @inuhuffclaw

[immortalpramheda]

The 100 7x10 ‘A Little Sacrifice’

Surprisingly, not all of the faithful died after Sheidheda’s massacre. There are quite a few wounded. He’s snuck out through the secret passage and Indra needs to find him before he gets all of Wonkru to his side.

His next target is a former Commander who threatens his rule - Madi. He finds her alone in the tavern with Picasso. She quickly realises this isn’t Russell, it’s Shediheda, the person who haunted her when she had the Flame in her head and the root of her current trauma. Thankfully, he doesn’t want to kill her. That would only make his problems with Indra even worse. If she refuses to kneel to him he’ll cut out the hearts of everyone she loves and feed them to her dog. So she kneels.

Murphy calms Madi down from a panic attack as Sheidheda begins broadcasting to all of Sanctum. He says Indra has lied to them about the time of the Commanders being over. He is Malachi kom Sangedakru and he is command now.

Indra won’t allow him to just take over and challenges him to ‘solo gonplei’ for control over their people, which he accepts. It starts off in Indra’s favour, but ultimately he gets the upper hand. Just as he’s about to win, Madi flies out of nowhere and stabs him in the eye! Now he’s missing an eye, just like his original body. He turns on Madi and is about to kill her, but Indra begs him to spare her life and she’ll kneel. She orders Trikru to obey and Sheidheda claims his place as Commander. Madi disappeared while they were distracted and he sends his Sangedakru guards to kill her.

When they go back to the tavern, there are only dead bodies. He orders Knight to find and kill the families of the dead. Even the children, which Sheidheda knows will grow up and want revenge. He needs to get rid of them now.

Suspecting that things were not going to end well, Murphy and Emori have sealed everyone in the nuclear reactor room. They’re safe for now.

On Bardo, Echo, Diyoza and Octavia refuse to come back to Sanctum. They appear to be loyal to the Disciples and are staying for the war. Clarke wonders why they still think she has the Flame in her head. She only had it for one day over a hundred years ago. Which means their friends didn’t tell them anything. They’re not brainwashed, they’re on their side.

Clarke agrees to help with the key if Bill allows her speak to her friends alone with no guards. Niylah, Gabriel and Jordan stay in the Stone Room with Bill while the others go to see their friends.

Echo reveals her plan to Hope. She never believed in all the Disciples teachings. She’s going to kill them all. She doesn’t trust the others to be on board with it, but she knew Hope would be. They’ve both had so much taken from them by these people and want revenge. Hope has an hour to get all their friends out while Echo goes to carry out the plan.

Clarke, Raven and Miller reunite with Octavia and Diyoza. Hope arrives and they have no idea who she is, but of course she knows all about them from stories she was told growing up. Diyoza introduces them to her daughter. She informs them Echo is getting revenge for Bellamy and they need to leave now. All she knows of the plan is that Levitt helped her with something.

Back in the Stone Room, Bill is still entirely fascinated that his daughter’s language survived. Niylah knows of her - Calliope Pramfleimkepa - the first Flamekeeper. She was brave and strong and even her enemies wept when she died.

He shows them what they’ve decoded from the symbols on the Stone. It talks about a ‘final war’ and they need the code from the key to unlock it and for it to begin. He believes after they win the last war there will no more violence. He’s so committed to this ways and believes he knows the only truth.

Bill and Gabriel are quite similar, both being from the same time back on Earth. But where things differ is Gabriel has been alive for most of that time and has had experiences and grown, whereas Bill has been frozen for most of his life. Bill doesn’t see himself as a god, but he does believe he was chosen. He is convinced they’ll win the final war and gain some type of transcendence to the next state of being. Stripping yourself bare of everything that makes you human is how you win the the final war mankind will ever face? Gabriel argues you can’t fight a war for the soul of the human race with an inhuman army. Bill believes what happens in this life doesn’t matter, it’s what happens in the next that matters.

Jordan makes a discovery. As he’s reviewing the symbols, he notices they may have been translated wrong. Monty’s father was Korean and he made him learn the language, and these symbols look to be structured in a similar way. Jordan decodes it using his knowledge of another language and finds a different message. Maybe it’s not a war at all. Maybe it’s a test. A test to decide the fate of their species. And if one person has to take the test to save the human race, Bill Cadogan should not be person representing them.

They find Levitt tied up and beaten up by Echo. She killed two people in front of him which eventually made him crack. He agreed to grant her access to the Gem-9 bioweapon, the substance that killed the Bardoans. Her plan is to put a drop in the humidification system which would give them enough time to escape before it becomes airborne and kills everyone.

What Echo is going to do is nothing like what Clarke has done in the past. She killed people to save her loved ones. What Echo is doing is purely vengeance and she acknowledges that. She just wants them to pay for everything they took away from her.

Raven is the one who steps up. They all know this isn’t what Bellamy would want. The Bellamy who helped massacre a sleeping army, maybe, but not the person they spent six years on the Ring with. Revenge isn’t the answer. Raven refuses to leave and is going to stand by her sister. She lets her know she still has a family and that is what gets through to her.

Anders shows up and he is furious that Echo killed three more of their people and tortured another. She’ll be sentenced to Penance for twenty years.

All of a sudden, Hope slashes Anders’ throat and he drops the vial of Gem-9. She grabs the vial and releases a drop into the humidification system. A hand comes out of nowhere to catch it - Diyoza.

Octavia drags hope out of the room while she cries for her mother. They watch as she’s crystallised. Before it completely turns her to crystal, Diyoza tells her daughter to be better than her. She’s stopped her from doing something she won’t ever be able to come back from and becoming becoming a mass murderer like she was.

May we meet again, Charmaine Diyoza. This character that started as a cold blooded terrorist to have her sacrifice herself for her daughter’s soul was incredibly touching.

I really enjoyed this episode! It fast paced and very emotional. Sad to see Diyoza go but she went out in a way that was perfectly fitting for her character. We’re now on the home stretch and I am super excited for Bellamy to back next episode!

[behind-stories]

REVEALING THE SECRET BEHIND THE DEAD VIRUS CORONA

A SENIOR CHINESE MILITARY INTELLIGENCE OFFICER WHO COULD NOT CONTAIN THE PAIN OF LOSING HIS ONLY CHILD, HAVE DECIDED TO REVEAL THE SECRET BEHIND THE DREADED VIRUS (CORONA )

I am a senior Chinese military intelligence officer and I know the truth about the coronavirus outbreak. It is far worse than the media are telling you.

I am a Chinese citizen in Wuhan who occupies — or perhaps occupied — a high-ranking position in military intelligence. I am also a member of the Chinese Communist Party. As a senior official near the top of the Party, I have access to a great deal of classified information and I have been involved in many top-secret government projects. I have a doctorate from a leading university in a western country, which is why I can write my account in English.

I have information that I believe could lead to the overthrow of my government. It is also relevant to billions of people outside of China, all of whom are now in existential peril.

It will not surprise you to hear that if my identity were to be revealed, my life would be in grave danger, as would those of my wife and son. I ask you to respect the fact that I have stripped out of this account all facts that would make it easy to identify me.

