#so I figured he deserved a bit of rock star treatment

[my-craft]

Unofficial, fanmade album cover for Smoke with the Devil by Kian Stone from Just Roll With It

I don’t usually do a painting kinda style, so this was a fun experiment!

[some-lists]

All the Disney Princesses Ranked From Worst to Best.

(Sorry, no Vanellope.)

14. Merida

I know Merida has really badass archery skills. She’s also outspoken, strong willed, and clever. But she’s still my least favorite princess. I just didn’t like her. Maybe it’s the fact that she wanted to change her mom. And she actually went through with it. Of course, she didn’t actually know what was going to happen, and the journey brought them closer together. She grew as a character and that’s good. But just seeing her disrespect her mother, especially publicly in front of all the clans, is hard to watch. It doesn’t help that I thought Brave was one of Pixar’s weaker movies and essentially Brother Bear all over again.

13. Anna

Not gonna lie. I hate Anna. She’s so damn pushy and combative. I know, it’s all her parents’ fault. All of it. But still. She doesn’t listen to Elsa at all. She pushes and pushes triggering Elsa’s ice outbursts, which become more visible as they build along with her anxiety. Every uncontrolled “accident” Elsa has in the first film is because Anna didn’t listen to her. Of course, she also didn’t listen to Elsa’s warning about marrying Hans either. She foolishly left the kingdom in the hands of an outsider, someone she didn’t even know.

She definitely shows improvement in the second film. She becomes more sensitive towards Elsa’s feelings and her powers. She’s also very loyal and brave, risking her life for Elsa, yet again. She’s still very clingy and desperate for people’s love. It manifests in her fear of losing Elsa and Kristoff. I do not like her humor or awkwardness. I don’t find them relatable, but rather annoying. But I do appreciate that those insecurities are real and that’s what makes her more relatable. Her relationships with the other characters, especially Olaf, is what saves her from being last on my list.

12. Tiana

There’s nothing wrong Tiana. I think she’s great. She’s hardworking, determined, and a realist. Those are great qualities that I’m glad Disney decided to focus on too. The downside of this is that she comes across as rather boring. The film relies on other more colorful characters to bring the personality and charm. I think that’s a shame. She also suffers from starring in a weaker film.

11. Aurora

I like Aurora. What little we see of her anyway. We can tell by the way she interacts with the fairies, woodland creatures, and Prince Philip that she’s smart, sweet, shy, kind, cautious. She’s a dreamer, but not foolish. It’s too bad we didn’t get to see more of her.

10. Snow White

Snow White, in my opinion, does not get the respect she deserves. Was she stupid to take that apple from the very obviously evil hag? Yes, she was. But people have forgotten all about the really great qualities she possessed too. When she walked into the dwarfs’ cottage, it was a disgusting, unlivable nightmare. The dwarfs were pigs. They didn’t clean their home or themselves. They bickered all the time. Snow White changed all of that. She created order where there was disorder. And she didn’t do it alone. She delegated chores to each of the animals and made sure they did them right. That’s some managerial skills! She got a bunch of unruly little men to wash, sleep at a decent time, and behave. That’s authority. Those are some real life skills I wish I had more of. Yes, she cooked, cleaned, and sewed, but Snow White wasn’t a servant. She was in charge.

9. Cinderella

Like Snow White, Cinderella has gotten a bad rap over time, but I will defend Cinderella anytime anywhere. Those who say she “needed a prince to save her” lack compassion and are completely missing the point. Cinderella was a young woman who was abused by what family she had left. At a young age she experienced loss, grief, then neglect and emotional abuse. But Cinderella was resilient. That abuse didn’t stop her and it didn’t change her. She could’ve become mean, bitter, and jealous. She could’ve continued the cycle of abuse like her stepsisters. But Cinderella didn’t allow their mistreatment to define her. She remained kind, empathetic, patient, humble, and hardworking. She also didn’t allow herself to become a victim. She didn’t mope or give up on herself. When the ball was announced, she worked hard and believed she would go. When she got help from the fairy godmother, she accepted it and rocked that ball gown. She didn’t go to the ball to be rescued. She went because she wanted to, and she did. Moral of the story is do not let others’ treatment of you determine who you are or what you’re worth. Cinderella had awesome inner strength.

8. Ariel

I will admit that as an adult, Ariel’s appeal fades. She made really bad choices and sacrificing her voice for a boy is a terrible message to sell to kids. But for a 5 year old girl, only two things mattered. She was a mermaid and she could sing. The Little Mermaid kick started Disney’s renaissance and set a new precedent for its movies. Unlike previous princesses, Ariel was the first princess full of life, passion, and adventure. She had an exciting and lovable personality and a Broadway singing voice. Credit goes to Jodi Benson for bringing Ariel to life and the writers for getting the world to fall in love with her. She made a huge impression (hello, mermaid craziness everywhere!), even if she was a total idiot teenager.

7. Jasmine

What’s great about Jasmine is she can see through people’s BS and she doesn’t put up with it. She isn’t impressed by the superficial suitors that come her way. She stands up to Jafar. She catches on pretty immediately that Prince Ali is actually Aladdin. She sings like Lea Salonga, Disney and Broadway legend, and she has a pet tiger. What’s not to love?

6. Pocahontas

Pocahontas was the first Disney princess to not go after her dreams, but instead chose family, community, duty, loyalty. That’s incredibly mature and selfless. She taught a racist, arrogant, ignorant man to love and respect others different from him. She followed her intuition, was one nature, and dove off cliffs. The only minus is falling for John Smith over Kokoam. I don’t know what she was thinking!

5. Moana

Moana is not qualified for her mission. She has no experience and no skills required for sailing across the sea, finding Maui, and defeating a lava monster. But it’s her purpose. She was chosen. So she sets out and figures it out along the way. That’s an inspiring example. It’s not until the end that we find out why she was chosen. She sees Te Ka for who she truly is. Te Fiti. The image above is one of the most powerful moments in all of Disney’s films.

4. Rapunzel

Similar to Cinderella, Rapunzel has been abused throughout her childhood. IMO, Rapunzel had it worse because she believed Mother Gothel was her mother. Their relationship was nonstop manipulation, infantilization, and gaslighting. But Rapunzel was brave enough to go after what she wanted and smart enough to find a way to do it. On top of that, she was creative and artistic, incredibly strong from years of hauling Mother Gothel up the tower, and had magical hair with healing powers. In the end, she does what we didn’t get to see in Cinderella. She stands up for herself and confronts her abuser. She’s a real survivor and victor.

3. Belle

I love Belle because she is a true introvert and a true individual. She’s not very social, doesn’t gossip, doesn’t fawn over Gaston, doesn’t follow the townsfolk’s way of life. She literally just does her own thing. For that, she’s misunderstood and judged by the village. I think that’s very relatable. But she’s also intelligent, curious, adventurous, honorable (she keeps her promise to stay with the Beast), and stands up to the Beast when he’s out of line. She’s the only one that truly challenges the Beast and he grows because of it. And she saves him.

2. Mulan

Similar to Belle, Mulan is a bit of an outcast, because she’s individualistic in a society that values conformity. She’s socially awkward, clumsy, but brave. That bravery saves her father and all of China. She’s a true badass warrior.

1. Elsa

Elsa is technically not a princess, but a queen. She still counts and she tops my list. Out of all the Disney princesses, she is the most real and fully developed. She’s beautiful, kind, brave, strong, but also very flawed. Many people have identified with Elsa in different ways because her flaws are so real and so relatable. The LGBTQ community has adopted her as a symbol of their own. For me personally, I see a mental health issue. I think she’s a highly sensitive person with anxiety. Her ice powers are a beautiful symbol for that anxiety and the struggle over her mental health. Her journey to accept herself for who she is, to embrace herself for who she is, and to find her place in a world that deems her different is truly beautiful and empowering.

[blissfulalchemist]

“dance with me and pretend the world doesn’t exist.” + catraf xx

“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.”

-Sarah Dessen

There’s something to be said about the beauty in the soft colors of a setting sun. That moment just before the sky completely turns to night and you see the last bit of color, it was always the most colorful time of day. What I was seeing now though felt brighter, like I was looking at an edited picture and not my own eyes, should have been clue number one. The amount of blood I could feel running down my body, clue number two that something wasn’t right. Or the way Raf’s trying to keep it together, trying to stop the bleeding, commanding Wes and Lance to get what was needed. Things that should tip off my optimistic mind that this wasn’t the time to be. 

The inevitable is near and I don’t even know how it happened really. I remember the bullets flying, how I kept repeating the plan over and over in my head. How if by some miracle they made it through I was going to take Faith’s hand and escape out the back, we’d be free of this place. Of them. So when the time came and we were met with members of the community barreling through the door guns blazing, I just acted as if I had done this a million times. It was going as planned, I had her hand in mine, the door in the back of the church opened, I could see the river, and once we made it in we’d be home free. Could make it to the other side and hide among the trees or cabins before making our way back to the men taking charge. 

Then I felt my hair yanked back, arms wrapping around me, the cold chill of dog tags on my back, Faith’s hand leaving mine as she moved ahead. She turned once meeting my eyes as I fought against my captor, screaming at her to keep going, that I would be fine. Faith was hesitating, Jacob had his gun drawn, blue-green eyes going wide, my hands doing everything they could to throw his aim off. Finally, she started to move again, tears already forming in her eyes and he couldn't get a clear shot. Hearing the splashing of her finally making into the river is a relief and I can revel in the sneer on Jacob’s face that’s evident despite not being able to see it. He puts me on the ground quickly, hand gripping my neck, lifting me off the ground once more, my hands ineffective against him as I fought for air. “You want to be on the other side so badly,” he growled, blue eyes burning into mine, “I’ll show you what it’s like then.” The pain was sharp in my stomach, my screams cut off as his fingers tightened around my neck.

There was a second stab to my abdomen and he released me, walking back inside, gun drawn. Jacob was far from a stupid man, he knew what he was doing leaving me there. With everyone else preoccupied by the fight and Faith gone, I wasn’t going to make it. I wanted to cry, but I had to try and get somewhere safe, at least get to Faith so I wasn’t alone. I crawl to the tree line and it’s agonizingly slow, having to stop and clutch at my abdomen, I need to put pressure on it. My legs are shaky as I grip onto the trees making my way to the shore, soft hands grabbing onto me, looking up to meet her blue green eyes full of worry. Faith pulls the small boat closer helping me inside, handing me the torn fabric of her dress, “We’re getting you to the other side.”

This isn’t part of the plan and yet I nod, holding back the sobs I feel coming on, praying the fight doesn’t last longer than the time I have with no treatment. Faith can only slow it down, I need a real doctor, his knife just had to be serrated. I know for a fact that the one doctor that could help isn’t close enough and there’s only so far she can take me on her own, so Lance’s house is out of the option. We don’t even have car to make it easier to get there. Faith tries to reassure me, as she rows a little ways down the river before landing on the shore, clinging to me and the radio in the boat. It’s quiet, save for the lapping of the water against the rocks and the breeze making its way through the trees. I can still move and that provides some hope. She’s helping to tie the fabric around my body, decency be damned when you’re bleeding out, her cries on the radio near desperate as she hopes for any of them to respond. 

I let out a breathy laugh as the fabric is tied so tight around me it feels like I can’t breathe. Looking up to the sky still putting as much pressure as we can I know this isn't the time to laugh. Or maybe its the right time, I’m not sure contemplating the true final moments of my life. I figure it is the right time as the sound of a car pulls up, Raf and Lance jumping out, “We have to move her. Get her to your place as soon as we can.” 

Lance is looking me over, eyes moving quickly trying to come up with some kind of solution, “Moving her may not be the best thing to do.” His hazel eyes meet mine, misting, he knows what happened, had to have seen it many times over. 

“Then we need to stop the bleeding,” Raf says waving Wes over who’s finally shown up on his bike, “Grab the kit from the car, maybe we can cauterize it.”

“He went down to the hilt,” Lance states, “Twice. They’re deep, she needs someone that knows more than us.”

“We need to get her out of here and to that person,” Raf snaps, unwrapping the cloth around me gently, Lance’s hand stopping his, “She can make it. We just need her stable while we wait for the doctor to come back.” 

“Raf,” Lance pressed, Wes taking cues in Rafael’s movements, “You know how far away he is. I’m sure you can guess how much blood she’s lost. Rafael,” his tone hushed, “you’re lucky she’s made it this long.”

There’s some arguing between the two men and I opt to look at Faith, she’s standing back, arms crossed, she feels helpless in this situation. “How’re ya feeling,” Wes whispers to me trying to put a small smile on his face.  

“I’d say like hell but,” I shrug matching his smile, “who knows might get a first hand experience.”

The argument stops, his brown eyes quickly looking at me, “Don’t say that,” he snaps, flinching before I can stop myself at Raf’s tone. I shut my mouth helping to keep the wounds close, “You’re going to make it through this,” he tries again, softer this time, hands picking up where he left off. I didn’t expect the blood to feel so warm, always thought it would be cold, then again who thinks about their death via stabbing. Rafael’s hands are still trying to work at stopping the bleeding, my head spinning, my feet starting to feel cold in the heat of the setting sun. 

I look up seeing the sky between the trees, “I always loved the purple hues of the night sky,” my voice is soft, his hands stopping, Lance and Wes having moved back watching us. “I used to love the stars more, but then that changed,” smiling I look down meeting Rafael’s brown eyes, “Do you remember the night we first danced in our spot?”

He blinks once in surprise, the mask coming back up quickly, “Of course I do, Conejito,” he’s doing a good job at hiding the tears but I can see them form, the small indiscernible tremble of his lower lip. “That was the night you told me that you loved me.”

I shake my head, “As beautiful that night was that’s not the night I’m thinking of right now,” I gasp, it’s getting harder to breathe, “That first one when we were still friends, I had bet that you couldn’t dance without us falling off the edge and you had to prove me wrong.” The breath I take is deep, closing my eyes and smiling as I remember that night, easy as it’s etched into my soul, “The sky,” I start pausing to grab onto his hand bringing the top of it to my lips, “The sky that night looked just like it does right now.” I point up, noticing as everyone’s face turns upward, “It’s our sky, Rafael. Our colors.”

“We can fix this,” both of his hands clasp around mine, “make sure you can see more of them. More nights like this.” The small laugh is hard to hold back as if this were all normal, his smile comes back to his face, the last one I’ll ever see. I hope that maybe reincarnation is a thing and if it is I’m an animal with my memories, I can find him again. “Okay maybe not exactly like this, but just hold on okay.”

My grip tightens, “Raf,” I’m holding his hands back as much as I can with my waning strength, “we all know what’s happening. Don’t let me spend it with you fretting.” I look to Wes, Lance, and Faith, “Let me say goodbye. It’s so rare in these times.”

Raf nods, “At least let me wrap you back up. Give you a little more time, okay,” I nod letting him work quickly, my legs are no longer starting to feel like they’re part of me. The feeling in my fingers is off, like there’s static and they’re already looking pale. When Raf finishes, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear stepping back letting Lance come to me first. 

“Lancelot,” he meets me at eye level, smile waning as he looks me over, “you really lived up to your name. You were always there for me and then for others when they needed you. Don’t stop that,” I’m feeling tired, “Never stop and I know Sage will come back.”