By now you will be familiar with the recent outbreak of 2019-nCoV, also known as NCP, or simply “coronavirus”. You will have heard that it originated in Wuhan, an industrial city in China and that it came from an animal — most likely a bat or a pangolin — that was sold in a wild animal market. You will have been told that it is an influenza-like illness that can in severe cases cause pneumonia, respiratory failure, and death. Finally, you may have heard that although the disease is highly infectious, it is dangerous only to the elderly or to those who have a compromised immune system. The official lethality rate is approximately 2% or so.

All of that is a bunch of lies concocted by the Chinese state with the tacit support of the U.S. deep state and its friends in the European Union, Russia, and Australia, and spread by the docile media in all of those countries.

Let me start by telling you that the world does not operate the way you think it does. Although countries like the US and China vie for global dominance, that competition is restricted to certain limited areas. In most ways, the two countries are more interested in cooperation so that they can stop other competing countries from gaining more power. They also have a shared interest in keeping real power out of the hands of their “ordinary” citizens. To this end, they have many different mechanisms by which they control the overwhelming majority of their media outlets. The Americans, in particular, have perfected the art of creating made-up “divisions” between their two main parties which are designed to hide the fact that both serve the same masters.

These same nations also possess technology that is far more advanced than you can imagine and which is kept carefully hidden from public view. This includes advanced artificial intelligence capable of undermining and deciding any election in the world; biological and chemical agents that can manipulate and control the thinking patterns and behaviours of citizens to terrifying degrees; highly sophisticated manipulation techniques using hypnotic practices entirely unknown to the public; and other things that I will not go into now. My point is that the great nations do not compete so much as they work together. Their principal goal is to shield the true workings of the world from the “uninitiated” public.

Just to give you one example, there aren’t any nuclear weapons anywhere in the world. The U.S. and the Soviet Union scrapped them all in the 1970s, as did their client states. Everyone realised that those weapons could not be used without destroying the whole world, so there was no need for them; but by pretending that they still had them, the big players were able to keep the non-nuclear powers in line.

Let me return to the virus.

Last year, large-scale anti-government protests erupted in Hong Kong. The Standing Committee of the Chinese Communist Party considered these to be a grave threat to the integrity and stability of the motherland. The U.S. government and the EU both knew that the Chinese were secretly working on a biological agent that was supposed to make the protesters docile and obedient. Without going into detail, I worked on that project. We tried to develop a sort of spray that could be dispersed from helicopters or drones and that would lead to mental retardation and behavioural change.

Naturally, as Hong Kong is one of the most open and international cities in the world, the Party decided that it was too risky to release the agent in Hong Kong without first testing it. For this, it needed a great number of human guinea pigs. Two groups were identified for this.

First, we rounded up a large number of so-called “Islamic radicals” in Xinjiang Province and took them to what we called “training camps”. We had already been using these camps for human experimentation for several years, but the Hong Kong protests meant that we redoubled our efforts. We exposed the inmates to various “alpha” experimental agents. As these were odourless and invisible, the subjects were not aware that they were taking part in medical trials. The resulting high rates of cancer, premature dementia, suicidal depression and death by organ failure could easily be suppressed, as the camps are located in very remote parts of our motherland.

Once the initial experiments had yielded a “beta” agent, it was transported to Hubei Province, where it was deployed in a special military testing facility outside the city of Wuhan. This was not even a particularly well-kept secret: the existence of this facility has been reported in international news. Even the fact that it is located close to the wild animal market is a known fact.

By then our President had already introduced a “social credit” system that allowed us to identify disloyal, counter-revolutionary and bourgeois elements in our society. Using the social credit scores — which are taken from online activity, electronic shopping behaviour and reports from informers in civil society — we selected some of the worst offenders. These included human rights lawyers and activists, Christians, homosexuals, artists, intellectuals, people who speak foreign languages, and other undesirables.

Once these troublemakers had been collected and placed in the testing facility, we exposed them to the Agent, which is biochemical and spread in an invisible aerosol, akin to certain viruses. Initial results were encouraging, as we saw significant cognitive decline and reduction in higher mental processing facilities. Essentially, our undesirables were becoming mildly mentally disabled, which is precisely the effect we wanted to produce to pacify the restive population of Hong Kong.

Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that the Agent also had other effects. About one week after the retardation set in, our subjects developed major anxiety and panic attacks. Eventually, they developed symptoms akin to those of paranoid schizophrenics. At that point, their bodies rapidly deteriorated. They developed massive internal bleeding; the walls of their arteries dissolved; they bled out of their eyes and orifices, and their tissue disintegrated.

To put it in a more direct Western manner, they started to melt.

Death usually occurred through multiple organ failure. This was preceded by at least five days of severe agony which could not be alleviated by painkillers. It was at this time that I first violated our protocol: one subject, an elderly lady who had published defamatory cartoons of our President, begged me for death with such insistence that I took pity and shot her. I was reprimanded, but fortunately, the complaint was dropped when I agreed to reimburse the cost of the bullet. I swore to myself never again to show such unnecessary emotion.

We decided that our Agent was unusable. It was far too destructive for our purposes. We wanted the population of Hong Kong to submit to us; we did not want to exterminate it.

Naturally, our American friends had by then taken an interest in our work and asked us for a sample for their research and testing purposes. They hinted that they wished to use it to resolve certain difficulties in Venezuela. Normally we would have agreed, as we maintain friendly relations with the CIA, but given the extremely toxic nature of the Agent, we declined.

This, as it turned out, was a grave mistake. The CIA was convinced that we had developed something very powerful and wanted to keep it to ourselves. They offered a great deal of money to one of our researchers. Foolishly, he agreed to sell them a specimen. We found out just in time for the handover and tried to stop it from happening. In the ensuing shoot-out — don’t bother to look for it in the news, it was never reported anywhere — several dozen people were killed.

More importantly, however, the Agent escaped.

The shoot-out took place at the wild animal market which has been reported as the location of the “animal to human” transmission that started the outbreak. But of course, there was no such transmission; it was just the location where the CIA was supposed to receive the sealed vial containing the Agent. The vial shattered when it was dropped by the traitor who had agreed to sell it to the Americans.

By now I understand you will be sceptical. If I am who I say I am, why would I be sharing this information on the internet? Let me assure you that I am no friend of the Western system of governance. I love my motherland and I am loyal to the Communist Party. It has lifted hundreds of millions of my compatriots out of squalor and poverty. However, I am also a human being and I have a conscience.

Most importantly, I have a wife and a son.

Once we realized that the Agent had escaped and would start to spread, we swiftly put all of Wuhan into lockdown. I was one of those tasked to manage the fallout of the contamination. Of course, we could not keep such a huge undertaking secret, so we decided to order our state media to report that a “coronavirus” had broken out in Wuhan.

In reality, of course, there is no “coronavirus”. It was all made up.

It was one of my colleagues who came up with the genius idea of pretending that people with the common flu suffered from the coronavirus. This allowed us to hide the true nature of the disease. Let me explain.

It is currently flu season in China. When we realized that we could no longer control the spread of the Agent, we sent our men to all the hospitals and instructed all doctors to diagnose every case of the common flu as “coronavirus”. We came up with a new name — 2019-nCoV — and handed out “factsheets” that described a made-up illness.

The result of this decision was that tens of thousands of individuals who were simply suffering from a cold or flu were now diagnosed as having a mysterious coronavirus that, although infectious, was not often lethal. While this frightened the public, it allowed us to push the narrative that the disease was not that deadly; it also gave us time to prepare for the catastrophe that was sure to come by imposing a lockdown on Wuhan and other cities in Hubei Province.

You have not heard this in the news — and given the size of Wuhan, with its population of 11 million, it is not known even to many of the residents — but within days thousands upon thousands were infected and before long they suffered the agonizing deaths that I have already described. Within a week, there were so many corpses that we did not know what to do with them, so we ordered the surviving social credit prisoners to drive the bodies into the countryside and bury them in mass graves. But it was very difficult to keep this activity secret, and we could not even keep up as there were so many corpses. We planted a story that five million residents had “fled” Wuhan. In reality, of course, many of those people had died from the Agent.

I was working around the clock helping to orchestrate this cover-up. When I think back to my actions now, I feel great shame. At the time I still believed that I was fighting for my motherland and that the rule of the Party was right and just. But deep down, I had already begun to have doubts.

My faith in the Party was shaken even more deeply when I learned what had happened to Dr Li Wenliang. He was one of the few doctors who refused falsely to diagnose flu patients with the “coronavirus”. As a punishment, he was sent to help transport dead bodies to mass graves. The expectation was that he would be infected with the Agent and die an agonizing death, but to our great surprise, he did not contract the illness.

You have of course read that he died of “coronavirus”. You have been misinformed. A sergeant of the People’s Armed Police injected him with a mixture of heroin and mercury that caused his lungs to deflate.

When I found out about this I became unsure whether or not I was doing the right thing. While I believe that it is appropriate for a government to rule with a severed hand, I do not think that it was right to kill Dr Li. He was a compassionate and kind man and he cared about his patients; how can our motherland not benefit from having such a doctor?

I shared my concerns with my wife, but she convinced me that I should not say anything to my superiors. She said that it was too dangerous; that they valued loyalty above everything else; and that I would only find trouble if I admitted to my doubts about their practices. She also pointed out that we benefited from the priority of medical treatment. As senior officials, we received regular supplies of the highly-sophisticated hazmat masks that are the only known technology that can prevent infection. She implored me to think of our son, who is still small. If I spoke out and were caught, our lives would be at risk.

Around the same time, it became clear that the Agent was entirely beyond our control. It was spreading like wildfire throughout Hubei Province and beyond, infecting tens of millions and causing them all to die.

I understand that what I just said is difficult to believe because you have been told that there have been only about 50,000 infections and far fewer deaths. But these are the influenza infections that have been falsely passed off as the non-existent “coronavirus”. The Agent is far, far more contagious than that, and its fatality rate, unlike the “coronavirus”, is not 2%.

No, its fatality rate is 100%. Nobody recovers from it. Everybody who contracts it dies.

And a lot of people are contracting it.

Hubei Province lies in ruins. The various travel restrictions and lockdowns that have been imposed were not created to stop the spread of the Agent — none of them can stop it, not embargoes, not face masks or hand sanitizer — but to stop the survivors from seeing the catastrophe with their own eyes.

I am part of the greatest cover-up in human history: the hiding of the deaths of tens of millions. Very soon, Hubei Province will be no more than a giant mortuary, and the truth will come out.

For me, the turning point came when the Party told yet another lie, and that lie was too dreadful to even for me to accept. You may have heard that China built a new hospital, called Huoshenshan Hospital, in Wuhan, to provide additional quarantine and isolation facilities for infected patients. You may have heard that they built it in only ten days.

That too is a lie.

Sure, they did build something in six days. But it was not a hospital. The true nature of the building was top secret. Initially, I was naive enough to believe that the Party was demonstrating its compassion and care for the people. But then my superiors sent me to Huoshenshan. I was shown around the installation by a military police officer called Corporal Meng (this is not his real name). It was there that I saw the truth.

As I have mentioned, the only way to protect oneself from the Agent is by wearing a special protective mask that is entirely unlike those available commercially. Even medical professionals do not have access to it. It is available only to biomedical warfare researchers and it contains extremely advanced technology.

These masks need to be kept at a particular temperature to offer full protection and lose their effectiveness very quickly. As I have also already said, one of the benefits of my position was that both my family and I had access to regular supplies, which is why were safe when compared to civilians, doctors and even lower-level government officials, all of whom wore utterly ineffective surgical masks in the misguided belief that they would protect them.

And so, wearing this special equipment, I went to Huoshenshan with Corporal Meng.

Whatever you want to call that place, it is not a hospital. Sure, the entrance looks like a hospital and in the ward at the front of the complex, there are what appear to be normal medical beds. There, thousands of infected patients lie, all of them in the early stages of the disease. I walked along those long, white corridors next to Corporal Meng, his angular face dispassionate in his military fatigues, and saw hundreds upon hundreds of identical hospital beds on which squirmed the terrified and diseased inhabitants of Wuhan. Their cries and pleas haunt me in the long nights in which I now am unable to sleep.

But this was merely the beginning. Eventually, the Corporal took me to the rear of this front section. There, locked metal gates led to what he called the “middle section”. The patients in the front are unaware of its existence. It is there that the more advanced cases are kept, in what most closely resembles a mental asylum.

Immediately upon entering this part of Huoshenshan, I was struck by the dim lighting and stench of vomit and human waste. Here the unfortunates roamed freely, their minds gradually disintegrating in endless panic attacks and psychotic episodes. Here too there were no more doctors, merely gorilla-faced men in black uniforms who belonged to some secret branch of the military police I had never heard of.

They appeared to have been selected for their cruelty, for they beat and degraded the patients in the most sadistic manner. Many of the inmates had regressed to childlike states and lay on the floor weeping like infants and begging for compassion that they did not receive. There was a cruel pleasure in the eyes of these thugs as they brutalised the unfortunates. They beat them with batons, sprayed pepper spray into their eyes and kicked them with their steel-capped boots. As I was from military intelligence, the guards did not even attempt to hide their activities. They even invited me to join; in every way, they treated me as one of them.

Yes, one of them. I stood in the grey staff bathroom of Huoshenshan and looked into a cheap mirror and asked myself — is this really what you are? Are you like them?

But the violence was not merely an expression of sadism, for the poor inmates were not there to be cared for.

They were there to work.

There was one more set of doors, and beyond them lay what the Corporal called the “Core”. And it was there that I saw it — piles and piles of dead bodies, stacked on top of one another to the ceiling. There were men, women, and children, elderlies and toddlers, rich and poor, beautiful and misshapen, proud and humble.

They were all of them dead. Our Agent made no distinction between any of them.

I gasped when the Corporal led me to the Core. I cannot count how many there were, but it was many, many thousands. And amid the piles of corpses was a kind of path, and I heard a roaring sound in the distance. The miserable patients from the middle section picked up the dead and carried and dragged them away into the dark, even as the guards beat them with truncheons.

It took me a little while before I grasped what was happening. I simply could not believe what lay at the end of that path in the Core.

It was an enormous furnace, with great fires roaring within.