“Your faith never wavered in that belief,” his tears weren’t hidden falling freely, ”I'm gonna miss you though Cat,” Lance isn’t holding back his pain, his voice cracking sniffing away some of the tears. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have the feeling of having a kid again, then you came along and I got not only a daughter but a son too,” he kisses my forehead, his arms wrapping around me, “I love you Cat. Don’t you forget that.”

The hug I give him is weaker than I’d like it to be, he deserves a proper hug, guess it would have to be Wes’ job now. “I love you too Lance. You take good care of Wes like I know you will.”

Lance steps back wiping away at his eyes Faith embracing me quickly, “You saved me. You’re here because you chose to save me and it doesn’t seem fair.” She buries her face in my hair, “It shouldn’t have been you.”

“Shhhh,” I soothe stroking her hair, “I would have been fighting for you no matter what.” I place a kiss on her temple, never did I think I’d ever get as close to one of the Seeds as I did to Faith. She felt like a sister to me and when she started to get better and be a better person I couldn’t leave her behind. I just couldn’t. There was worry that I just forgave her for all that she had done, letting my heart get the better of me, it was far from the truth. She did terrible things and so did I, but she worked everyday to be better, far from easy, still full of mistakes and relapses, working as best she could to right her wrongs in the given situation, so it was because of seeing that change I could claim forgiveness for her. 

“I still don’t see why you would,” She still was far from perfect, that envy and desire to inflict pain because others did the same was never going away, but I wasn’t very perfect either any more. 

“Oh Faith,” I clutched her hand, “you are worthy of someone to fight for you. You just,” seeing her eyes sad had me choking up, “You just have to fight for yourself now, okay? Can you do that?” She gave me a small nod, “Good. You do that and trust me, you’ll find him. You’ll find that White Knight, I know he’s out there, just stay on this path please. Promise me, promise me that you will continue to make the right choices.”

She nodded her head, giving me one last hug, “I promise. I will try to keep that promise.” She backed away hiding her face standing close to Lance. 

I turned my smile to Wes waving him over, “Come here, Wessy,” he has to be on his knees to fully see me face to face, he’s trying so hard to keep his emotions in check. There’s so much I want to say to him, my brain keeps writing out the speech trying to shorten it and failing. I can feel that there’s only so much time left, I’m feeling more like a ghost, and there’s still one more person here that I need to say goodbye too. He shrugs his jacket off placing it around my shoulders, its warmth a second wind to my body. “Thanks,” my breath is shaky as I grab his hands looking into his eyes, “You know how much I love and care about you. How unlikely it seemed for us to ever really be friends, but somehow we managed that, and I am forever grateful to have had you in my life, flaws and all.” I never thought it would be so hard to say goodbye, how hard it would be to convey how much his friendship means to me, “Wes you gave me hope again, you were the catalyst in so many ways. Screw the apocalypse,” the tears are starting to fall as I let out a small laugh that he matches, “Or whatever it is manbun wants to call it. You started the chain of events that brought light and love into my life.” His eyes widen at my words and I….I hate having to say goodbye, hate that I have to say these things to him, “Wes I never thought I’d have those things ever again. I truly didn’t and you brought them to me and god.” I have to look away, saying goodbye to Raf was going to be even harder if this is how I am right now with my best friend, my brother. “God I honestly wish I was going to make it so I could spend the rest of my life showing you my appreciation and gratitude.”

Wes is shaking his head, “No need. You’re not gonna leave.”

“You’re right,” I don’t want to go, “I’ll make my way to the top and demand I be your guardian angel or demon. I don’t know how this is going to work.” The words dry up as I pull him in for a hug the two of us crying into the other’s shoulder. I have one last thing to say to him, “Wes,” I whisper as he hums in acknowledgement, “Take care of Rafael for me. He’s going to need you and I have the utmost faith that you’ll take the best care of him.” He stiffens pulling away, eyes meeting, “Promise me.”

Wes’ breathing is heavy as he looks me over, nodding finally as he swallows, “Of course Catnip,” he hooks his pinky over mine, “Pinky promise.”

“Good. Now help me up,” I catch Raf’s eyes as they fill with worry, Wes obliging my request.

“No, don’t stand up,” Raf pleads, his body moving to help as I struggle, the feeling in my legs is nonexistent. “Just stay down.”

I shake my head, “No,” I straighten out, Wes helping me in placing my hands on Raf’s shoulders, my weight falling onto him, “You and I are going to have one more dance.”

He places a hand on my cheek, warm, soft, comforting as he uses a thumb to wipe away the tears that keep falling silently, “Is that what you really want, Conejito, to dance with me?” I want to just stay with you, feel your arms around me, live the life we were meant to have. Had this been any other universe we’d be happy and together until we were old and grey. I don’t want to say goodbye to you. 

I nod slowly, I keep a reserve of energy in place to suppress the sobs threatening to take over. I don’t want to be a mess in front of him, I want him to have me as normal as possible in these final moments, “We can pretend the world doesn’t exist if that makes you feel better,” his smile is soft and smaller than it normally is. Raf puts a hand around my waist, the other supporting my upper body, directing me to stand on his feet, Wes taking a spot next to Lance and Faith once I’m settled in Raf’s arms. Looking over my shoulder to them, “Do you mind putting on some music, please?” Wes nods, pulling out my phone, sifting through the music for something that might be romantic, settling on the first one he sees. The music starts, piano notes following a chime that’s better set for a movie filled with magic, I still never got to show him how much of a Patrick Dempsey he is in that movie. Raf starts to move slowly, gentle with me.

“You're in my arms, and all the world is calm. The music playing on for only two.”

“It didn’t have to happen this way you know,” Raf whispers, “Had we never met, we wouldn’t be having to say goodbye.”

“So close together and when I'm with you, so close to feeling alive.”

I rest my head on his chest, “If I do have to leave you behind, mi amor, I’m glad I get to say goodbye. Tell you one last time how much I love you.” He’s so warm against my skin, heartbeat steady, just like that night. The song was different but the way he holds me feels the same. 

“A life goes by. Romantic dreams must die. So I bid my goodbye and never knew, so close, was waiting. Waiting here with you.”

It’s safety, love….home, “I didn’t get to do that last time. I think if I did though I wouldn’t know what to say just like this moment.” How many of my tears are going to stain his shirt tonight? They aren’t stopping, but they’re slowing down. I know we aren’t spinning. I can’t help but feel like I am, “I know I waited to tell you that I loved you romantically until we were together, but I fell for you that first night we ever danced. Being in your arms, life felt perfect, like I was meant to be there with you.”

“So close to reaching that famous happy end. Almost believing this one's not pretend.”

Rafael’s chin rests on my head, “I knew that night you locked your keys in the car,” his lips kiss the top of my head, “That night I knew there was no going back, the feelings were there, and then you kissed me,” my cheeks burn, surprising me considering how much blood is out of my body, “I felt at a crossroads after that night.” It’s requiring more and more energy to keep my eyes open, “I didn’t want to become so close to you, Conejito. I didn’t ever want to put us in this position,” he stops and brings my face up to meet his. I want to fall, swimming in his eyes, “but you still wanted to, knowing how much fear you had. You still chose to love, knowing how much more risk there was to losing me, you took that leap.” I try to slow my heart down, I need more time with him, now that he’s smiling looking down at me, “I had no choice but to follow you.”

“And now you're beside me. And look how far we've come. So far we are, so close.”

The music swells and his lips are against mine, I can feel myself being spun around like he would do while we danced in the kitchen. Hear his laughter one last time in my memory as he set me back down, hands lingering or tilting my chin up so he could kiss me again. Visions of a future we’ll never have pass through my mind. The elation of seeing him down on one knee, him in a suit as I walk to meet him in white, the smile he would have holding our first child, arm around my shoulders as we watched them grow, a porch swing in the golden light of the sunset. Everything we wanted, everything I was ready for. My knees start to shake as I try to stand taller, there’s a need to savor these last moments with him. He pulls away slowly, resting his forehead against mine, a few tears fall onto my face. I wonder if he’s seen the same things I just did, or he’s letting his vulnerability show just this once in front of others. 

“Oh how could I face the faceless days. If I should lose you now.”

“Rafael,” I start my eyes closing, swallowing back everything that would ruin this moment, “don’t ever feel like this is your fault or have any regrets for how our love turned out. I don’t have any.” Words swim in my head as I look for the ones I had planned on saying in the future, “‘I would rather live and love where death is king than have eternal life where love is not.’.”

“That’s Ingersoll isn’t it,” I nod, the feeling gone in my arms. I should have ran my fingers through his hair one last time, “Thought you said it was too boring.”

“We're so close to reaching that famous happy end. Almost believing this one's not pretend.”

“That line wasn’t,” there’s no choice but to rest against him once again, “I memorized it, just for you. I wanted to say it in my vows to you when all this was over. I’m still searching for the right Orpheus and Eurydice reference to include.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it one day, mi amor,” my hands fall to his chest, his arms gripping me tighter, “Maybe I’ll include it in mine. I’ll admit to everyone that you were right.” Have we stopped moving? I don’t think we have, “Love really is something that is all consuming, something that has to be expressed and impulsive.” His lips are a whisper against mine, I think they’ve started to become numb.

“Let's go on dreaming, for we know we are, so close, so close. And still so far.”

I hope there’s a smile on my lips that he can see, “I have one more thing to tell you,” he whispers, “You win.”

“Win?” Has my voice been that quiet this whole time?

“Our cooking competition,” I can still feel the way his hands rub circles on my back, that’s a good sign I think, “I know Wes always preferred your cooking to mine, so you win.” 

I don’t have anything to say to that, don’t think there’s much time to respond to my victory. “I love you Rafael Estrada,” god I hope he can hear me, “I never thought I’d find love again, but there you were making your music, making the world brighter, this county’s own personal Orpheus. There was no other option for me but to fall in love. How lucky I am to have been graced with that light,” I should have done my speech at the beginning, I haven’t done a very good job in expressing what he means to me, “Even when I thought there was never going to be an us, I was so happy just having you in my life. I felt alive again….just like I feel alive now.” He’s catching me, my legs must have buckled under me, I can only focus on his brown eyes, “I hate that all I can say to convey our time together is; I love you, with all my heart and soul, I love you.” 

I can hear him swallow hard, did we make it to the ground again, “I love you, Catlina Rojas,” I blink and there’s no way I can open my eyes again, it's a shame, “I love you and I wish we had more time.” The song changes, a guitar riff that’s very familiar. It's our song, the one from when I admitted my love to him. The song is background noise as all I can do is focus on his voice singing to me. What a way to leave this world, being able to hear your love sing to you, surrounded by others that love you. I’m drifting and I just want to keep listening to the voice that blankets me in comfort. The sounds fade and I’m glad that death feels like falling asleep. Oh what a way to go, how poetic, sleeping in his arms.

[thewritingstar]

ButchxBubbles friendship???

Thanks for the request :)

The thought of Butch and Bubbles having a spa night? Yes please. Im not really good at writing friendship fluff fics so i hope this is ok. I really like the idea of their friendship dynamic and maybe I’ll elaborate more on it. Plus I wrote this at like 1 am so yeah. 

Enjoy. :) Request and asks always open

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Bubbles finished bringing all her products from the bathroom to her bedroom. She had everything ready for her spa treatment as her sisters were off on some over night history field trip for their class. Of course she wasn’t in that class so she was left by herself and the professor was out of town for a couple of days. 

She had quite the collection of things to do and wished someone was here to do it with her. She could call Robin but she knew she had gone to her cousins house and her other friends lived a few miles away. Boomer had even gone on the trip but was sending her photos every ten minutes. 

“Guess its just us tonight.” She looked to Octi who just stared at her with his button eye. 

A sound came from behind and she turned to see something hitting her window. She got closer and saw that a figure was there. She threw open the window and looked outside. Her eyes widening slightly as she saw who was hovering. 

“Butch?” She said questionably and he gave her a small wave. 

“Sup Blondie.” He smirked. 

Her signature giggle echoed. “What are you doing here?”

“Well since every one is gone on that stupid trip, I thought why not see what you’re up to” He shrugged. 

“Are you sure?” She looked behind her at the set up she had. “I don’t think my plans is something you would be up for.” 

He flew past her and she closed the window. “Don’t care, I am bored.” He took a spot on the floor in front of the blanket that was laid out and coated with products upon products. 

Bubbles walked over and sat on the other side looking at all the products. “I was just going to do a spa night time or what I like to call Bubbles Time.” She sighed. 

He shifted a little. “I can leave if you want, I just thought-”

“No!” She held up her hands and shook her head. “No you don’t have to go. My sisters don’t ever participate so its nice having someone here, even if you don’t wanna be pampered.” 

Butch picked up a bottle while Bubbles fasten her hair into two cute space buns. He popped open the cap and took a sniff. Coconut and pineapple filled his nose and he could tell Bubbles wasn’t as bubbly as usual. He didn’t want to slap the shit on his face but knowing that not even Blossom wanted to do this with her, he thought why not. 

“Im game. Whats first?” He asked.

She looked up at him with a blank stare. “Really?” Her face slightly turned almost like a cute puppy dog. 

“Sure why not. Your skin is probably hella smooth and its not like this shit is gonna hurt.” 

Her smile was blinding as nodded. She let out a high pitched squeal and soon her was pulled into a hug. “Thank you Butch! Thank you! Not even Boomie would do this with me, fucking meanie.” he whispered the last part and he was let go from the bone crushing hug. 

“Nah fuck Boomie.” he slightly cringed at the nickname but now he had blackmail against his baby bro. “This is Bubbs and Butch time.” 

She clapped her hands together and began preparing.

--

“So now this will open your pores and get the rest of all that dirt. Geez your pores are huge.” Bubbles said as she popped open the toner and spread it on the cotton pad.

“Rude.” Butch said but took the soaked cotton from her. He watched her apply it to her skin and copied her motions while looking in the mirror. His hair was pushed away from his face with a light purple hairband that had cat ears on it. “This shit kinda burns.”

“Don’t be a pussy.” 

“Damn Bubbs didn’t know you cussed often.” He held out his hand to accept the moisturizer from her. “Kinda bad ass.” 

She laughed at this. “Oh Blossy doesn’t like it and of course BC does. After all I am hard core.” She playfully shrugged. 

---

“And then she fucking blew me off to hang out with Mitch, can you believe that!” Butch complained. 

“I hate when she does that, always forgetting plans.” Bubbles sighed as she filed his nails and blew off the dust. 

He looked at his other hand examining the clean nails. “You don’t think I have to worry about him right?” 

She leaned over to look through her massive collection of nail polishes and pick a base coat and a dark green color and a pure black one. “Butch honey, he gay.” 

“I knew that.” He said quickly. He looked at the polish. “What about just clear?”

Bubbles looked at him and raised her brows. “You know its really punk and cool for guys to paint their nails, plus Buttercup thinks its hot but you didn’t here it from me.” She wagged her eyebrows and dangled the bottle in front of him. 

He snatched the black and shook it. “Paint me up Sugar.” 

--

“Aww I wish Boomie did something like that for me.” Bubbles cooed at the screen. 

“Sugar, they are just sitting on a gold course throwing grapes at each other.” He pointed out and she hit him with a pillow. “Watch the nails.” He lifted his hands. 

“I know its simple but Troy and Gabrielle are cute and hey, I’m a sucker for cute romance.” He was sure her eyes were full of stars at this point.  “Look they are dancing in the water!”

“How many times have you seen this?” 

“Twenty seven.” The oven in the kitchen dinged and she got up. “Cookies are done. You want milk too?”

“Hell ya.” 

She got up and walked away and he took out his phone. There was a message from Buttercup. 

Spice Babe: is she torturing you?

He held his phone up to snap a selfie of his cat ear hair band. 

Me: Nope but i look hot af now. Good luck keeping your paws off me. 

Spice Babe: lol sure btw this shit blows, be thankful youre not here

Me: sucks 2 be you but i got fresh cookies from bubbs

Spice Babe: Lucky bastard

The plate of cookies was set in front of him and he clicked his phone away as she paused the movie. 

“Buttercup having fun?”

“Nope but thats not my problem.” He grinned. “ So whats next?” he asked almost a bit too excitedly.  

Bubbles covered her mouth to finish chewing. “Well its getting late and I was gonna do a face mask and build a pillow fort.”

“oh.” He realized that it meant he should probably go. 

“Do you wanna make pillow forts and have a pillow fight? Oh and a sleep over!”

His eyes widened with a giant grin. “Fuck Yeah!” 

--

His neck almost popped as the pillow was slammed into his face and he had never seen the vicious look on her face before. Even with temporary tattoos and a sparkly face mask that smelt like berries, his was pink and strawberry scent, she was still scary. 

“Prepare to die!” She shouted as she raised a pillow over her head. 

“Oh shit.” He ducked and shot one back at her, hitting her in the stomach making her grunt. Her elbow knocked on the table and they watched as the homemade smoothies shook and almost spilled. 

Their eyes met and they busted out laughing before setting the pillows down. 

“Lets wash these off and then call it a night?” She said and he followed her to the bathroom. His feet were now inside bunny slippers that were a tad to small a she was rocking matching dog ones. 

He let out a yawn as she handed him a towel to dry his face and before long, they had shut off the lights and got into their pillow forts that were facing each other. 

“Thanks for hanging out with me. It means a lot.” She said and he looked at the ceiling. 

“I had fun. You’re pretty cool Sugar.” 

“I’m glad someone thinks so.” 

“Whats that mean?” He asked and he heard a small sigh. 

She held onto Octi and even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he had a frown on. 

“Most people just think of me as the cute girl, which is true but im more than that. Sometimes even kicking a monsters ass doesn’t prove that I am strong and mighty.”

“Listen I know for a fact you are cool and strong. I got my ass handed to me by you once or twice in our child hood. Most people think im just some meat head who can punch.” 

“I don’t think that.” She said and he believed her. “I think you are really talented at sports and just like to punch, nothing wrong with that. But you are also kind and sweet and I see how you make Buttercup feel and some meat head couldn’t do that.” 

He smirked to himself. “Thanks Bubbles.” 

“Any time.”

A comfortable silence filled the room before he spoke up. “I really appreciate how much you care about Boomer. Its hard growing up without any form of love and every time he comes home, his smile is real and I know its because of you.”

Bubbles hugged Octi closer as a blush formed on her face after she sent Boomer a good night text. “He just makes me really happy.” 

“Thats good. But I am gonna kick his ass for not taking you on cute dates because my homie deserves is.” 

“Omg Butch are we bffs?”

“For sure.” And their shared laughter faded off as sleep took over.  

--

The morning came fast and the pair quickly cleaned everything up before homemade pancakes were eaten. 

“This shit is amazing Bubbs.” Butch finished his plate. 

“Aww thanks. Oh looks like everyone should be back in an hour.” 

He stood and took the plate to the sink. “Well I’ll get going because I don’t need Blossom on my ass about any of this.” 

“I can handle her don’t worry.” She winked and soon she was alone finishing up her pancakes with a smile.

--

The front door opened and Brick and Boomer came walking in. Brick slammed his body on the couch and went straight to sleep while Boomer went to the kitchen where Butch was making a grilled cheese. 

“I can’t believe you had a sleep over with my girlfriend.”

“Hi to you too. And chill we are just besties.” He winked. “Kinda lame that you never do any of this stuff with her.” He picked up the finished meal and bit into it before shaking his head at him. “Ya know, shes pretty cool and all she wants is to pamper and watch high school musical.”

“But you hate those things.” 

Butch shrugged. “Yeah but my new bestie doesn’t and I support queens.” 

Boomer gave him a weird look. “What did she do to you?”

He flipped him off, showing off his nails. “By the way she wants cuter dates. If you are going to simp then do it right Boomie.” He mocked before grabbing his plate. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Sugar and I are going to the mall fuck face.” 

Boomer frowned as he took all the food. “Hey don’t call her that!” 

“See ya later simp.” 

---

hope you liked :) 

[marveldc-imagines-hub]

That’s Not a Real Kiss (Telltale John Doe x Reader)

A/N: Here’s a thing nobody asked for that I’ve had on my mind literally since I created this blog. I love soft John Doe and just want him to be happy because Harley’s abusive and Bruce is a jackass; you’re welcome.

My take on the Telltale Harley Quinn/Joker dynamic is that it’s essentially a switcheroo on the regular representation of the couple, with John Doe being the unstable but more or less well-meaning pushover and Harley being the manipulative, abusive mastermind. With a side of Bruce also being kind of a dumpster fire of a character, in my opinion. I just mention this because I recently realized that this apparently isn’t the most popular take on Telltale’s Joker and a good portion of people still think he’s the main mastermind and has Harley wrapped around his finger. To each their own.

Word count: 1999 (2001 before editing; longer than what I usually write, woo)

Summary: You’ve been close friends with John for a while now, but have grown tired of his blind affections for people didn’t seem to think nearly as highly of him. During another late night of listening to him fawn over Harley and Bruce, you end up deciding to confront him--and corner yourself into confessing your own feelings for him in the process.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse (nothing too graphic), a bit of a cliffhanger? (I might make a sequel if people are interested); I started this months ago and just continued/finished it at three am this morning, so while I did edit it and al that jazz, there may still be the occasional grammar error and choppy writing. That being said, I did also try to write it in a way that felt lengthy and breathless and jumpy? I guess? In hopes of portraying how the reader was feeling and the way their brain was buzzing out of nervousness. Lemme know how I did.