One by one, their minds destroyed and their bodies twisted, the dying men and women carried the corpses to the furnace and cast them inside in a doomed attempt to hide the dreadful truth. I saw several of them collapse from exhaustion only for their lifeless bodies to be added to the mountains of corpses on both sides. In a seemingly endless line they went, their emaciated bodies clad in grey overalls, their backs bent under the weight of their dreadful cargo. Many howled and groaned in terror and their voices joined in a sorrowful cacophony that lingered over the roar of the fires.

In deep shock, I stared at the boundless horror before me. Beside me stood Corporal Meng, his freshly-shaved face as emotionless as before. When I turned to face him, he looked at me. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.

“We use the energy to operate Huoshenshan,” he said. “We save the state considerable resources in this way. And look,” — he waved at the gallery of the dead — “there are so many of them here. You could almost describe it as renewable energy.” He laughed and waved his hand in a strangely camp gesture.

I stood speechless and stared at the infernal scenes before me. Men in black uniforms screamed like daemons at the wretches who were disposing of the corpses for them. They stripped the dead of anything that had value — jewellery, cash, expensive clothing — and tossed these items onto an enormous pile next to the furnace. When I asked the Corporal what would be done with the items, they said that they would be used to pay for the “healthcare expenses” incurred by the patients’ stay in Huoshenshan.

I vomited in the toilet. When I flushed and came out of the stall, Corporal Meng stood by the door and looked at me. His face was as blank as before, but in his eyes, I thought I registered a very faint trace of contempt. You are ten years my senior, the look said, but you are soft.

I thanked him for his service and went home.

When I arrived, I saw that I had received hundreds of updates on the encrypted device the Party uses to communicate to insiders. The news was unimaginably grim. The State Legal and Economic Commission had allocated funds for the construction of dozens of facilities like Huoshenshan throughout China. The Agent had spread not only to every single province of the motherland but to most other nations in the world. Fortunately, we had agreements in place with other governments — they agreed to pretend that the infections were due to a coronavirus. They were just as worried as we were that panic might break out in their countries. The Americans, in particular, were terrified that the S&P 500 might decline. This, they said, would be unacceptable in an election year, so we could count on their full support.

Of course, the World Health Organisation also helped us. For a long time, the only issue with the WHO has been that we have been locked in a contest with the Americans about who bribes them more. They released all sorts of sophisticated misinformation about having decoded the DNA of the so-called coronavirus. All this has allowed us to stave off a global panic.

For now.

Yet the situation was worsening with astonishing speed. I am reluctant to reveal too much on this point, as it would make it too easy for my enemies to identify me, but we quickly began to implement measures to protect our most senior leaders. If you look at the world news, you will see that Xi Jinping, our President, disappeared for approximately one week after the outbreak, before being seen again with the leader of Cambodia.

You should know that the person who met the Cambodian leader was not President Xi. It was a body double who had, for many years, been trained to look and sound just like our President. President Xi is of course not careless enough to risk his death. He is safely ensconced in a secret bunker underneath Zhongnanhai, the headquarters of the Party in Beijing.

Nor was he the only leader who is in hiding. I can assure you that over half of all senior Party members are currently being imitated by trained actors who are following instructions given to them via special implants. Do you think that our Prime Minister would risk his life by going to Wuhan?

All of this means that our government has become utterly paralyzed and the functions of the state have been taken over by the military.

It became clear to me that our efforts were pointless. Yes, the lockdowns, travel bans and targeted assassinations of rebellious journalists allowed us to hide the true situation in Wuhan; but I knew that this would not last. Once the mass deaths begin in the rest of the world — in our estimation, this should happen within the next week or so — everyone will know the truth. It will become clear that we cannot protect ourselves from the Agent. Surgical masks, hand sanitizer, gloves — nothing can stop it. Nothing except the special hazmat masks, but those cannot be produced in anything like sufficient quantities. You, an ordinary person, will never even receive one, let alone a sufficient number to see you through the coming holocaust.

For those of you reading this, therefore, all I can suggest is that you keep your loved ones close to you. Hug them, tell them what they mean to you. Enjoy the time you have left with them. It is not typical in Chinese culture to express one’s feelings in this way, but I have learned the importance of such gestures.

I promised my wife that I would show this document to her before I posted it.

Yet I broke my word.

I hear her weep in loud, hoarse sobs in the bedroom, and the keyboard of my laptop is wet with my tears. Not long ago, we received results of the regular tests that are part of our “priority medical treatment”, and we learned that my son had been infected with the Agent.

The military police that has supplied me with the special protective mask had been giving expired and ineffective masks to my son, masks that senior officials had already worn and then discarded when they ceased to protect them. My masks, on the other hand, had always been of the necessary quality.

I suppose they decided that my son was of lower priority than me. I suppose my son could not help them with their cover-up.

We had long ago decided that we would be different — we would be honest with him, always. And so when he asked us, we told him the truth. We told him that he was very sick. He asked more, and we told him he would not get better.

He continued asking, and we told him that he would die. He is very small, but he was old enough to understand.

His terrified wails will haunt me for the rest of my miserable days in this world.

Let them come. Let them do with me as they will. I no longer care.

@behind_stories

[meowloudly15]

Stranded: Day 2 - GREEN MONSTER

I'm really sorry I didn't have this chapter ready for you guys sooner. Hopefully next chapter will be on time, but I can't make any promises anymore.

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Gwen lay in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar building in an unfamiliar dimension, staring at the dark ceiling. At least she felt safe here, safer than she did in the jail cell or on the rooftop.

Though she hated to admit it, Gwen was looking forward to school tomorrow. Her life would be back to normal, at least in some aspects.

ATOMIC DISJUNCTION

Gwen sighed and shut her eyes as a painful spasm passed through her.

She was lucky to not have a roommate due to being a "transfer student". She was also lucky to have successfully stolen toiletries and a notebook from a nearby Walblue's.

IMPENDING MORAL CRISIS

Gwen rolled her eyes. Having a conscience and a sense of responsibility and duty sucked. It was times like this when she wished she wasn't a superheroine.

What would have happened if she wasn't one? What would her life be like?

It would have been a lot more boring, that was for sure. She would probably have done better in her classes (that was a big if, knowing how little she cared about schoolwork before taking up the mantle), and she might have been more popular, considering that she would have had more free time to socialise.

It sucked that she couldn't attend some of her band practices due to patrolling the city. While the rest of the band was okay with her absences, Em Jay was not.

Em Jay had been getting on Gwen's nerves as of late. She really wasn't that great of a person. Gwen supposed that knowledge came both from getting to know her better and from not constantly hanging out with a guy who would compliment her at every opportunity.

She sighed resignedly. Peter had snuck back into her mind. She really didn't like to think about him; she wished she had never met him. But then again, had she not met him… so much would be different, enough so that it was impossible to say quite what.

Without conscious awareness, Gwen dipped into her memories of Peter.

One Friday night, Gwen decided to don her nearly-new Spider-Woman costume and go out web-swinging. She had planned to stop by the park where Em Jay and her band were playing that night, just for kicks. She had told Peter about her plans, hoping to maybe meet him there and knowing that he would probably be interested even if only for the sake of seeing Em Jay.