Like what I do? Leave me a tip!

~~~~~

You sat crouched against the wall of John Doe’s scrappy home within the warehouse hideout of the criminal group he’d decided to attach himself to, a scowl etched into your features as you watched him flamboyantly pace around. Seeing him so happy would normally make you happy too, and if he wasn’t talking about the two most manipulative people in his life like they were gods, you would have been. Unfortunately, though, Harley and Bruce were the ones bringing that adorable grin to his face, so you sat unenthusiastically nursing the drink John had provided and stewing in a mental pool of God, I wish that were me.

Then, against your better judgement, you decided to do something about it.

“Hey, Johnny.” You placed your drink down with a hard clink against the concrete floor and glanced up at the man, who had stopped his affectionate rambling with an embarrassed grin; god, you loved that grin. Most people found it unnerving, saying that paired with his paper pale skin it made John look like the living dead--or a clown if they were a crackhead. You, however, found it fitting for him, a strangely cute smile for a strangely cute man. You just wished you were the cause of it more often.

You also wished that what you were going to say wouldn’t result in an argument but you knew it probably would anyway. Shaking aside your butterfly-stirring thoughts and grumbling--partially in case Harley or her criminal buddies were still wandering around the warehouse at this hour, mainly because you’d almost immediately lost all the confidence you had about five seconds ago--you repeated, “Hey, Johnny--”

“Hey, [Y/N/N],” John chirped back, relaxing enough to take a seat on an overturned crate across from you. Curiosity and a bit of confusion sparkled in his green-gray eyes, and his head was tilted slightly to the side. He looked like a puppy; a sweet, dorky, green-haired, white-skinned, horribly lost puppy. One of those pretty soft eyes was still purple-black and partially swollen shut, a punishment from Harley Quinn herself after John had gotten a little too excited and caused a mission earlier today to turn sour. Better than getting a bullet through the eye instead, though that thought didn’t make you feel much better about it.

Still, he smiled, shining like a ray of sun in the dark chaos that was Gotham these days. Still, he fawned over Harley and treated her like a queen. 

The idea of it made you want to hurl. You could almost feel the frown lines etching themselves into your skin. 

“Why do you like either of them?” you blurted, louder than you had meant to and apparently cutting John off from speaking at the same time; his lips had parted and one of his hands had risen just as words were pouring from your own mouth.

John’s response was a blink, then a chuckle, then that rubbing of the back of his neck that he did when he was flustered. He’d blush if he could, but he couldn’t so he started talking instead. “Well, as I was saying--”

You winced at the slow way he’d said ‘saying,’ like he was annoyed that you’d prevented him from continuing his love-struck rant about a couple of bullies. “You know what I mean, John. I don’t want you to go off on another tangent. We’ve talked about this before.”

It’s true. Despite your unwillingness, this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten enough courage to call John out on his self-destructive bullshit. You’d initially joined The Pact because you had had nowhere else to go at the time, a Gotham newbie with no money but with an attitude and a penchant for eavesdropping and minor pickpocketing--the key was to return the wallet from the person you’d taken it from, acting like they’d dropped it during you bumping into them; everyone in Gotham was too busy to check if anything was missing right then, and you were bland enough in appearance to have basically disappeared and been forgotten by the time they’d noticed. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you might even be mistaken for a homeless ragamuffin and given more money than what you stole from a particularly sympathetic victim.

By the time you’d impressed Harley enough to join her squad of crazy, saving you from sleeping at bus stops and bathing in sinks at gas stations, John Doe was showing up with his friend. His friend Bruce Wayne, AKA Batman--it wasn’t difficult to figure out who the man behind the mask was, if you were really looking; the fact was that no one in Gotham really wanted to ruin the illusion--who you soon realized wasn’t really a friend at all. Like Harley, Bruce used John as pawn at every turn, and you, who had made friends with the lively man pretty easily, couldn’t stand it; you’d quickly learned that John was brilliantly clever, entertaining, had a very intriguing set of gray morals, and was almost completely unaware of the poor treatment he was receiving. After a few weeks of enduring the irritation of watching two mightier-than-thou Gothamites treating your friend like a doormat with the intelligence of a box of rocks, and in some cases saving him from and nursing him back to health after suffering Harley’s wrath, you decided to put on your adult pants and deal with the problem head on: showing John what he was avoiding seeing and hoping to whatever being of high power that he believed you.

At some point among the many high-energy, zany moments you’d experienced with John, but more likely during one of the few gentler, more caring ones, you had caught feelings for the bizarre but lovely man. This realization had you further searching for shooting stars, tossing pennies into fountains, praying, doing whatever else you thought may help every time you every time you considered talking with him about his toxic loved ones. Silently begging that he wouldn’t get so upset with you that he’d decide to completely cut ties with you, or worse--tell Harley what you’d been trying to do, most likely resulting in your corpse being thrown off a Gotham pier. 

Now John sat across from you, his long-fingered hands fiddling with each other and his purple-shoed foot tapping and his pale gaze shifting to look anywhere but at you as he considered what to say. You could almost see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to explain his love for an abuser and a manipulator without losing the one person who never seemed to grow tired of him.

“[Y/N],” he finally drawled, hesitant, then with a chuckle, “I know you don’t like them but they’re great guys, really; you just need to give them a chance. Harls? She can be real sweet, as long as you stay on her good side and do what she says. And Bruce! Sure, he’s a little grumbly around the edges but--”

“John,” you cried softly, desperately, and rose to your feet. In a few steps you were right in front of him, kneeling and gently pressing a hand to the side of his face that was still bruised. Your face was twisted in pain, none felt for yourself, as you brushed a hand over the surprisingly cool but still puffy skin under his black eye; you looked directly into it, a half moon of silvery green almost hidden by purple flesh, as you continued, “Bruce is a rich boy with a hero complex doing whatever he needs to do and screwing over people he doesn’t think matters in order to finish a mission. Harley Quinn is a menace. She would have smashed your head in if I hadn’t distracted her with new mission plans; that wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago! The bruises from her almost strangling you because you went out to the carnival with me without telling her are just now beginning to fade. I didn’t get a punishment like that, and you know why? Because she thinks I’m useful and she thinks you’re a toy that she can play with and then throw away whenever she wants. She knows you worship the ground she walks on, but I’ve seen you noticing that you don’t deserve the treatment she’s dealing out. People who love you don’t treat you like that, John. Bruce and Harley don’t care about you. They don’t love you. They’re not even your friends.”

Emotionally exhausted and scared that you had crossed a line you shouldn’t have, you ended your speech with a slow breath. You took a moment to look away, shake off the feeling of your eyes burning. You only looked back at John when you felt his cold hand on yours, felt his face lean into your warm palm.

The green-ette who was all limbs and jawline--he looked more like a deer in headlights than a curious puppy now--was watching you, his eyes wide and conflicted. He seemed to be struggling to say something again; you could feel his hands quivering and see him chewing the inside of his cheek in thought. Then he blinked, pressed his cheek more securely into your hand, and asked in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard him use, “Do you?”

You grew more flustered and confused the longer the moment stretched on, and it was your turn to tilt your head slightly. “Do I…?”

“You said they don’t love me,” John clarified, and you felt your mouth go dry. “You said people who love me don’t treat me like that. You’ve never treated me like that.” 

Attempting to bring moisture back to your mouth in order to protest, to deny the truths John was claiming, only resulted in what you assumed was pretty unattractive grumble and cough. Not that you thought John would care; you knew he wouldn’t. You did, however, realize that talking was futile, so you took a moment to think of the next best thing. Just as John began to start a new thought again, just as doubt began to blossom in his eyes, you decided to throw all caution to the wind and kiss him.

A small kiss. A very slight brush of the lips. And not on his lips, but right in the center of his forehead.

There was a moment of silence, another excruciatingly long one that briefly made you feel like you were having a heart attack, until you felt the brush of eyelashes on your jaw when John blinked once again.

“That’s not a real kiss.”

You could help bark a short laugh at the pouty tone your friend’s--friend?--voice had. You began to sit back on your heels, apologizing more about the fact that you had kissed John at all than because he’d considered the kiss ‘fake.’ Before you could pull away fully, however, you felt chilly hands make their way from your arm to your shoulder, then to your neck and jaw, pulling you closer. You hadn’t noticed that you had closed your eyes until you opened them again, and then inhaled sharply. You saw the look on John’s face, something new and breathtaking and lacking any of the sadness or doubt that was usually there lately, and smelled a faint cologne all around you--did he always wear that?--and finally felt his breath on your lips when he spoke again. 

“It’s okay,” he said, responding to your apology. Pulling you ever closer--you could brush noses and lips now, and even though you felt your eyes flutter shut again but could still see that face behind your lids--he continued, “I’ll do it.”

You weren’t sure, as John’s lips met yours, where this kiss would take you or where the man’s thoughts were at. All you did know was that your doubts of having a chance with John flew right out the window at you leaned into his touch, and that if Harley wanted a fight for him, you’d give her a war.

[thegreenfairy13]

No Country For Heroes (5)

Originally a drabble written for the prompt ‘beg’ by @justsimplymeagain ,this escalated into a full story. You can read it here on Ao3.

Plot: The GCPD turns Jim Gordon in for their protection. Set during the No Man’s Land story arch.

Jim doesn’t want to let Oswald into his head again. It hurts, hurts so bad like nothing ever did before. His head is on flames or feels like being sliced into tiny pieces by the Penguin’s beloved switchblades. It doesn’t matter anymore if he’s down in the basement, strapped to a chair and machinery he doesn’t even begin to understand, or locked in his tiny room.

His nose bleeds practically 24/7 at this point, and he has trouble walking due to his blurry vision. The kingpin’s brawny henchmen have to carry him down the halls and back again, else Jim merely stumbles aimlessly around. He wants it to stop, wants to sleep. Only when he sleeps, the pain becomes tolerable. That is until he wakes, soaked in sweat, screaming at the top of his lungs.

And Oswald always seems to be around, seems to monitor each and every little move, every gasp, every breath. He’s at his peripheral vision, before him, beside him, whispering into his ear until Jim can’t listen to his voice any longer. He doesn’t understand the words, mostly, but this sizzling, soothing, whirring noise - it never stops.

He doesn’t cave though, not yet. He has been through similar treatments before, broke free from Tetch’s hypnosis, withstood his virus longer than most, fought against Crane’s gas, coming out on top.

This is no different, Jim keeps telling himself, straightens his shoulders as much as he still can, and tries forcing his legs to cooperate instead of leaning heavily against the shoulders of men who’d merrily slit his throat at a motion of Oswald’s hand.

The Penguin is already there, standing in the corner, partially covered by dark shadows, partially accentuated by light. It’s not even bright, probably nothing more than a measly lamp, but it hurts Jim’s eyes.

The figure approaches, rubbing a weary hand over his face. The corner of Oswald’s mouth twitches as he limps slowly across the floor. There’s a tremble in his leg and Jim wonders if that’s his doing, the gunshot wound. He straightens up more with each careful step he takes until the awkward gait is hardly perceivable.

Face hardening into an unreadable mask, he waits for his underlings to fixate Jim once more. He’s so close during the entire procedure the cop can feel his warmth, soaks it up in his miserable state, for it’s the only comfort he’ll get in the next hours. Jim leans back against the chair, tries to find a somewhat comfortable position before he’s inevitably unable to move.

His head drops heavily against Oswald’s shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he inhales the man’s cologne,  a blur of incense and citrus, that effectively blocks the smell of cold, acidic sweat and blood, takes him back to the only vacation he ever allowed himself, right after leaving the army. Like everything in his life, even that ended in heartbreak.

He rests like that for a moment. For whatever insane reason, he doesn’t shy away from Oswald’s touch in absolute disgust, not like he does when his henchmen manhandle him.

Maybe it’s because they have known each for other years, maybe it’s because Oswald is the only one left showing him glimpses of compassion. He feels remotely safe for the time being. Long, spider-like fingers comb gently through his hair, easing the tension in his skull.

He groans, undignified, when Oswald hugs him slightly from behind, and he wants to ask him to stop, not to flip the switch, to untie him, please, but his tongue is so heavy in his mouth.

“Why me?” he manages to ask when the other man lets go of him. Jim gets it, he really does, if that is what they did to him in Arkham, he deserves to go through the same treatment. What he doesn’t get though is why Oswald wants him. He never showed the mobster much affection, kept pushing him as forcefully, as decidedly, away as possible.

What never can be, must not be.

Yes, there were times in which they worked together, killed together, in which the attraction was almost magnetic. He always felt a bit protective of Oswald, he had something fragile about him that never failed to tug at Jim’s inner machinations, pushed him to risk his life for the criminal, even if he hated himself for it, for feeling that way about a remorseless murderer. It made him bend his morals, give up on them at times in change for the fascination.

He sometimes fantasized, when they were standing too close again, breath mingling, only a hair’s breadth from either kissing or slitting each other’s throats, and sometimes Jim wanted…

And then the fantasy would dissipate, Jim would remember why he couldn’t, wouldn’t, what the other man had done, what he would be willing to do in the future, what he’s currently doing to him.

“Why me?” he manages to croak out again when Oswald turns to put the torture-device into action again, hand already reaching for the handle. Jim thinks he drags out the moment longer every time, probably enjoying his pain more with each day passing by.

The gangster’s arm stills mid-air, his entire body tenses as he stops. Oswald doesn’t turn around, lowers his hand, takes a step forward, raises his arm again. There’s a hitch to his voice once he speaks again. “Because I can,” he replies.

“But why? Why me?” Jim urges frantically. He takes his chance as long he’s coherent enough to form a sentence. For sure a crush from years ago doesn’t justify such actions, right?

Oswald hesitates. Jim sees it in the slight tremble running down his spine. He spins on his heels, eyes rimmed red, the black kajal slightly smudged. He bites his lower lip, studies Jim, really scrutinizes him, not just giving him a slight once over.

Jim has no idea what he looks like, in what state he’s in, can’t even guess it quick enough for the Penguin brings his expression under control too quickly. He’s back at his side, a tissue in hand. Softly, he wipes the over Jim’s face and it feels reassuring.  

Oswald sighs. “A friend once told me love is about sacrifice.” He hesitates, adjusts Jim’s rumpled clothing carefully. “I’ve been told I’m not capable of love,” he elaborates sharply, and the cop feels his cheeks heating up. He isn’t sure if Oswald is talking about him, whether he threw those words into his face, unthinkingly.

“That might be true,” the Penguin muses. “But I still want a friend…” He rearranges the ties, makes sure they don’t bite into the cop’s skin too forcefully. “And more,” he adds with a newfound determination, nodding his head slightly. “Gotham taught me to take what I need by force.” He punctuates his last word by pulling at the bindings again.

This time, they go back to Barbara. It seems like Oswald wants to be privy to all of Jim’s most important memories. Somehow, he’s present at the gallery when they first met, standing behind Barbara.

Jim was only there because the army handed out the tickets and Jim needed a day off - desperately.

It’s true, he has never been especially interested in art, can’t even pronounce the painter’s name, Gauguin, correctly, but the bright colors are a welcome contrast to the countless shades of yellow he became accustomed to over the last years, so different from the desperation he felt so intensely he already believed it to be a part of his being.

And then there’s Barbara. She is nothing like those dull colors in Afghanistan, all sophisticated beauty, and when she talks about those paintings paling in comparison to her, Jim finds himself infected with her zeal, listens to this enigmatic woman who has never been deprived of food or shelter in her life before, and decides he would never want it any other way.

If he could, he would shield her from all evil, protect her innocence at all cost.

Everyone thinks he’s after her for her money. Jim enjoys every second he spends in her company, soaking up her knowledge and passion.

He gets down on his knees and promises to protect her forever. Can’t give her money but will gladly sacrifice his life for her.

She gets bored with his desire to be a hero, with his long hours spent at the precinct.

Barbara breaks his heart when she cheats on him.

She loves an idea of him that has nothing to do with reality.  

He’d still rather die than see her suffer.

One day, she’s gone, abducted, and Jim almost tears the city apart to get her back home, safe and sound.

When he finds her, she’s not dead. It’s worse. She’s merely a shell of the woman she used to be. A corpse wearing Barbara’s face.

She slips through his fingers, falls to the ground, shattering into thousands of pieces.

Later, Jim will mask the shame and the guilt with nastiness, will push her away, disgusted with his own inability to protect her as he promised. It hasn’t been a lighthearted vow, despite what everyone thinks.

Oswald smiles when her skull cracks, probes her lifeless body with the tip of his shoe.

“You’re not really good at keeping your loved-ones safe, eh?” he states, painting stars onto the pavement with her blood.

“Lee and Barbar lost their mind, your daughter her life.”

He shakes Jim’s shoulder, rocks him back to reality. He seems smug, satisfied with himself.

“That’s enough for today,” he declares, and Jim has a hard time differing the then from now.

The feelings Oswald procured from his mind are so fresh Jim wouldn’t know what to do should Barbara walk through the door, the love he once felt again as palpable as it had been on the first day.

He clings to the thought that none of that is real, that it’s just memories and cheap tricks.

Oswald embraces him again, cradles his face against his chest, and waits for Jim’s tears to subside. He hasn’t even noted until now how he’s bawling like a baby.

“It’s alright,” he coos. “It’s alright,” he repeats, cradling Jim’s body in his arms. The cop pulls at his bindings, desperate to return the embrace. He meant it when he said he wanted a family - so much. And every time he had the chance, it crumbled before his eyes.

There’s only Oswald left now. He sobs wet hot tears into expensive tailoring, waiting for the pain to subside. Every bit of light is too much for his burning eyes, the streaks drying on his cheeks set his skin aflame, and the guilt is wrenching his heart out.

“She isn’t what you really wanted. Wasn’t good for you,” Oswald says then and Jim soaks up the consolation gratefully, greedily. “I’ll show you what you really want,” the Penguin mumbles and Jim agrees, is willing to see everything if the pain just subsides for a while.

[we-live-in-a--society]

La Persistencia de la Memoria

Aunt Rosmertha used to say that females are the creations of Satan, full of sin, and meant to be reprobated, something that Beverly was never able to fully understand as a child, but it has surely changed when she reached the puberty. If someone asked her to describe puberty in one word, in her case, she would say ‘bizarre’, or even simpler – ‘lustful’. Yes, puberty is definitely lustful, she thinks as the water is running down her back, leaving traces of foam on its way, the foam that is just about to rinse. Who is she even trying to fool? Of course she has noticed how handsome Richard is. She sees the way women look at him, the way he can easily attract them. Although it does not change the fact that in most of those cases, they will not make the first move, in his case it takes very little effort to succeed, since usually just a mere proposition is enough for him to get what he wants. And she hates it, even though she knows he is a man who has his own needs, but she simply cannot stand the thought that when she is out, he may bring a woman here and fuck her in the living room or wherever else. But the truth is that no matter what he performs with them, he has been in love with one and only woman for last nineteen years. And this woman is not her. And she hates it. On the top of that she knows he is waiting for her, and on the top of that top he knows that she knows that he knows. Twisted shit, as her friend Tammy might say, but Tammy is a slut, another fucking whore who pays her visits just in hope to fuck Richard. F U C K   R I C H A R D Painted in Tammy’s blood on the shower glass door, her hand helplessly tossed over toilet seat threating to dive into the filthy water. F U C K   R I C H A R D Her mind screams. It screams in vain, so loudly that she almost collapses on the floor. Although she does not fall, the dull thud causes her to cautiously slide on the wet, pearly surface. She whimpers almost like a wounded animal, her vision blank, her body numb, and then it all snaps, the inability is gone, and so she gets up, supporting her weight on the tap, the new idea still fresh in her head. Oh, she is so going to regret that. Or maybe not. * * * He watches as the cigarette smoke curls in the air, the shape oddly reminding him of that night in 1967, the Summer of Love, as some people like to call it, the most memorable experience he ever had, the night when he turned from a lost puppy boy to a rugged man. He remembers the campfire, the way that warm fire created reflections on her face and how it emphasized the small mark on her top lip. She laughed at his jokes, her head lulling slightly to the side, mind drowsy because of the joint they had just finished. He shivers at the thought, then smiles to himself as he rakes his fingers through longish hair, slicking them back. Then she was gone, all too soon and he never got enough of her but he doesn’t think he would ever be able to. He was lucky to spend those two years with her anyway, and although she is gone now, she has not left him all to himself. Actually she left a pretty significant, yet troublemaking trace who is probably in the middle of taking a shower upstairs as he is smoking alone in the dark room, the habit he picked up after Debbie’s death and still, after seventeen years, cannot fully get rid of. Or maybe he does not want to. Maybe it just helps him to recreate this memory in his head over and over again, the anchor that keeps him connected to the reality, that helps him not to lose his mind completely. Especially while Bevy is taking a shower upstairs. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself, a single word that holds all his pent-up frustrations, both sexual and emotional. Probably mostly sexual in this case, but it actually depends on how he perceives it at the certain moment. And yet there remains a question he still is not able to answer. Does he love Bevy? Probably in his own twisted way, he does, but what does it even matter if his love will cause her more harm the benefits? Why do we crave for things we cannot have? Despite his slightly shaken-up state, he waits for her patiently, tapping his cigarette, smoked almost to the filter, on the ashtray to get rid of the excess dust that may leave stains on the sofa, as if it all matters at the end. “I told you not to smoke in the room,” she speaks, her voice reaches his ears before he can see her. “And I told you to stop lurking in the shadows,” he rasps, settling the cigarette aside. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day.” “Seems like we can’t live up to our expectations, can we?” She teases, her head tipped to the side slightly. As she speaks, he steals a glance at her figure and frowns, emphasizing those two thin lines between his eyebrows. She has tied her hair in a messy bun, and Debbie never did that. “I like when you have your hair down.” “You like many things,” she rolls her eyes, but lets her hair down anyway, damp curls spilling down her back like a curtain. She knows he has been thinking about her again, and the thought alone makes her sick. She hates her deep down, but will never admit it to herself. She hates that he loves Deborah more than he loves her. She hates that when he looks at her, he sees Deborah. She hates that she has to pretend it does not hurt to be called Deborah sometimes, even if by mistake. And how she hates Deborah herself. But the truth is that she just wants to please him. She flops down on the sofa, sitting cross-legged beside him, his own T-shirt riding up her thighs, exposing the crescent-shaped scar that marks her skin there. His hands itch to touch her. What if he just ran his hand up her thigh? How would she respond to the caress? Would she shiver, or would she grasp his hand and- “You know I’m not her, right?” She murmurs faintly, her voice rocking through the silence like his grandma’s wooden chair, over and over, tunes fading within the split second, although it seems like an eternity for him. “Don’t-“ “Of course,” she rolls her eyes, getting up from a coach, his hands trying to grasp her, but miss her by mere inches, as she ducks to the side. “I’m sorry I forgot how much you enjoy cutting this off anytime I start over. You know what? I don’t think you’ve ever loved me as Beverly. I think the only person you consider me to be is Deborah! Tell me why you love her so much. Tell me what she had that I don’t have!” In a fit of anger, she pushes him surprisingly vigorously considering the fact she is almost a head shorter than him and a way weaker. “C’mon, tell me!” She yells, her voice cracking at the end, and suddenly, completely out of blue, she slaps him hard across his face, causing his glasses to skew on his nose. His eyes widen in shock, cheek stinging as he raises his hand to touch it, quickly fixing his glasses as he goes. She knows perfectly that she has overstepped her boundaries by this point, that slapping him is the least reasonable thing she could do, and he will probably punish her for that in his favorite way possible, by giving her a silent treatment, but it is too late to withdraw anyway. “Answer me!” She practically cries out, trying to hit him again, but this time he grasps her by the wrist, pushing her firmly until her back hits the wall with a little bit too much force. “You want me to treat you like an adult? Then fucking act like one,” he hisses through gritted teeth, looking at her intently for a few seconds, the vein on his forehead visibly poking, and again, she does the least reasonable thing she could possibly do under these circumstances. She kisses him. She kisses him in the feat of anger, of passion, biting and bruising, until she gasps for breath, and yet he does not respond, star-struck by the whole act. She catches him out of the guard completely, and for a moment he thinks that he is in some sort of weird hellish heaven where his daughter, the object of his uncontrollable lust for almost two years, finally fulfills his darkest desires. He knows that he should stop, that he should gently turn her down, but he cannot, he cannot, and it has been too long since he felt something, and since everyone deserves at least a little bit of relief from time to time… he kisses her back. He kisses her back, claiming her lips possessively, as he pushes her dainty body up against the wall, his newfound vigor making her mind dizzy and body light. He is very much aware of the fact that he has to break away, even if only for breath, but he knows neither of them will be able to carry on afterwards, and yet he does it either way. She looks into his eyes, usually cold and calm, but not this time. This time his gaze is hot, almost unbearable, and she has to fight the urge to look away, as he eyes her almost as if he was a predator and she was his prey. And his lips, they are so deliciously swollen which surely does not get past her attention, as she forces herself not to touch them, since he does not look like a man who would enjoy this particular caress. Suddenly something within him snaps, and he lets her go abruptly, but she does not even bother to check how much he has bruised her wrists. Instead she watches him leave the room, without a single word, angry footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. The next sound that pricks her ears is the rapid slam of his bedroom door, her body sliding down to the floor limply, back supported by the wall. This is going to be a long night. * * * The sound of bedroom door slamming shut vibrates in the air, breaking the peacefulness of the night like an abrupt hurricane, a hurricane that you know might come one day, like a catastrophe that has been hanging over you for such a long time that you even forget it has ever existed at all. In his case the hurricane caries one name only – Beverly. He cannot recall if he has ever been this shaken-up after Debbie’s death, and for a split second he thinks that the sexual aspect of the frustration makes it even worse, but he quickly pushes it away. Nothing marked him more than Debbie’s death. Before his mind manages to come up with anything else, he pushes the door to his adjoining bathroom, switching on the fluorescent light as he goes, (why did he even picked up this color?) and eyes himself in the mirror. First his gaze lands on the angry red handprint that marks his cheek, hissing as his fingers slip past it. Fuck, she really hit him hard. Then he flicks his tongue over his still swollen lips, secretly wondering if her taste is still present there, gasping when indeed, he discovers a hint of her cherry-flavored chapstick upon them. Well, if he was not hard before, he certainly is now. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath, raking his fingers through his messed up hair, another one of his nervous habits that he has developed over the years. Oh, how he would use a drink right now. * * * The first thing she experiences in the morning is a soft, yet disturbing. ticklish-like feeling that slowly brings her back to senses, sunlight caressing her freckled skin. She yawns and stretches her limbs, then drowsily gets up from the coach, making her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee that Richard probably left for her on the countertop. She is practically sure that he has gone out somewhere and will not be back until late, which is a habit of his, avoiding her after every argument that is linked with Deborah, until she cannot take it and practically begs him for forgiveness. But not this time, she thinks as she examines the bruised wrists. This time the tables have turned. * * * She giggles again in that girlish way he especially hates, probably because she thinks that if she laughs at all of his jokes, she will get laid properly, by a man, not a boy. He is presumably twice her age anyway, she does not look like she is old enough to buy her own drinks or even go to college. As if it all matters at the end… Also, Bevy never laughs in such a silly way, but at the moment he is too drunk to even care. Partly he suspects that he is getting too old for this, but he is a way more than casually tipsy and the only thing that is occupying his mind is to just fuck this oh-so-willing blonde and hope not to catch any STDs. As if it all matters at the end… He looks her up again, this time paying less attention to the acne scars on her cleavage and now he notices she could certainly lose five or seven pounds. Well, at least her tits are nice, or maybe it is just the push up bra, maybe they will turn out to be saggy in the end. Oh how he wishes he could be with Bevy instead. “How about we go to your place?” She purrs, trying to sound seductively, but the only response she gets from him is a barked-out laugh, clearly not the sign of a long pent-up desire. “No Marla-” “Lesley.” “I don’t give a fuck about your name, sweetheart,” he huffs, clearly becoming annoyed with the girl and her needy acts. “If you want a man to fuck you that bad, we can pay a visit to the nearby toilet, or you can go back to your parents, the choice is yours.” “I-” she stutters, out of words before she even starts. “Listen, I don’t care about your needy, winey bullshit-” (I only care about Bevy’s needy, winey bullshit.) “You fucking prick!” She cries, the squeaky sound attracting attention of a few people sitting in a bar. Before he gets a chance to respond, she throws her drink in his face, eliciting a gasp of shock from him. “Fucking bitch,” he mutters under his breath, before he gulps the rest of his whiskey, quickly strolling out of the pub and back home. Back to Bevy. * * * She almost falls from the coach when the front door abruptly slams shut, the sound that is soon followed by heavy, draggy footsteps that creep closer and closer to the living room, until she sees him, leaning by the doorway, probably because he is unable to stand on his own, hair tousled, eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, looking directly at her until she cannot take it anymore. “Richard?” She almost whispers, faintly, cautiously, since she has no idea what his next move might be, especially now. “C’mere,” he murmurs groggily, offering his free hand for her, but she knows it is not the best idea to trust his sense of balance under these circumstances. “What?” She asked, her voice coming out as surprisingly scared and quiet. “I said c’mere,” he growls, clearly close to losing that little of patience, that little of self-control he still maintains, which is probably the last thing she wants to experience right now. “How much have you drunk?” She asks, as she crosses the room until she stands face to face with him, looking up into his eyes. “I’m not drunk,” he refuses, shaking his head and almost losing his poor balance in process, but she manages to somehow grasp his forearms, hoping that it will be enough to keep him upright, since she knows there are fat chances she would be able to lift him from the floor. “How about you lay down then, huh?” She raises her eyebrows, deciding not to argue with him on this point and at the same time hoping to convince him, since babysitting Richard is the last things she is in the mood for performing. “Only if you lay down with me,” he says seemingly out of nowhere, and yet it should not surprise her, since his current state of intoxication can be only described as ‘fucking wasted’. “Fine,” she agrees after a few seconds, wanting to avoid any possible discussions at this point. Plus she will leave him there all to himself anyway, so what is the problem? Who is she even trying to fool? However and despite anything she mentioned before, she gently grasps his hand, leading him to his bedroom, where she tells him to get ready for bed, well at least do as much as he is capable of, leaving him to complete those bunch of tasks in the bathroom. Within those four minutes, she hears a few wizzes, quieter clatters joined by a few angry ‘fucks’, and a particular loud crash followed by a long and rather interesting string of curses, until finally, he comes out of the bathroom dressed only in his underwear. Although he always sleeps like this, without any T-shirt or pants, her breath hitches as soon as she sees him like this, the lack of clothing certainly does not leave much to the imagination, her gaze raking over the newly exposed skin, two inked ravens marking the flesh just below his left collarbone. She often dwells on the story held by the tattoo. Meanwhile she hears her heart thumping inside her ears, stomach doing somersaults, eyes closing for a second which is supposed to help her relax, but instead Richard choses that moment to pull her with him to the bed, almost making her scream as his long fingers wrap around her forearm. In all honesty, the fact that he remains almost speechless makes her anxious, it seems as if he is planning something and just waits until the right moment comes. Finally, as soon as they get under the covers, he speaks, the raspiness of his voice oddly soothing in her notion as it gently rakes through the silence. “I’m sorry baby,” he mutters, the pet name rolling out of his tongue surprisingly smoothly. “I-I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday. It was highly inappropriate and I’m so sorry… I-” Jesus, he really is drunk. Which may actually be an amazing opportunity to push Richard to perform something both of them would like, which, again, is just another lie. Why does she keep lying to herself? Living up to her expectations, she decides to drag this a little further, to play a little game, to see where this game may lead them. And oh, has she always loved games. “It’s fine,” she lies, hesitating for a moment before adding the rest of a sentence. “I did like it though.” “I know you did,” he purrs, pulling her a little bit closer to him with the arm wrapped around her waist. “You made it too obvious, Bevy.” While he is speaking, breath hot atop the tender skin of her neck, she feels her body heat up, both from the warmth of his body and newfound lust bubbling inside her. His scent hits her nostrils, the strangely appealing mixture of mostly alcohol, cigarettes, his cologne, and sweat that makes her mind dizzy and her insides clench as it brushes her nose teasingly. He is railing her up on purpose and she loves to be railed up. “Tell me Bevy,” he whispers, his hand grazing her thigh, the unexpected coolness of his flesh, oddly comforting against her heated skin. “Have you ever been with a man?” “What?” She asks, her whole body cringing slightly at his question, the barely noticeable flex of her muscles that unfortunately does not seem to get past his attention, as the hand that was previously stroking her thigh, wraps around it in an almost possessive manner. “Have you, Bevy?” “If by asking that, you mean if I have ever had sex before, then the answer is no,” she answers properly now, her usual self-confidence back, but the hint of restraint and nervousness still present behind her slightly arrogant exterior. “What have you done then?” Fuck, she should have figured out he will dwell on the subject. “I’ve only kissed one before, excluding you,” she states as the furious blush dusts her freckled cheeks. “It was a long time ago.” “Well,” he starts, dragging the monosyllabic word slightly. “How about I show you something fun then?” Her breath hitch as soon as he makes the proposition, legs clenching involuntary to relieve the sudden ache that blossoms between her slim thighs. Did he really say that or is she just imagining things? She makes a mental note to just keep it cool and do not freak out. “Yes, please,” she agrees, absolutely entranced. “Good girl,” he murmurs, the smirk audible in his voice. As soon as these words slip past his lips, he pulls the covers down to expose their heated bodies, making her shiver as the cool air embraces the warm skin. He sits up, back supported by the headboard, fumbling with the buckle of his watch for a couple of seconds until it lets lose, lying it on the nightstand afterwards along with his glasses. She has always found it somehow fascinating to watch him complete those mundane tasks, such as shaving or tying a tie. He gestures for her to sit between his legs, which provides both of them enough space, the essential convenience for her and room for maneuver for him. She settles down, lying her head on his chest, the thumping of his heart audible in her ear, her ginger curls tickling his skin lightly. Despite his drunken state, he senses her nervousness, the way her body trembles slightly betrays her real emotions visibly enough, and the last feeling he wants her to associate with what he is about to do is fear. Therefore the first action he takes consists of something that may help her relax – a back massage, since it does the trick in most of the