Gwen had only possessed her web-shooters for the previous two weeks, and while she had practiced as frequently as possible, she was far from being adept. However, she had only crashed into two streetlights, clipped the side of four buildings, and almost hit one car, which meant that she was improving.

Improvement was key.

Gwen reached the park and perched atop a nearby gazebo, scanning the crowd for her friend. She soon spotted him hanging around near the stage. However, several people also spotted her.

"Holy cow, how'd that guy get up on that gazebo?"

"Hey, I think my mom almost hit that girl with her car the other day!"

"What's a gazebo?"

"Why's he wearing both a hood and a mask?"

"Oh my GOD it has weird EYES this is UNREAL!"

Eventually, almost all of the crowd, including the band, was looking her way, pointing, taking pictures. Gwen grimaced, thankful for the mask.

Peter stepped up onto the stage amid the confusion, grabbing the mic. Gwen saw him do so, although most of the crowd was too focused on her to notice.

She wondered what on earth he was up to. Peter normally hated speaking in front of crowds, although she did see that his eyes were firmly screwed shut.

All of a sudden, Gwen heard a loud voice yell through her mind, "GREEN MONSTER". She slapped her hand to the back of her head.

Peter yelled into the mic, "HEY!"

The crowd quieted down and looked at him.

Peter, wearing an uncharacteristically solemn frown, started to speak. "I want you all to understand what I'm doing and why I'm about to do it."

The crowd was stunned into silence. Even Em Jay and the other members of Jackpot were too flabbergasted to move.

The voice in Gwen's head kept repeating over and over, "GREEN MONSTER".

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place. Jealousy was the green-eyed monster. But why was Peter jealous?

Peter reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small vial full of an acidic green liquid. The crowd gasped and collectively took a few steps backward. A few people in the rear turned and fled.

"Don't worry, this isn't a bomb," Peter tried to joke, but his flat affect belied any amount of humour which his words might have held. The crowd did not look reassured.

"This vial holds an untested serum, originally researched by Ozcorp but perfected by yours truly, which is intended to bestow upon the consumer superhuman abilities. In a few minutes, I'm going to drink it."

"No! Don't do it!" yelled someone from the middle of the crowd.

The corners of Peter's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. "Ah, but I haven't told you my reasoning yet."

Gwen leaned in closer, a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach growing to match the itching at the nape of her neck.

"You know," Peter began, "I've been overshadowed as of late. I've been overshadowed by somebody whom I know and whom I've been helping out and whom I'm close to. She was courteous enough to join us tonight."

Peter extended the hand with the vial in the direction of Gwen, who didn't move.

"She was recently granted superpowers, you know, like Captain America. I helped her out. I put in hours of free time that I didn't have towards helping her, towards giving her gear and helping her practice her powers. And how does she thank me? She doesn't. She shoves me aside like she shoves everybody else aside. She only cares about herself! And she left me in the dust, no thanks, no gratitude, nothing!

"This girl, 'Spider-Woman', thinks she's so special. But you know what? She's not. She's just a little girl. Just a kid with a dorky Halloween costume. She doesn't think I'm special. Nobody thinks I'm special. But you know what? I'm gonna be special in just a minute. I'm gonna drink this, and I'm gonna be special, just like her. More special, even. You'll see. You'll all see."

Peter uncorked the vial and tossed the cap away. He then looked at Gwen, his eyes boring into hers. "You know what?" he said, more quietly than he had been speaking before. "I idolised you. I wanted to be like you. And then I realised how horrible of a person you are. I wanna be you, but better. I'm GONNA be you, but better."

He raised the vial to his lips.

Peter's words had cut Gwen to the bone. She reacted too slowly, shooting a webline that yanked back an emptied vial.

Gwen yelled, "NO!"

Peter smirked. "Don't try and stop me."

Somebody had had the bright idea to call 911. A few police cruisers showed up at the park. Police officers jumped out of their cars and rushed over to the scene.

The crowd started to panic, but nothing happened.

Peter frowned, anxiously running a hand through his short brown hair. "I don't know how long it was supposed to take bef-"

He interrupted his own statement with an earsplitting scream.

GREEN MONSTER

The crowd finally lost control and fled the scene as Peter's skin started to morph. His body stretched like Silly Putty caught in invisible hands. Gwen yelped in horror, transfixed by the grotesque train wreck that was his transformation.

Peter shrieked again, but it wasn't a human shriek. It was a screech worthy of the Cretaceous Park movies. His clothes tore open as green scales started sprouting all over his body. His hand, which was now twice its normal size and bore razor-sharp talons, crushed the puny microphone like a twig.

Peter had become a lizard-like monstrosity. He roared one last time and charged at the police officers, who took shelter behind their cruisers and opened fire. Gwen had half a mind to stop them, but when their bullets started bouncing harmlessly off of Peter's scales, she decided to wait and watch for the time being.

As soon as Peter decapitated the first officer, Gwen knew that she needed to do something, so she shot a webline at him and pulled him off balance. Peter snarled, then redirected his attention towards her.

"Oh boy," she muttered as Peter charged at her, his giant tail lashing behind him. She leaped out of the way as he smashed through the gazebo, sending shards of wood flying everywhere. As she landed, Gwen turned and started rapidly firing webshots at Peter, covering him with semisolid webbing. He tore through the webbing as if it were paper, then charged again.

Gwen leaped into the air and landed on Peter's back. It looked like she would have to physically subdue him. But how exactly did one stop a rampaging lizard-beast?

Gwen noticed that the police officers were holding their fire, apparently waiting for her to get out of the way.

"Kid!" one cop yelled through a megaphone. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry, I got this!" Gwen yelled back, wrapping her arms around Peter's neck in a chokehold.

She was lying through her teeth. She had no idea what she was doing.

Peter thrashed around, trying to free himself from this pesky insect, but Gwen held on tightly. His startled roars started to weaken and change into whines. His thrashing grew ever more frantic, and he eventually managed to grab Gwen's right leg and start pulling on it. Gwen yelled and shifted her grip so that she could hold Peter's neck with only one arm. With her free hand, she started striking Peter's claws, desperately trying to extract them from her lacerated leg.

Peter decided to try a different tactic. He let go of Gwen's leg and backed up into a large oak tree, smashing Gwen between him and it. He kept striking it repeatedly until Gwen was too bruised and beaten to hold onto him any longer. She dropped like a stone as the tree finally uprooted.

Gwen came to her senses a few seconds later, just in time to see Peter charging at the line of police officers, who were futilely shooting at him. "Call the SWAT!" she heard one of them yell. The outburst was followed by several jarring screams of pain.

She had to stop Peter before he killed them all.

Loud chatter from a group of girls passing through the hall outside Gwen's room snapped out of her reverie.

She missed Peter. She missed the poor guy with all her heart.

Reminiscing about him wouldn't help anything.

It was better to just forget, to stop thinking about him, to move on.

Gwen wished she didn't have to move on. But she did. She had to push aside her feelings, bottle them up out of harm's way, because they were only going to get in the way. They were only going to stop her from being Spider-Woman.

She couldn't risk losing anyone else.

Gwen shook the depressing thoughts from her mind. There was no time to worry.