cases. But for some reason he wants her bare for that. “Take of your shirt,” he says and he knows it is convincing enough for her to complete the task, the control he holds over her is somehow exciting, and of course he is not mistaken on that one. With trembling hands she pulls the material over her head, her spine arching as she does so, hair spilling down her back like a thick curtain. Having brushed her hair to the side, he places his hands on her shoulders, fingers digging into her skin slightly as he squeezes the flesh, making her gasp in relief. His movements are pretty much gentle, which she finds kind of surprising since she expected something a little bit different, but under these circumstances she, indeed, prefers the tender massage. As the time passes, his hands slide more freely over her skin, moving all the way from her shoulders down to her waist, having Beverly squirm on his lap, the teasing touches not enough to ease her. He groans due to the friction her movements cause, and despite the earlier alcohol consumption, he feels himself harden within the tightness of his pants, the material applying uncomfortable pressure to the erection. To speed things up, he shifts his right hand to her breast, left arm looping around her waist to keep her from squirming too much, as he gently squeezes the flesh, pinching her nipple afterwards. She squeals as the sensation washes over her, trying to rub her thighs together for friction, but as soon as he notices this, he spreads her legs, using his calves to keep them open. At the moment he does not like the thought of her pleasuring herself. Not that he does not like it in general. “Richard,” she whines urgently, the hot ache between her legs constantly reminding about its existence, and at this point her main focus is to get him to finally touch her in a way she wants to be touched. As he keeps teasing her breasts, she cannot help but wonder how his touch will feel comparing to her own, probably different but how much? Will it be good or bad different? Will it hurt more than she expects? Will she simply enjoy it? The fact that she is so close to finally find out, only makes her more anxious and more desperate for answers. “Richard, please,” she whines again, this time grinding against his erection, making him groan deeply, his hand squeezing her breast harshly, the urge to grab onto something too strong to suppress. “What is it?” He teases, chuckling when she claws onto his forearm in frustration, long nails digging into his skin painfully, but he barely feels it, since the object of his current fascination is deeply beyond this. Right now he is wondering if he could make her cum just by touching her breasts. “It hurts, please. I-” Before she gets the chance to finish her plead, his left hand slips between her legs, easily covering up the whole area, fingers gliding over the wet material as he circles her clit. She shudders in his arms, her hips buckling instinctively for more friction, as he keeps stroking the swollen nub, until she whimpers his name in such a needy way that it makes him shiver, desire pooling low in the pit of his stomach. “How does it feel baby?” He asks, his fingers dipping just below the fabric, brushing her inner thighs as he does so. “Better than when you do it?” “Better,” she answer, her voice forming a breathy moan. “A way better.” “That’s what I wanted to hear,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, heady with lust. Lust for her. And she is burning. Everything is burning, and for the first time in her life burning feels so good, almost surreal, as she arches her back, lacing their fingers together, the urge to grab onto something impossible to ignore. But she needs more. And he will not give it to her until she begs him. “More, please,” she breaths, but instead of obeying, he keeps teasing her through the damp material, and within split second she realizes what is the case here, what is he subconsciously waiting for. “Daddy, please.” Satisfied with her answer, his hand slips past the waistband of her panties, groaning as the generous amount of wetness coats his fingers immediately, gaining a breathy sigh from her. If he is being honest with himself, he cannot recall if any girl he had since Debbie’s death has ever became this aroused just by such simple actions. Maybe it is just because of their virginity. “Fuck,” he groans, as his fingers reach her fluttering opening, unconsciously checking if she is wet enough “You’re soaked. You really needed this, didn’t you?” “I did,” she agrees, much to his delight, moaning softly as his finger presses against her entrance, sliding in afterwards. She gasps for breath as he stretches her, squeezing his free hand tighter, but instead of waiting for her to adjust, he begins to slowly move his finger, soon adding another one. Maybe it is just because he has grown sick of waiting. Also, he likes the way she responds to his caress. Her reactions, comparing to others, are very… organic, which he has always found more enjoyable, since he is sick of their artificial moans, exaggerated reactions, he is sick of false women in general. But who is not? “Richard…” she whines, her head lulling to the side slightly, hair tickling his chest. “Bevy…” he mimics her, fingers still moving inside her, making it hard to focus on what he is saying, but still, his voice gets to her perfectly, the way he says her name impossible to ignore, breathlessly, as if he was the one close to coming, not her. Oh how she wishes it could be this way… On the top of that, she feels impossibly dirty. Actually she has never felt so filthy in her entire life, and never been this wet, certainly not for her own father. If someone told her that she would be engaged in this particular situation with Richard, she would simply laugh, thinking that it is more likely that even Tammy would be here instead of her. But she is here, not Tammy. Not Deborah. She. While she is gloating over her own happiness, he is able to sense how close she is, the way she is squeezing his fingers is acknowledgeable enough, and all he wants right now is to make her come. Make Beverly come. He shudders when it crosses his mind. “C’mon baby,” he encourages her, voice low and raspy in her ear, laced with lust. “Cum for Daddy.” Well, that did it. She cries softly, digging her nails into his hand painfully once more this night, her dainty body shaking in his arms as he coaxes her through the aftershocks, withdrawing his fingers seconds later. He lets her rest on his chest for a minute or so, something he normally avoids, since he is afraid of creating an emotional bond, but this time he makes an exception for her since it is definitely not the case here. As soon as he removes his hand from between her legs, she slides the wet panties down her legs, wanting to avoid the unpleasant humidity, dropping them on the floor afterwards. Despite the slight weakness in her legs, she gets up, but in a matter of seconds he pulls her down to bed, making her squeal, then giggle in that girlish way he normally hates, but it surely does not apply to Bevy. It seems like many things do not apply to Bevy. * * * She is sitting on a stool, her back turned towards him, facing the wall, staring blankly at the small red spot there. “Seems like you’ve been doing great recently,” she speaks, her voice bitter, cutting through the silence like a set of knives, poking his ears with their tips. “It’s not how you think it is,” he tries, the reasoning poor even in his own perception. “Then why don’t you tell me how it is?” She asks, turning around on the stool to face him, with a mocking smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I don’t know,” he sighs, this time revealing the truth, because in all honesty, he has no idea what is he doing and that scares him. “You’re a broken man Richard.” “I am,” he laughs bitterly, the sound too harsh for his own ears. “She is just a teenager, and you only keep hurting her. All she wants is your love, and you can’t even give her this, without associating her with me. And she is a not me. She is not Deborah. She is Beverly. And she loves you more than anyone ever loved you.” “Doesn’t matter, the damage is done,” he denies, the bitter smirk still marking his face. “You haven’t changed at all,” she laughs, shaking her head. And her laugh is the pretties sound he has ever heard. “But I love her, Debbie. Don’t you see it?” “Why do you love her then?” She asks, the question lingering in the air for a couple of seconds, before he gives her the answer. “Because she’s my daughter.” This time her laugh is bitter. “I don’t think you are able to love someone unconditionally. You just love her because she reminds you of me. And nothing else.” “Maybe,” he shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been so selfish too.” “Said the most altruistic person,” she rolls her eyes mockingly. “Maybe,” he continues, “you shouldn’t have overdosed. And maybe you should take care of Beverly when there was time for that. I think it’s easy for you to judge me. You have no idea what does it mean to suffer, do you?” “And you? Do you know?” She asks for the last time, her words fading as the bright light swallows her. She has not changed at all, always leaving him unsettled. * * * He stirs underneath the warm covers, sunlight tickling his closed eyelids, forcing him to open them with a groan of disapproval. He sighs, snuggling into a source of warmth in front of him, morning wood painfully reminding of its existence, as he rolls onto his back, waiting until it goes away by itself. It usually does, but the presence of another warm body beside him seems to disturb the process for the tiniest bit. Well, maybe not the tiniest. He sighs, as he lights up the cigarette, another nasty habit he has – smoking just after he wakes up, especially when the dull ache drums against his temples. The well-known quiet crack of the lighter is all it takes to fulfill his little desire, the pain seems to abate as soon as the new portion of nicotine licks over his nerves. Addictions are nasty, the phrase that his mother kept telling him back when he was a child. He wonders what would she say, if she saw him right now with his naked daughter pressed to his side. He snorts at the thought, causing Beverly to twitch in her sleep, but never wake up. He must have worn her out last night, since she is certainly a light sleeper, and normally she would be up as soon as he moved to get the cigarette from the nightstand. Despite the distraction, (his carries one name only) his mind returns to the track opened by his previous thoughts with the misty vision of his mother, the woman he hates more than anyone else in the world. If he was a religious person, he would ask the Devil to bless her repulsive soul. The point is that he represents everything she hated, everything contrary to her moral values, everything that made her blood boil hot. He will never forget the way her eyes narrowed when she suspected he had lied to her, always disappointed, her expectation never to be fulfilled. When he was younger, he found her utterly dreadful, her figure always towering over him, judging the small boy from her point of view. And did she ever was a tall woman. Everything changed when he reached the puberty, the silent bale not so silent anymore. He became the man of the house, he held the control over his predator, he was the one to be afraid of. That was the time when he understood something, when he learned one of those very important lessons live gives you at some point. Everything is temporary. Fame, money, felicity. And authority. Authority is temporary too. One thought leads to another, so at some point his mind switches to the dream he had this night, to the visit Debbie paid him. Deep down he knows she is right, that he should stop before he will have to face the consequences of his actions, but he cannot neglect the second lesson he learned as a child. Enjoy as it lasts. Which is exactly what he is going to do. And what he is going to do is wake her up the way he used to wake Debbie, even though he feels it would be too selfish on his part, and too much for her at one take. But he has always been a selfish man. Without giving this a second thought, he sets the cigarette on the ashtray, watching the smoke, unquestionable cause of the greyish yellow color of his bedroom walls, for a split second, before he pulls the covers down, exposing her body to the daylight. This time he savors the chance to view it properly, eyes grazing the curve of her breasts with two eye-poking hard nipples. He brushes the right one absentmindedly with the pad of his index finger, eliciting no reaction from her. He hums in disapproval, then spreads her legs without drawing this any further, not intending to tease her this time. At least not now. He spreads her lips, tracing the slit with his thumb, smirking wickedly at the slight twitch of her legs. Still wet. He could get used to that. Then he hovers over her, giving her face one last look, eyelids closed, hair spilled over the pillow, before he resumes. At the beginning he is gentle, lips barely touching her, skimming past the hood of her clit, more like a suggestion than a stroke. The next one seems more demanding though, actually intending to wake her up this time, but she just flinches again, pushing her hips up a little bit this time, tapping the tip of his nose in process, but he does not bother to wipe it. It will not make any difference, considering what he is about to do. Also he likes the way she tastes. More zesty and tart than sweet – a personal preference of his. It wakes up something within him, something carnal and long forgotten, something he felt only with- Her rapid gasp cuts him off. “So you’re up now?” He teases, smirking at her puzzled expression. “Well, that’s very good, good for you actually.” “What are you doing?” She asks, propping herself on the elbows to get a better view of him. “What does it look like I’m doing?” “I don’t know,” she sighs, nibbling on her lip to suppress a smile. “But whatever it is, you can keep going.” “If you insist,” he raises his left eyebrow, the teasing smirk still playing upon his lips, but he doesn’t do anything. However, this time she decides to play along. After flashing him one last glance, she slips her hand between her already spread legs, swatting his face lightly as she goes, much to his surprise. She sighs when her fingers come across the wetness, just merely stroking her clit, waiting until he pushes her hand away and resumes, but he surprises her with a sharp nip on her inner thigh that makes her squeal, then stop. “Don’t be bratty,” he admonishes. “Or else you won’t get anything, is that clear?” “It is,” she rolls her eyes, lying her head on the pillow, eyes locked with the celling. “You have no idea how hard it makes me, knowing that I’m the first man who’s ever done this to you,” he admits, brushing the crease where her hip meet her thigh, smirking at the slight twitch of the muscle. “What?” She asks, pretty sure she has misheard him, but he simply ignores her question. Instead he sucks on her clit, gently, not wanting to overwhelm her at the very beginning. She gasps sharply, pushing her hips up to his face, the juices smearing on his chin, but again, he does not bother to wipe it, since it is not like he minds it at the certain moment. He watches with carnal fascination how she reacts to the caress, how her chest rises in time with the shallow breaths, how her hands twist in the sheets, how she bucks her hips, unconsciously trying to guide him where she needs it the most. She is indeed a slight for sore eyes. Or maybe just his eyes. Never in her entire life, not even yesterday, she has been so overwhelmed, balancing over edge, but still in the need for a push. She wants to speak, she even wants to beg him, but she cannot, her desperate plead getting stuck in her throat, the lump impossible to swallow. She can only hope he understands. And he does, actually. He smoothly pushes her over the edge, not intending to tease her this time, just as said. He smirks unwittingly at her surprised moan, her thighs squeezing his head in between them, caught in the heat of the moment. Not that he minds though. He coaxes her though the process with gentle licks until she tugs his head back, too sensitive to continue, and he obeys, not intending to turn the experience into something painful for her. He leaves her unbothered for a moment, giving her the opportunity to catch her breath, raising from the crouching position to take his previous spot beside her. He wipes the slickness covering the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand, licking the rest from his lips, humming pleasantly. It has been a while since he enjoyed it that much. Soon she rolls onto her side in search for more physical contact, but hisses as soon as her thighs rub together, raw because of his stubble. “Richard?” “Huh?” “You should have shaved.” * * * Demons of the past. They have been hunting him for quite a while now. He has been restless, reality has been warped, lost and all alone, scattered over space. Of course he could talk to someone, ask for advice, but deep down he knows he has to fight the adversity all by himself, otherwise it will not come out as efficient enough. And the demons will haunt him again. Because they always do, no matter how far he pushes them. Without escaping from the bane for once, he starts the motorcycle with the soft click that seems to be loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood, including Beverly unfortunately. No, it is impossible, don’t be ridiculous. Also he will be back before she wakes up, if everything lines up with the plan. And it rarely does when it comes to him. Despite his worries, he quickly drives off the porch, knocking off one of the randomly placed flowerpots in process, ceramics cracks and the soil scatters over the pavement. The first ride they had together was quite adventurous. They were young and irresponsible, but mostly they were just having fun, wicked and sinful fun, evading past the cars, racing with the wind. She screamed for him to slow down, an essential part of the play, but the truth is that she expected right the opposite which both of them knew. That was probably both the first and the last time when he was happy in his entire life, like truly joyful, no expectations, no restrictions, pure adrenaline seemed to substitute the blood in his veins. How he misses that day. He would give anything to experience that ride one more time, he would give anything to experience what the ride lead to. But it is all gone now, gone with the wind that blew his hair that day, gone with her laugh. Gone with her death. Despite those eighteen years that have passed since that day, he still remembers the way perfectly as it someone branded it with incandescent rod on the inside of his skull, so he could look at it every day, nonstop, until he loses his mind. Maybe the damage is already done. He turns on the almost forgotten path that leads to the woods, watching how the sunlight impales through the leaves, so similar yet so different than on that one summer day, but it is neither good nor bad, just different, because the times are changing. And most importantly, he is changing along. For the first time in his entire life he realizes, or more accurately – it hits him like a train, that it is okay to change, because change is the part of our lives. It may refer to self-development, the difference in our surroundings, or the difference in our perception. Either way, it leans neither to good nor bad. And he cannot grieve all his life, now can he? “Where are you Deborah?” he speaks to the trees, the words get swallowed by the woods, carried by the wind, somewhere far, far away. “I missed your bitter presence oh so terribly, and here I am. Your broken man has arrived to our humble especially per your request. Aren’t you happy?” “If you think it justifies what you’ve done, you’re terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong,” she answers from behind him, but he does not turn to face her this time, because the last thing he wants is to look into the eyes belonging to the cause of his eternal damnation. He cannot stand her endless accusations, her partial reasoning, her flawless features, flawless personality which used to be far from that back then. “Funny you should say that,” he snorts, “you fucking miserable junkie. I don’t remember you being so saint back in the days, well do I?” “You’re a fucking hypocrite Richard.” “Ouch,” he mocks. “That hurts. But it happens that I can’t disagree on that one, now can I?” “You tell me,” she raises her left eyebrow challengingly, even though he cannot see it. “Oh I certainly do,” he smirks, starring into the circle of charred soil. Seems like people still light campfires here. “I feel like you’re the only person with whom I can be completely honest.” “Is it a compliment?” “Take it however you want,” he shrugs, before resuming. “But still, you have to know one more thing. I don’t care about your opinion on this one anymore. I don’t need a guardian angel or something, since I’m capable of making terrible, life-wrecking choices on my own, thank you. Also, this is the last time we meet. I don’t want to see you ever again, am I making myself clear?” “It won’t work out Richard, and both of us are pretty much aware of that, I think. But I can dance to your tune for now,” she shrugs casually. “How does it work for you?” “It works for me perfectly,” he grins into the distance. “Glad we came to a mutual understanding, don’t we?” “Take it however you want.” * * * “Fuck,” she curses under her breath, her body sliding limply down the shower wall. “Seriously?” It seems like it is indeed, seriously. But right now? Nature is a bitch, the bitchest bitch of all the bitches. “Fuck,” she swears again, but this time she gets up from the floor, turning of the faucet as she goes. It cannot be worse, now can it? The truth is that it can always be worse, but she would rather forget the truth for now. Forgetting has always seemed like a reasonable thing to do. However, the blood stain on the bathroom floor pries her away from those thoughts, and she just sighs, combing her fingers through the damp strands. Sometimes it is funny how one thing can completely change everything. * * * Before his arrival, she had some time to clean up the bathroom, deal with her little problem, and even pace nervously through the living room. Things could not have been better. But when the door opens, she is there immediately, standing awkwardly in the hall, avoiding his glare like a guilty puppy. “How was the ride?” She asks, still staring blankly at the wall. She knows she should be more straightforward with him, since he will not mock her for sure, but sometimes the problem lies within us, not other people. “What kind of question is this?” He asks, the tone of his voice thwarting her attempts to appear as if everything was fine. “Don’t fuck with me, Bevy. Just tell me what’s wrong.” “The things is,” she starts, her eyes still occupied with the dark stain on the wall. “I’m on my period, which means we can’t-” “No, it doesn’t,” he denies, the smile audible in his voice, causally hanging his jacket on the peg by the door. “It doesn’t necessary mean we can’t have sex. Of course it’s up to you, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, we can wait. Remember, everything is about you tonight, and I have no intentions in making you feel uncomfortable.” “I know,” she smiles briefly, this time with her eyes focused on his. “And I want to. I mean… it’s fine. I’m up to it.” “Good,” he murmurs, offering his hand for her, the coolness of it creating a nice contrast to her heated skin. “Let’s go then.” She blindly lets him lead her up the stairs all the way to his bathroom, closing the door afterwards, the soft click vibrating in the air, tickling her nerves. In all honesty, she has not felt this nervous kind of excitement in her entire life, not that the feeling is completely foreign to her, but the level of it is. Plus the whole situation is still beyond her reasoning, and it will probably stay this way for the few following days, even after the main event. “You know,” he breaks her reverie, as his fingers slowly work their way to unbutton the shirt, just to carelessly toss it aside afterwards. “I heard somewhere that sex is good for cramps.” “Oh you did?” she smiles, immediately noticing how nicely the dim lightning frames his features, as soon as she pries her gaze from the inked ravens on his chest. He hums in agreement as he settles his glasses along with the watch on the shelf, quickly getting rid of the rest of his clothes, snorting as he eyes the perplexed girl in front of him. He is just about to nudge her, but the sound he makes breaks the spell and she takes off her T-shirt, panties following right after. “I will set up the water, okay?” He offers, turning around to give her a little bit of privacy. “Don’t look so scared, you will love it, trust me.” “I trust you,” she assures, making a quick works of throwing the tampon to the bin. “It’s just… I don’t know… the stress, I guess.” “You will be just fine, I promise.” “I have your word then.” “You have my word then,” he smirks, gently pulling her under the stream, carefully, not to let her trip on the wet tiles. She moans softly as the pleasantly warm water cascades down her back, leaning forward as the pair of well-known arms wrap around her waist, hers enlacing around his neck. He uses that as an opportunity to lift her and push her up against the wall for support, making her squeal, then giggle in that girlish way he has grown to love. The blood feels hot on his length, hot to the point when he can barely concentrate on anything else, but he knows he has to focus, otherwise he will hurt her. “Fuck,” he groans into her shoulder, hip bucking a few times in search of just a tiny bit of relief, making her shiver as it grazes her clit teasingly. Sweet, sweet torture. His damnation. Here he stands, about to get exactly what he has been wanting for so long, and he cannot waste more time, he will not waste more time. And so, living up to his cravings, his wanting, his desperate temptations, he kisses her, already slipping his fingers between her legs and inside, this time too needy to tease her. And she is so fucking wet, maybe because of the blood but still, he missed that kind of carnal want, the one possessed by Deborah only. She moans into his mouth, unconsciously rocking her hips in time with his movements to the point when he is barely able to hold her up. Despite all of this, he does not stop her, since the only thing he wants more than he wants to fuck her is for her is to enjoy every single action he is about to perform. She scratches down his shoulder blades, the urge to grip something appears to be stronger when he teases that one particularly tender spot inside, making her eyes close again. She savors the feeling as long as it lasts, but it is all too soon when he stops, removing the fingers to grip her thigh again for the better leverage. Honestly, she feels like it would be stupid to ask him how much it will hurt. Probably it depends on the tolerance for pain, but also he is male, he will not be able to describe it to her for obvious reasons, but still she can barely fight the burning need to ask. “You want me to go slow?” He murmurs, hot breath tickling her ear in the way that make her shiver in his grip. “No,” she shakes her head slightly. “No?” He asks slyly, bucking his hips a few times just to tease her. “I mean I feel like it will hurt less this way. Well, maybe not less but for the shorter period of time, I don’t know.” “As you say goes,” he smirks, capturing her lips for a surprisingly chaste kiss. “But don’t get used to it, sweetheart.” Before she realizes what is going on, he slides inside her in one swift motion, making her cry out loudly, the sound echoing in the bathroom followed by more shaky breaths as she tries to calm down a little bit. He hisses as she clenches around him, so tightly that he almost comes at the spot. “Fuck,” he laughs in surprise, making her laugh too, much to his relief, since for one moment he thought that he had seriously hurt her. “If- if you’re ready for more, tell me.” “Yeah, I’m fine,” she nods, her mind a little bit dizzy, the sharp pain substituted by something more like a dull throb with a hint of that particular, unpleasant stinging sensation which despite all of these, seems possible to bear for her. “You can move.” And so, per her request he withdraws halfway only to slam back in, this time making her gasp at the sudden spark of pleasure. It still hurts a little bit, but she might get used to it, since it seems to get better with time, at least according to what he told her before. Indeed, it seems to get better with time. He repeats the motion a couple of times, trying to figure out what works better for her, what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her dig her nails into his back. Soon he settles a rhythm, slow, deep thrusts that leave her gasping hotly over the skin of his neck, her soft lips grazing the flesh, teeth nibbling at the pulse point. He shivers as her tongue flicks over the bite, tracing the line all the way up to his lips, meeting them for a kiss. “More,” she moans against his lips, her hips pushing up involuntary as his pubic bone rubs against her clit. She silently wishes he will repeat that one soon. He changes their position slightly, holding her up for a better grip, his muscles beginning to shake with effort, as he slams her back to the wall, soon rewarding her with hard, fast thrusts. She cries out, her nails marking red, angry welts down his back that burn nicely as the water cascades over them. He is oddly close by now, maybe because of how tight, how wet she is, but either way it would be embarrassing to cum before an inexperienced, not-long-ago virgin. She is close too, the coil deep in her stomach so tight that it burns, and again, she needs just a simple push over the edge, the push that comes sooner than expected. “Touch yourself,” he groans, his voice lower than usual, the dark tone of it not necessary encouraging her to question him this time. As requested, she slips her hand between the parted legs, circling the nub harshly, and the extra friction seems to be a crucial factor. She moans his name in surprise, her hips bucking a few times to ride out the orgasm as her body still shivers in the aftershocks for a couple more seconds. As soon as she goes limp in his arms, he pulls out, slowly, not wanting to make the sudden emptiness too unpleasant for her. She gasps as he grinds against her inner thigh, slick with blood, soon following her trace, almost dropping her in the heat of the moment. “You know,” he starts, still a little bit breathless due to the previous activities. “We can do it again sometime if you would like.” “I think I would like,” she smiles, letting him gently set her back on the floor, “to do it again sometime. Maybe it will help you to improve your skills, I don’t know.” “Very funny,” he replies sternly, trying to keep his composure, but it is not long enough until he laughs too, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the pleasant lemongrass scent that he knows so well. From now on she is not his daughter anymore, she is not Beverly, the daughter of Deborah. She is his lover. Well, at least for now, since temporary things seems to work better for them. And yet, there remains a question. Why do people always lie at the end?

Created: 11/05/19 Completed: 12/31/19 Edited: 03/11/20

[dccomicsimagines]

It’s Been A Long Time - Nightwing x Reader

Requested by Anon -  Nightwing's old flame returns without warning after a long, unexplained absence from the team. She wishes to make amends start anew, but the old wounds make him hesitant.

***

“Okay, team. We have reports Parasite has been seen around Star City,” Dick stated, bringing up a security cam footage of Parasite breaking into a Queen Industries building. “He has been stealing tech from Queen Industries and it’s our mission to find out what he is doing.” 

“Shouldn’t Green Arrow be taking care of this?” Conner asked. The rest of the team mumbled in agreement. 

“Green Arrow is out of the area, and wants us to handle it,” Dick said sternly. “We’ll have two teams...” He stopped when the zeta tube activated suddenly.

“B-051,” the computer said as a figure appeared from the zeta tube. A rock formed in Dick’s throat when he recognized who it was. 

“(Y/N)!” M’gann gasped, flying over to hug you. You laughed, hugging her back. The rest of the team came over to either hug you or get introduced to you. Dick frowned, pouting slightly that you had completely interrupted the meeting. He bit his lip when he noted how good you looked, and he hated that he had noticed.

You glanced over M’gann to see Dick attempting not to look at you. Your stomach twisted at the sight. Guilt eating at your heart. You had to admit he was still so sexy, even though it killed you to notice.

“Are you coming on the mission with us? I’ve heard so much about you,” Cassie said, fangirling a little bit. 

“I would enjoy seeing if your rep holds up,” Lagoon Boy challenged you. You gave him a tight smile, making eye contact with Dick.

“I’d be happy to join you for the mission if you’ll have me? I was just coming back to ask if I could rejoin the team.” You bit your lip. “If you’ll have me, Nightwing?” 

Dick opened his mouth to speak, but M’gann answered for him. “Of course, you can join us. You never really left in the first place.” She gave you another hug before turning to Dick, sensing he might have had a different answer. “Right, Nightwing?”

You shivered at how cold Dick’s gaze was. “Sure, whatever,” he mumbled, turning back to the computer. His voice took a biting tone. “Can we finish the mission briefing please?” 

Weeks passed and you find yourself blending in with the team as if you never left. Well, there was one exception. Dick ignored you. It hurt more than you could ever say, but you knew you deserved this treatment.

M’gann took your hand, leading you to stand by her as Dick went back to giving the briefing. You shifted awkwardly. Dick did his best not to look at you.

***

Tension came to a head as it always did during the team’s weekly training session. Dick was testing everyone, which meant he would have to fight you. You could tell he was dreading it as he picked everyone before you, making you last. 

“Woo, kick his ass, (Y/N),” Garfield cheered. The other cheered you on as well. Dick grimaced at the sound.

M’gann patted your shoulder. “You used to beat him every time. I can feel you’re nervous about this,” she whispered in your ear. You were struggling to find the will to go into the training ring.

You woke to bright lights and a numbness in your arm. The memory of what happened came back slowly when you saw the splint on your arm. It took your eyes a moment to focus on the figure beside your bed.

“Hurry up,” Dick ordered coldly, refusing to look at you. You gave M’gann a tight smile before stepping into the ring. Suddenly, Dick attacked you. He wasn’t pulling his hits, clearly allowing his anger to affect his fighting. You did your best to dodge and counter, but Dick knocked you down and twisted your arm to put you into a hold. Something snapped in your arm. A scream escaped your lips while Dick froze in panic. The pain was so intense, you blacked out.

***

“Dick?” you whispered, finally able to focus on him.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Dick stated harshly. He ripped off his mask. You were taken back by his brilliant blue eyes. His eyes flash in anger. “You took off and left without a word. You didn’t even say goodbye to me.” He got to his feet. You got the impression he had been planning his words carefully while you were out. “And I have to find out now that you have been sick.” 

You sighed deeply. “How did you find out?” A gasp of pain escaped your lips when you attempted to move your fingers. 

Dick flinched at your gasp, his resolve breaking slightly. “Don’t move your arm. It still needs to be set.” He was about to lay a hand on your shoulder, but he pulled away. “It’s in your medical records for the league. You know they like to keep things up to date.”

Your jaw dropped open. “I didn’t give permission for that to be put in there!” Your hand flew to your neck to touch the scar from your chemo port. You found yourself doing that ever since it had been put in. It was a reminder that this is all real.

“Are you kidding me?!” Dick exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. You flinched, eyeing him warily. “Don’t you realized we care about you?! Damn it, (Y/N)! What if you died, and we wouldn’t have even known?!” Dick knocked over a medical cart that sat in the corner. He froze as it clattered on the floor. “Sorry,” he panted, trying to calm himself down. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered, blinking back tears. You knew he had a temper, but you never been on this end of it before. A sigh escaped your lips. “I didn’t want you all to see me like that. So weak, throwing up. I looked like a ghost, Dick.” Dick ran a hand through his hair as he looked at you. A flash of pity crossed his face. “See. I didn’t want that,” you said, pointing at his expression. “I didn’t want your pity.” 

“Pity?” Dick collapsed onto the chair by the bed. He ran his hand over his face, letting out a sigh of frustration. “(Y/N), I was in love with you. It killed me when you left, and it’s killing me now to know you were sick. You needed me, and you wouldn’t let me be there for you.” 

You bit your lip. “I’m sorry, Dick.” You winced when you accidentally moved your broken arm. “But you got back at me. You broke my arm.” A humorless laugh escaped your lips.

Dick let out a halfhearted chuckle. “I guess. I wouldn’t have been so rough with you if I knew.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows onto his knees. “They should be coming in soon to cast your arm.” 

You nodded, pursing your lips. An awkward silence falls between you. “Can we start over?” you asked after a long time. You looked up into his blue eyes. Dick frowned, shifting in his chair.

“I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You hurt me a lot, (Y/N).” You looked down at your broken arm, trying to hold back tears. Your heart was breaking all over again. “But I think we can at least try being friends again.” 

“I missed you a lot, Dick,” you said, tears running down your cheeks. Dick gave you a sad smile, grabbing a tissue to wipe away your tears. 

“I missed you too,” Dick whispered, kissing your cheek quickly before pulling back. Your heart skipped a beat like it did during first time he kissed you. It would take time to rebuilt trust, but you and Dick were back on the path to something wonderful.

[imagitory]

Readers of Harry Potter and the Lack of Lamb Sauce,

I come to you needing some assistance.

Recently I stumbled upon a post here on Tumblr stating that the user had found one of my chapters, as well as the comments underneath, to be full of “vicious, intense, casual racism.” I am not above constructive criticism (I actually appreciate it), and I was deeply troubled by the thought that I’d hurt somebody with anything I had written. Considering it was a blog post and not a review, I sent the user a message via Tumblr chat. I figured talking the matter over personally and privately would allow me to take in the person’s point of view, hopefully reassure them of my intent, and try to mend what had been hurt. The next day I received a link to the user’s new blog outside of Tumblr with a public response to my private message. Although I was a bit disheartened that we could not have a private discussion rather than a debate, I still tried to address the concerns. You can read the entire exchange if you wish here.

I do not write this blog post, my readers, to ask you to defend my honor, or even to take my side. What I aim for is understanding, for if I’ve truly written something offensive, I need to understand the issue at hand. I’m well aware that I have my own biases – as everyone does – but I have tried very hard to be sensitive about cultures that are not mine, and in this situation I feel like there’s a piece missing from my understanding.

The user, zenolalia / @fangasmagorical, in part, said this:

While I do think that it’s a bit less-than-ideal to present a child trying to act within the dietary restrictions of her heavily, heavily maligned religious and racial minority as “cheating,” my issue was very much not with the fact that the characters within the story (such as Dumbledore) treated her as cheating. In fact, I think that’s a very realistic thing for them to do. Rather, that at that point in the story there was not indication in the narrative itself that this treatment was unfair. There was a strong implication that her disqualification was legitimate and deserved. The excuse given is that she should have simply asked for an exception to be made. But, that’s a completely unrealistic expectation to present on a child of color who has, especially in the UK in the 90s, definitely been subjected to extensive racism surrounding her religion. Indeed, canonical to the books, the exclusive celebration of Christian holidays in a school that pre-dates the wide spread adoption of Christianity in the isles is, itself, strong evidence that she would have experienced a lot of this racism. So, of course, her not asking for an exception is totally within reason and a strong character choice. Just like having the judges treat her as a cheat is also a strong and reasonable character choice.

(…)

The thing that burns me the most is, it would be a very, very easy fix to make. A single line tucked somewhere in the narration that indicates that although the judgement is reasonable (in that there are reasons for it), it is not necessarily just, would be enough. Anything that indicates that the racism of the scene is known.