She thought back to her earlier mental debate on what would have happened if she hadn't become Spider-Woman, and she recalled how in this universe at least, Peter had been bitten by the irradiated spider.

What had happened to this universe's Gwen Stacy?

Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she a monster? Had she even existed in the first place?

Gwen was filled with a sudden compulsion to know. She wanted to know what the other her was like, what her family was like, how her father had fared, all of that.

But that wasn't something she should worry about right now.

Gwen lifted her phone from the bedside table (she had also stolen a charging cord from Walblue's) and checked the time. It was 10:40 pm. She ought to hit the sack. Tomorrow was a school day.

Gwen set down her phone and drifted off to sleep.

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[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: A Streak of Luck (5/?)

Summary: Lady Belle of the Marchlands sets out to break the curse that has doomed all the women of her family line for centuries, seeking out the legendary sorcerer Rumpelstiltskin to aid her in her quest. Even if she finds him, will he be able to help her break her curse?

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [AO3]

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A Streak of Luck

Five

The Dark Castle was just as impressive on the inside as it was on the outside, if not more so. Whilst the outer façade was dark and imposing, the old stone walls giving the impression of a building that had been there since before time itself had begun, the rooms inside spoke more of that rich history, filled to the brim with keepsakes from all over the world – and possibly some from different worlds entirely.

Belle could quite happily have spent months looking at all of the things that Rumpelstiltskin had on display in the castle and learning about the origin of each and every one of them, but she knew that this was not the reason that she was here. She was here so that he could tell her if her curse could be broken, and if it could not, then she would be sent home to the Marchlands in short order.

Perhaps she could persuade him to let her stay on a little longer so that he could give her a tour of the vast place and let her into some of the secrets of the mementos that he held. There was a reverence in the way that all of them were displayed and she knew that they must hold some kind of meaning for him. This wasn’t a collection that was intended to impress visitors, because by his own admission he tried to put them off as much as possible. Indeed, in most of the stories that Belle had read concerning Rumpelstiltskin and the deals that he made, he usually went to the desperate rather than them venturing into his castle. Only a rare few actually got to see that sight, and she was one of them.

They had left the horses in the stables around the back of the castle, brushed down and resting with plenty of water and oats to keep them going until they were needed again. Rumpelstiltskin had assured her that the castle would ensure that they were taken care of no matter what he and Belle might get distracted with once his diagnosis of her curse had begun.

Truth be told, Belle had been putting off that moment, because it brought with it such finality. She wanted her curse broken, of course she did, but the fact that she was now so close to being told whether or not it was possible made her want to delay. What if he told her that the curse was unbreakable? What would she do then? She had pinned all her hopes on him, and she would have nothing left to do but go home and try to make the most of what remained of her days. It was going to be a momentous revelation, and not one that she was entirely ready for.

Still, she knew that she couldn’t put it off for much longer. Rumpelstiltskin had brought her here with the express purpose of identifying the curse and nothing more. He had shown her to a comfortable guest room where she could freshen up and spend the night, since darkness had fallen by the time they had arrived at the castle and tended to the horses, but it was clear that he wasn’t anticipating hosting her for long. Only as long as it took to diagnose her curse; then another deal would have to be struck.

She’d spent a comfortable night, far more comfortable than she had thought she would in the unfamiliar surroundings. After all, she was a young woman in a strange place in the middle of nowhere whose current sole company was a man made almost entirely of legends, most of which weren’t exactly complimentary. Breakfast had been waiting for her on a tray by the window when she had woken up, but she had been too nervous about what the day would bring to really partake of anything.

Belle sat down on the edge of the guest bed. What if the price to break her curse wasn’t something that she was prepared to give? They’d already talked about first-born children and the complications that brought since she’d likely die in childbirth if her curse was still in play. What if the price was something that she didn’t have and couldn’t give? She had spent so much time trying to psych herself up for the disappointment of hearing that her curse couldn’t be broken that she hadn’t given any thought to the alternative and what would happen next.

There was a sharp tap on the door.

“Are you ready, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin’s high, twittering voice asked. Belle raised an eyebrow. Over the course of their day’s travel together, she had noticed that his voice tended to change depending on the subject matter. Whenever they turned to a topic that Belle realised was cutting close to home for whatever reason, the high and fluting tones would return, forcing them onto a different subject, trying to alleviate the mood and pretend that whatever it was that they were talking about wasn’t anywhere near as important to him as it actually was.

She got up and opened the door, giving him a little curtsey.

“My curse and I are at your service, Bill.”

He sighed and shook his head before spinning on his heel and stalking away, motioning for Belle to follow him. As he walked, she distinctly heard him mutter: “I should have picked a better name.”

They were moving at a fair pace through the castle, into the west wing that he had not shown her in the brief orienteering session she’d had when they had first arrived. Since she wasn’t going to be staying for very long, there wasn’t any point in her seeing the entirety of the castle within the first five minutes of her arrival here.

It looked like they were heading up towards the tall tower that she had seen from the outside of the castle. The higher they climbed, the more it felt like they were ascending into Rumpelstiltskin’s personal domain. The magic in the air was almost palpable, and she could definitely smell the faint burning of potions, the scent only getting stronger as they reached the top of the tower and Rumpelstiltskin opened the door.

His laboratory – it could really not be called anything else – was an impressive and foreboding place, reflecting the exterior of the castle much more than any of the rest of the interior did, well, from what she had seen of it. The workbench in the centre was covered in potion-making equipment and scraps of parchment, and the walls were stacked with shelves of various different colour vials, all meticulously labelled, even if the labels on the shelf nearest to her made no sense at all.

Rumpelstiltskin grabbed a small stool from underneath the work bench and scooted it across the floor until it stood alone in the middle of the room.

“Please sit.”

Belle obeyed, and for a long time, Rumpelstiltskin just walked around and around her, looking at her from every angle as if he was considering her for a prize. The tingling feeling on her scalp at the base of her white streak was back, and it was even more intense than it had been on the previous occasions that she had felt it.

Finally, Rumpelstiltskin stopped in front of her, his brow furrowed in thought as he rubbed his chin.

“I think I might have it,” he said eventually. “May I?”

He reached out towards the white streak. Belle had not braided her hair this morning and it was hanging loose beside her face.

“Be my guest.”

The moment he touched the streak, she felt it, like an electric shock shooting from his hand up her hair to her scalp, and she jerked away from him. He jumped back as well.

“Did you feel that too?” she asked. He nodded.

“It’s as I suspected,” he replied, although she didn’t know if he was talking to her or talking to himself. He gazed down at his hand where he had held her hair for a long time, then finally looked up at her.

“Whilst the nature of your curse still eludes me, I do believe that I know who created it,” he said.

“Who?”

“I have not always been the Dark One,” Rumpelstiltskin said cryptically. Belle was about to ask him what that had to do with her curse when he spoke again. “It’s a mantle that I have worn for a very long time, but I was not the first one to wear it. The Dark One is a title passed along from person to person, just as your curse passes through the generations.”

“You inherited it?” Belle asked.

“Not exactly. I took it on willingly, which is where the similarities between our two situations end. No, I was not always the Dark One, but I can recognise a curse that a Dark One created, and a curse will always recognise the magic that created it.”

“So… You cursed me? Well not you, but your predecessor?”

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “No, the Dark One did not curse you. The Dark One created the curse. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The Dark One created the curse. It did not cast it. Your streak is the physical manifestation of your curse and it reacted to the magic that created it. I think that the reaction would have been even stronger had that same magician cast that curse.”

“If that’s so, then who did cast it? And if your magic created it, can your magic reverse it?”

“Not so fast, dearie, one question at a time. I can’t work miracles without a little time in which to do so, you know.”

Belle gave a sigh of frustration. She was so close to her answer, and now that they’d had this breakthrough of learning where the curse had come from in the first place, she was hopeful that there could be another breakthrough very soon.  

“To answer both of your questions in one concise phrase, I don’t know.”

Belle looked up at him sharply. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean that I do not know. I am unaware. I do not have an answer. I can go on creating more synonyms if you like but I think you get the picture. Just because a previous Dark One created the curse, it doesn’t mean that I can necessarily reverse it. That would depend on the caster and their intentions when they used the curse. Certainly, we can build fail-safes into our magic but that doesn’t help when I don’t know who created it in the first place or what the exact nature is, nor who actually cast the finished product. The only thing that I know for certain is that this curse was created by a previous Dark One, and that it is not a magic that I have ever encountered in my admittedly very long life before.” He paused for breath after this long speech, during which he had been pacing up and down the room, talking to himself more than her. Finally, he turned to look at her properly again.

“May I?”

He indicated her streak and Belle nodded, gripping the stool tightly with both hands in anticipation of the shock of magic that had gone through her the last time that he had touched it. It nearly bowled her over again, but this time she was prepared for it, and the sensation quickly lessened to just the pleasant hum that it had always been in Rumpelstiltskin’s presence.

He closed his eyes, brow furrowed as he diagnosed the magic, and Belle had to wonder what would come next. She had been expecting a straight yes or no to the question of whether Rumpelstiltskin could break her curse and she had been mentally preparing for both of those scenarios. She hadn’t thought about the possibility of him not knowing at all whether or not the curse could be broken. Where did that leave their agreement now?

“It’s an extremely complex curse,” he said, letting go of her hair and pulling out another stool from the work. “Whoever cast it wanted to make sure that it could only be broken in very specific circumstances. Do you know of anyone in the past with a particular grudge against your family?”

Belle shook her head. “None that I know of. But at the same time, like I said before, a lot of that seems to have been lost to history. Maybe if we had kept more records, we would have been able to break the curse sooner. Perhaps it all came about as part of a disagreement that the people at the time wanted to keep swept under the rug, so they never shared the details with the future generations. Rather unhelpful, if you ask me.”

“And me,” Rumpelstiltskin muttered. “Still, never mind, we must just do what we can.”

He remained lost in thought for a long time, and Belle was beginning to think that he had forgotten that she was there.

“So, can you break it?” she asked tentatively.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “I don’t know. It requires further diagnosis and research. I’ll have to consult all the records that my predecessors kept, and like your own, they’re not always the most complete or concise. How long has the curse been in effect?”

“At least five centuries.”

“Well, that helps to narrow it down.”

He fell into silence again, and Belle prodded him again.

“What does this mean for our deal?” she asked. “You said that if you couldn’t break my curse you would send me home unscathed and if you could then we would deal again. But you don’t know.”

“I need more time,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I have a proposition for you. I will work to find out the true nature of your curse and how to break it. In return, I will need you to remain here in the Dark Castle whilst I do so. Not as a prisoner, for we both know that there’s nothing to be gained in you leaving before the curse is broken. I could use some household help though. The place really needs dusting.”

Belle laughed. “Is that all? You want me to stay here and dust in return for breaking my curse?”

“Not breaking it, dearie.” Rumpelstiltskin wagged a finger at her. “I can’t promise you that.”

Belle leaned back on her stool, looking at him shrewdly.

“As much as I want my curse broken, I can’t remain here indefinitely waiting for your verdict,” she countered. “I think a time limit might be necessary. How long will you need?”

“Four months,” Rumpelstiltskin said quickly. “You shall stay here for as long as it takes to break the curse, to a maximum of four months. If I haven’t worked it out by that time, then as before, I will return you to the Marchlands unscathed. “

“Four months.” Belle nodded. “I dust, you work on my curse.”

“And if I haven’t managed to solve it in four months, then I will hang up my hat as a practitioner of magic forever,” Rumpelstiltskin declared.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that you need to be that drastic.”

“It’s a matter of professional pride. Very embarrassing to admit that I couldn’t establish the nature of a curse my own magic had a hand in creating.”

Belle stifled a giggle but accepted his reasoning. She put out her hand and Rumpelstiltskin shook it firmly.

The deal was struck.

[cass-trash]

Honey and Rain

Human!Castiel x Reader

A/N: This is a rewrite of the very first series I have ever published. A lot of it is going to be different because back then I only had the base of the story, but its essentially going to end the same as I had planned (hopefully). The original Honey and Rain can be found somewhere on my blog if you would like to read it but be warned that I had no idea what I was doing and did not reach the end of the series.

Summary: After angels break into your house while you were sleeping and force burning light down your throat, wings sprout from your back and you soon realise you are capable of doing great things. Not long after all of this, an angel comes down and orders you to find and protect a human named Steve.

Honey and Rain Masterlist

Warnings: mention of suicide, mention of death, blood, unedited

Word count: 2123

A long, long time ago something traumatic happened to you. Something that made you feel as though God didn’t exist, that he was just a lie made up by people as some kind of joke that became out of hand. You had thought you’d go for the rest of your life believing that God didn’t exist; until one interesting night.

More than one pair of muscular arms forcing your limbs down had awaken you, your eyes wide in fear as you stared into the glowing eyes of a man twice your size towering over you. Horrible, disturbing thoughts flashed through your mind as to what these four men were going to do to you but you never would have guessed correctly.

A small vial – that seemed to be glowing blue and swirling around – was brought to your mouth – which one of the men had forced open – and it quickly slid down your throat as though a key was entering a lock. It was ice cold to begin with, like it had been left in the freezer for days, but it suddenly became burning hot. It almost felt like it was going to melt you from the inside, but then it all stopped.

“It has worked.” you heard one of the men holding your legs down say. “It’ll only be a matter of minutes now.”

Finally coming to with your surroundings and the men in your bedroom, you began thrashing against their hold, desperate for them to let you go so you could call the police before they made a runner. But there wasn’t time.

Simultaneously, all four men had disappeared into thin air, the only sound in your bedroom being the faint echo of something similar to sheets flapping in the wind. Could this just be a dream? Surely they didn’t just vanish. You didn’t even have time to ponder the situation as you felt a sharp pain in your back, almost like you had been shot.

You ignored the entire ‘people vanishing before your very eyes’ scenario and ran to your bathroom and flicked the lights on, pulling your shirt over your head and attempted to look at whatever was happening to your back. The angle was uncomfortable and made your eyes sore, leaving you no choice but to turn back around and stare at your face in horror as you tried to disregard the pains that only seemed to progress further every second. Within half a minute, you were kneeling on the tiled floor with tears in your eyes, refusing to allow the pained scream fleeing from your cracked lips.

An oddly soothing pastoral fragrance wafted through the air and filled your lungs, taking your mind off the pain for just a moment. The mixture was odd. Honey, pine needles, and rain? Being your paranoid self, you were always sure to close and lock all doors and windows which raised more questions than you’d like. How did those men get in? How did they get out? Where did this smell come from?

Another sharp pain ran through your back, dragging out an uncontrollable whimper. You raised to your feet by pulling yourself up with the towel rack only to stumble backwards in freight at the sight of large black glistening wings sprouting behind you. The long six inch feathers suddenly wrapped around you, the amazingly soft plumes rubbing against your bare stomach. It spread warmth through your whole body like they were a heated blanket and then, in a fraction of a second, all of the pain had left.

It was just a dream, that’s all. There’s no possible way this could be real. You closed your eyes and pinched the flesh on your arm, hoping that it’d be enough to wake you up, but it didn’t do a single thing. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy to wake up. Deciding to head back to bed in hopes that you would wake up without these wings on your back, you tried to ignore the tickle of plumes rubbing down your legs and roaming your body like a pair of hands.

But when you had awoken the next morning, you came to a shocking realisation that it wasn’t a dream and that you now had wings sprouting from your flesh, however that may be possible. 

It took you months to adjust to the changes. It seemed that you were the only one who could see the wings, which only made things that much worse for you. Whenever you mentioned them accidentally, somebody stared at you as though you were insane and at this point you didn’t blame them. The wings proved to be a nuisance at the most awkward of times, especially since you couldn’t control them. It was like they had a mind of their own. If they weren’t wrapped around your body like a protective shield, they were spread far out to get the wind between its sparkling raven feathers with the blotched blue ends, but they couldn’t help from knocking objects to the floor when passing a desk or denying you entry to a tight doorway. 

Six months had passed since those strange men broke into your house and shoved light down your throat. Six months since these wings had sprouted from your back. Six months and you had only just figured out that you were capable of doing things far greater than what anybody could imagine. 

You were stuck at an agonisingly horrific party – which one of your friends had dragged you to in hopes that you would loosen up and find a date – when you had found out that you could fly. You weren’t sure how you had even done it, considering these wings didn’t seem to want to listen to your commands, but within a blink of an eye you were soaring through the sky like a bird, the wind vigorously flapping against your face and flowing through the feathers behind you. When you reopened your eyes, you were lying on your bed with untidy hair and ruffled clothes.

Ever since that day, you had searched for all the different things that you might be able to do, but only came up with a few. You didn’t know what you were, or how you were doing these things, but some of them were more useful than you’d like to admit.

Then you had met Ansiel, an angel who had taught you how to fight and use your abilities. He had come to you needing your help protecting a human who was somebody special; some kind of prophet. 

You had horribly failed that mission.

Evan was the first person you were ordered to protect, which only made the angels more pissed when you had come to them giving them the news that he had committed suicide while you weren’t supervising him. The smell of expired Chinese food and his father’s bottles of whiskey will forever be in your mind, along with the image of the fourteen year old boy hanging from the ceiling with tear stained cheeks. You hadn’t been concentrating enough and now he was dead because of it.

After that, you refused to do the angel’s bidding. You trained yourself how to fight using your newfound abilities – just in case they chose to come after you – and stayed far away from them as possible, that was until a fury ignited within you. Something clicked and you suddenly went on a rampage. Any angel in your path was given no mercy. Within only a couple of short days, you had killed at least half a decade’s worth of angels. You often heard them on the angel radio inside of your head talking about how you must’ve been one of the fastest learning angels they’ve ever seen before, which only built your confidence. They were afraid of you, which meant you had the advantage.

“Y/n,” you heard one day, almost frightening you to death. You hadn’t expected to hear the shrilling voice of Ansiel through your head, “I know you’re listening. I have another mission for you, if you’re finished with your little games.”

Taking a leap of faith, you answered, “I thought you’d know better than to assign me with somebody’s life again.”

You could almost hear the shit eating grin on his face from hearing you reply. “I’m asking nicely. If you decline, I suppose I’ll have to threaten the life of your sister, won’t I?” he said with a hint of smugness. 

If only he was here, you thought, I’d wipe that smile off his damned face. “Hurt them and you’ll live to regret it.” you growled. You might not have ever met your sister before, or even know if she’s a decent human, but you weren’t going to let an angel blatantly murder her when she hadn’t done anything.

“I already have them located. All it would take is one quick blade to the heart.”

The anger was rising up inside of you. “Fine!” you shouted aloud, not meaning to. “Who is it and where are they?” If you were able to protect this guy for long enough, you might be able to get a chance to pounce on Ansiel before he reached your sister. 

“Steve.” Ansiel answered rather happily. “Sunshine Road motel. Better hurry.”

With one quick flap of your wings, you were standing in the very unpleasant lobby of the motel. It was old, probably a couple decades. The yellowed wallpaper was beginning to peel and crack, the roof was covered with mould, and the carpet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. 

A newspaper on the ground showed today’s date, along with large bold letters exclaiming Two dead, hearts missing. Was it a coincidence that the guy you need to protect is in a town where werewolves were currently hunting? Knowing there was no way of guessing, you shrugged it off and immediately tried to find Steve but couldn’t locate him for the life of you.

Sighing, you walked over to the front desk, reading the name tag on the woman who looked disinterested in her job. Violet. “Has somebody named Steve checked in here recently?” you asked, eyeing the camera in the corner of the room.

“I can’t give that information out.” she groaned, waving her hands in the air exaggeratedly. 

Without hesitating, you reached over the desk and pressed two fingers to her forehead, listening to the thump of her body dropping to the floor before searching through the security footage and finding three people who had entered the motel last night. Two of the people were a couple, who mustn’t have been able to afford a better place to sleep than this. The third person was a little more interesting. He was a slightly scruffy looking man, who wore a dark blue hoodie which he seemed to be clutching on to quite tightly. Zooming in on the screen and looking closely at the blurry pixels, you could see the faintest of blood. His knuckles seemed to be just as bloody. You weren’t sure if he was the attacker or the victim.

Following the man through the cameras, you found his room and quickly wiped the footage of you knocking Violet out. Retracing his steps, you stumbled across his room, number 17, and awkwardly knocked, unsure how you were going to introduce yourself so casually. When he didn’t answer for the third time, you flew yourself into the room and observed it carefully. 

The bed sheets were messily made, hanging off on the side towards the open window. A chilly breeze flew into the room, causing the thin fabric hanging above the window to sway back and forth before finally resting once again. Stepping in front of the open window, you placed your hand on the sill, leaning out and taking a look around. He was nowhere to be found. As your hand retreated back to your side, you felt something different. Exposing your palm upwards, you saw blood smeared across your palm to your fingertips.

The noticeable white paint underneath the blood told you it was beginning to dry and crack, but it was clear that the outline was of a hand print. You just wondered if it was Steve’s or somebody else that you would most likely come across. You knew two things. Steve wasn’t here anymore and there was only one person that you could go to for help and she isn’t very giving when it comes to you, but it was the only option you had left.

Your wings spread out on their own, obviously having the same idea as you, and flapped once, heading into the direction of the vile house that belonged to the witch you once tried to kill.

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