From what I understand, they wish that I had (to borrow a phrase) called a spade a spade and used narrative description to confirm that Arjuna was the victim of racism. The concern I have is this – as I said in my comments, I deliberately wanted to write a world where people of color are not treated like maligned minorities, and the rules of prejudice are different among witches and wizards than they are among us. Rather than racism, the main source of prejudice – like in the books – is blood purity. There are also touches of prejudice against different species like house elves and LGBT+ prejudice because their life style wouldn’t jive with the Death Eaters’ image of a Pureblood family with seven kids, but there’s practically no racism among witches and wizards. Even in J.K.’s flawed portrayal, we don’t get much evidence of racism – Lee Jordan, Dean Thomas, Cho Chang, and the Patils aren’t treated differently than their classmates for their race…Blaise Zabini is even one of those promoting prejudice against Muggle-borns. Perhaps someone like Bridget (or even Hermione, if you like headcanoning her as black like I do), who grew up among Muggles, would know the prejudices of our world as we do, but Arjuna was raised in an entirely magical household, in a world where the President of the MACUSA in the 30′s and the British Minister of Magic in the 80′s were both black women. And considering I purposefully wanted to write a world without institutional racism (at least in regards to race: I have referred to such a prejudice against Muggle-borns), I’m afraid I don’t see what would be gained from saying that the judges – when they disqualified Arjuna for cheating – were targeting her for her religion. At one point the idea that Arjuna wouldn’t have felt comfortable enough to come forward came up, but I don’t know of anything I’ve written that would’ve signaled that. She had been the best of the chefs and just about everyone had considered her more than capable of winning the competition – her decision process came down more to her pride making it hard for her to ask for help. I can’t help but think of media like Avatar: The Last Airbender and the new Star Wars films, where there are characters of color but there are different rules about how those cultures interact with each other. Finn is a black Stormtrooper, but the only prejudice he experiences in his universe is for being a Stormtrooper, not for his race. Katara, Sokka, and the Southern Water Tribe are treated badly by the Fire Nation, but it’s not because of their race – it’s because they’re a territory the imperialistic Fire Nation is exerting control over. Even when there are parallels to the real world, those fictional worlds still have their own rules.

Now of course, some real world parallels are relevant enough that they could still be offensive even if the rules are different from our world. J.K. got a lot of blow-back for saying every witch and wizard, including Native Americans, would attend Ilvermorny, which is a bit insensitive when Native Americans have a history of being forced to attend American schools far from home. Gay characters are so often martyred without proper development or as soon as they find romantic happiness that people understandably get upset when one is written that way. Jewish and gay coding on villains is still something people talk about. If this is an issue of that – as in many Hindu people or even Indian people experience discrimination specifically for what they eat – then I want to learn more about it and address that. My best experience with something like this are Jewish people eating things that are kosher or, in a looser example, Morman Elders, when they’re on missions, being unable to be inside a home without another male being present – because not everyone that follows a religion will necessarily follow every code to the letter and not everyone will be thoroughly enlightened about every religion’s code, sometimes one must bridge the gap. (Particularly when in this situation, the judges would’ve had no reason to know about Arjuna’s dietary restrictions – the only one who’d known her for any length of time was Dumbledore, and I can’t see him memorizing every student’s eating patterns when the Hogwarts house elves are responsible for every meal.) And as much as some cultures may feel pressured not to speak up on certain things, it doesn’t make cheating the right or moral choice, and in this situation that wasn’t even an issue at play.

I wrote this to explain my position so that hopefully I can get the feedback needed to approach this issue. If any of you were likewise troubled by what I wrote or have any other insight, please reply or whatever to this post, if you’d like. And if anything I’ve written has upset you, then you can always message me here on Tumblr, start up a Tumblr chat, or even just leave a review on my story. I will always read what you’ve said and I will not get angry. Even when I end up disagreeing, I always try to take in every bit of feedback I receive and try to use it to become a better writer, and I‘ve been so grateful for the constructive criticism I have received over the last year amongst the praise. At one point early on, I cited Ayer’s Rock as the site of the Australian Ministry of Magic in a montage scene talking about world travel. Not long later I received a review from an Australian fan explaining to me the history of Uhuru and why my artistic choice, made in the heat of the moment while I was writing three chapters in a week, was insensitive and gave me a suggestion on a location I could use instead, the Nullarbor Plain. I immediately changed it, not only because I realized how much I should have taken my time and done my homework, but because her idea ended up being so much better than my original concept. I later applied the lesson I’d learned when I had to do research for a character with autism, and I took almost an entire month researching American and Native American history before writing about the MACUSA and introducing a new character who was a half-Native American wizard. I’m not above improvement or reproach, and everything I learn I try to integrate into who I am. But I cannot learn if I don’t understand.

This is undoubtedly an emotionally charged issue and I truly don’t want to create controversy or hurt anyone. If this were a story set in our Muggle world, I would do everything I possibly could to address the racism, sexism, and homophobia that infects our world, and even in this fictional universe I try to slip in plenty of commentary wherever I can. I know we’ll all have our own opinions on the matter, but if any of you have been kind enough to read all of this and have anything to add, I would appreciate it. I only aim for improvement, both for myself and for my writing, and I hope that even if I have disappointed any of you with my sentiment, you at least feel my sincerity in that.

Thank you.

[weekendwarriorblog]

The ThanksgivingWarrior 11/25/20 – THE CROODS: A NEW AGE, MA RAINEY’S BLACK BOTTOM, ZAPPA, HAPPIEST SEASON, STARDUST and More!

It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and usually I’d be struggling to figure out how much the new movies might make in what is normally one of the most unpredictable weekends at the year. Wait a second. I’m getting déjà vu here. Didn’t I say this exact same thing in the intro for last week’s column? Probably. Let’s face it, kids. I am absolutely losing my mind with how bored I am getting looking at my laptop screen all day long, even though I’ve now set up a pretty sweet new TV system to watch stuff on!

Anyway, there is one family movie coming to theatres this weekend, and in any other Thanksgiving weekend, I’d suggesting getting out and going to theaters, but at this point in the pandemic, with COVID numbers so bad that even I, “Mr. Reopen the Movie Theaters!” can’t recommend going to see a movie in theaters… well, except maybe in New York City, where they’re still closed. Sigh. 

We’re going to do things a little different this week, because I wasn’t able to get to as many movies as I wanted but didn’t want to delay the column to Thanksgiving Day. Instead, I’ll post what I have done on Wednesday, then check back here on Friday when hopefully I’ve added a few more reviews. Cool?

Fortunately, the new animated sequel from DreamWorks Animation and Universal Pictures, THE CROODS: A NEW AGE, is a lot of fun, and this is from someone who really enjoyed the first movie quite a bit. The sequel’s premise is as simple as you can get: caveman family The Croods (voiced by Nick Cage, Catherine Keener, Emma Stone, Clarke Duke and Cloris Leachman), along with Ryan Reynold’s Guy, are still trying to survive in the wilds until they encounter a beautiful oasis that turns out to be the home of the more-evolved Bettermans, Phil (Peter Dinklage), Hope (Leslie Mann) and Dawn (Kelly Marie Tran).

I really liked the original The Croods quite a bit, so I’ve  been waiting patiently for DreamWorks to figure things out for a sequel. My instincts were definitely spot-on, because even if the original premise sounded a lot like The Flintstones, putting those voice actors together, even if it’s just Ryan Reynolds and Emma Stone proved to be quite prescient. A big part of the sequel is the burgeoning romance between their characters, Guy and Eep, much to the brutish chagrin of Eep’s father Grug (really Cage at his finest). Then along comes the Bettermans, and then it changes into a movie that is constantly showing the differences between the two families in many funny ways.

I’ve long admired Emma Stone as an actress, since she’s no naturally funny, and that’s even more apparent by how much she brings to Eep with merely her voice. Some of the scenes between her and Tran’s Dawn are absolutely hilarious. Cloris Leachman’s Gran also has some absolutely LOL moments later in the film. In some ways, Reynolds while funny, especially when pit against Cage and Dinklage’s characters, takes a back seat to the ladies.

I was equally impressed with the film in terms of its animation and how gorgeous and colorful the whole thing is, but more than that, it thrusts in a zaniness that I’d usually expect from something like Ren and Stimpy or SpongeBob SquarePants. So as much as it’s a kid movie, there’s enough to entertain older kids and even old men like me.

Without having seen Pixar’s Soul yet (this weekend!), Croods: A New Age may be one of the most entertaining animated movies I’ve seen this year, and that’s because it leans so heavily on being so absolutely crazy and zany that you can’t help but have fun.

You can read more about the movie and how it was made in a feature I wrote for Below the Line.

Next up is MA RAINEY’s BLACK BOTTOM, George C. Wilson’s adaptation of the 1982 August Wilson play that preceded Fences, which Netflix will give a theatrical release this week before it goes to streaming in December. Like Fences, this once again stars that film’s Oscar winner, Viola Davis, in the title role of Ma Rainey, a legendary blues and jazz singer in the late ‘20s who has come to a recording studio in Chicago to make a record with her band.  The band’s hotshot trumpet player Levee (the late Chadwick Boseman) is more interested in breaking out on his own, and he does everything to grandstand and try to impress the label guy (Jonny Coyne) even if it means throwing the rest of the band under the bus.

Since I never saw Wilson’s play, I really didn’t know what to expect from this movie, although the fact that most of it takes place in a recording studio definitely had my interest piqued. In case, you’re wondering about that odd title, it’s actually a song in Ma Rainey’s repertoire that she wants to do one way, but her manager Irvin (Jeremy Shamos) wants to try Levee’s version of the song. Ma’s not having any of it, and a lot of the film involves her

There’s been quite a lot of chatter about Chadwick Boseman getting a posthumous Oscar nomination for his performance in this, and it’s probably well-deserved since he gives quite a showy performance as Levee, giving a couple moving monologues including one about his mother being sexually assaulted by white men.  It’s a very powerful performance indeed.

Rainey is certainly an interesting character for Viola Davis to play, even if she’s not necessarily likable with her obstinate demeanor and the way she gloms over her eye candy Dussie Mae, played by Taylour Paige, and dotes over her nephew Sylvester (Dusan Brown). As interesting as those relationships are, I probably enjoyed the interaction between the musicians more, because Boseman is working with some greats like Colman Domingo, Michael Potts and Glynn Turman. It’s actually kind of interesting how it switches between Levee and the musicians and Ma dealing with Irving upstairs.  

As much as the Wilsons are exploring some interesting topics about race and the treatment of black people in the times, the movie frequently feels dated and it feels like some of the ideas are never fully revolved, even as it builds up to a fairly shocking climax.

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, but it’s a perfectly fine dramatic piece, but I didn’t feel that it had the weight of other movies about race I’ve seen, including yes, Green Book (sorry, haters), and a lot of that probably has more to do with George Wilson’s direction than August Wilson’s writing.

Just want to quickly mention a couple movies I’ve already reviewed, which will hit the streamers this week, including Steve McQueen’s LOVERS ROCK on Amazon Prime Video, which I wrote about here, and Ron Howard’s HILLBILLY ELEGY, now on Netflix after a short theatrical release. I reviewed the latter here.

I’ve actually seen Lovers Rock a second time since the New York Film Festival, and I enjoyed it even more, as it’s really a well-crafted film even if it’s not as immediate maybe as Mangrove (now on Amazon Prime) and Red, White and Blue, which will be on Prime Video on December 4. I just love how Steve McQueen created a shorter piece that isn’t quite as deep as some of the others since Lovers Rock isn’t based on history but is just a nice young romance about two young people who meet and fall in love at a “Blues Night” party. It’s not as deep as the other movies I’ve seen, but is still good. Oh, and my interview with Steve McQueen is up at Below the Line finally, and I’m pretty proud of it, so check it out!

I don’t know if I have too much more to say about Hillbilly Elegy, but I hope people will give it a chance because even if it does have problems and isn’t perfect, it’s an interesting story, particularly for Glenn Close’s performance.

This week’s “Featured Flick” is Alex Winter’s doc, ZAPPA (Magnolia Pictures), an amazing film that takes a look at the life and career of the late Frank Zappa, best known for his quirky rock tunes but just at proficient at writing jazz and classical musical. I definitely went through a bit of a Zappa phase in my teens, and every once in a while, I would go back and see what had been released since his death in 1993, because his wife and widow Gail did a great job getting a lot of his unreleased music and live shows out there.

What shocked me when I saw Zappa was how little I really knew about the musician, because maybe he was a little bit of an enigma while he was still alive. I enjoyed the other doc, Eat That Question: Zappa In His Own Words, that came out a few years back, which was made up of public interviews Zappa gave, but it doesn’t really give as clear a picture of the man as Winter’s doc does.

For instance, Winter gets a lot of the musicians, including the amazing Ruth Underwood, who played with Zappa in the Mothers. You’d assume those musicians would presumably know the man best having toured with him for years, and yet, even they say that other than when they were rehearsing diligently or playing gigs, Zappa kept to himself. We also get a good sense of what a family man he was, since Winter was able to get Gail to talk to him before she herself passed way in 2015.

Zappa is an absolutely terrific doc that I hope music enthusiasts give a look even if they think they know what Zappa was about or maybe even those who didn’t care for his music. You might be pleasantly surprised by the tremendous amount of depth Winter brings to this talented musician and composer who still had a lot more to say. (And that’s an understatement!)

Incidentally, I’ll have an interview with Winter over at Below the Line very soon.

On the other end of the musical spectrum (more or less) is Gabriel Range’s STARDUST (IFC Films)  -- not to be confused with Matthew Vaughn’s far better Stardust – this one starring Johnny Flynn, who played a young Albert Einstein in Genius: Einstein, this time playing a young David Bowie. Years before breaking it big with his album Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, young David just can’t catch a break in the U.S., so he goes on a road trip in 1971 with his Ron Oberman (Marc Maron), the A&R guy from his U.S. label who hopes to get Bowie across to young American audiences.

I’m not quite sure how someone can screw up a movie about Bowie, one of my all-time favorite artists, but making a movie that a.) takes place in the most boring era of Bowie’s career and b.) Not actually being able to use any of Bowie’s beloved tracks, certainly doesn’t help matters. It also doesn’t help that the script just isn’t great, creating a fairly dull biopic that relies more on Maron’s personality basically playing the same character we’ve seen him play so many times before to stay even halfway entertaining.  I couldn’t even get excited by Jena Malone, an actress I generally appreciate, as David’s wife Angie, because she plays her to be such a despicable and unsympathetic character.

If Maron is decent than Johnny Flynn is just plain flaccid as Bowie, playing him so mopey and aloof that when he finally emerges from his chrysalis as Ziggy Stardust – also with little of the flamboyance in his stage shows -- you just don’t give a rat’s ass anymore. Oh, and a lot of the movie is based on the theory that the history of mental issues in his family is what haunts the singer.  Drab and dull, Stardust manages to make the most exciting rock star of the last half century seem like the most boring person on earth. It’s a flat-out failure as a biopic.

Joan Carr-Wiggins’ GETTING TO KNOW YOU (Gravitas Ventures) is a witty Canadian high-concept rom-com, starring Natasha Little and Rupert Penry-Jones as two strangers who have a chance encounter at a hotel in Northern Ontario. The latter plays New Yorker Luke Manning, who is back home for his high school reunion, but when his positively smashed high school girlfriend Kaila (Rachel Blanchard from Peepshow) shows up at the hotel hoping to rekindle their spark, he asks Little’s character Abby to pretend to be his wife.

I don’t have a lot to say about this movie which was a nice surprise and clearly a labor of love for the filmmaker. Honestly, my favorite part of the movie is how hilarious Rachel Blanchard is in it. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me that found her deliriously drunk nightmare of an ex to be kind of sexy, but maybe that’s just me. In fact, the movie might have been even funnier if the rest of the cast were able to keep up with Blanchard, but the connection between the two leads did grow on me as it went along. It definitely has some funnier moments like when Kaila’s bowling husband Kenny shows up, and then some of Luke’s other classmates pop in as well, but it does have to work very hard whenever Blanchard isn’t on screen.  (I also enjoyed watching the soap opera that seemed to be going on between the employees of the hotel, which was perpetually funny.) Otherwise, it does feel a little flat whenever Blanchard is on screen.

The filmmaker’s lack of experience is sometimes obvious, because there are things like the repetitive music that I wasn’t so crazy about. Otherwise, this is a light and quaint indie that’s a little off the beaten track, but you won’t have any regrets if you make the effort to go looking for it.

I’m thrilled to see actor Clea Duvall back behind the camera for her second film as a director, HAPPIEST SEASON, which was going to get a theatrical release through Sony’s TriStar Pictures at one point. Instead, it’s now going to be on Hulu starting Wednesday. (Today!) It’s a high-concept rom-com starring Mackenzie Davis and Kristen Stewart with Davis playing Harper, a woman who has not come out of her closet to her family, which makes it that much more awkward when she brings her girlfriend Abby (Stewart) home for the holidays.

As mentioned, this is a fairly high-concept comedy that uses the idea of someone coming out to their disapproving family we’ve seen in many movies, but does it in a way that can take it seriously but still allow for some funny moments. In fact, there are times when the comedy even goes into Meet the Parents territory in terms of the character humor.

I really enjoyed Duvall’s previous film, The Intervention, and once again, she has put together such as great cast to realize the script that she wrote with Mary Holland. In fact, Holland has a great role, playing Harper’s bubbly sister Jane, who steals so many scenes in terms of the humor that I was shocked that I only realized later she co-wrote the script with Duvall.

Mackenzie Davis continues to be every director’s secret weapon, because like in Jason Reitman’s Tully, she can literally deliver on every aspect of the movie, keeping the comedy aspects grounded but also deliver a really poignant performance. She also works really well with Kristen Stewart, maybe bringing out things in Stewart we just haven’t been able to see before.

Besides having Alison Brie play Harper’s older sister and Aubrey Plaza as an old flame, Duvall also had the foresight to get the amazing Dan Levy, recent multi-Emmy winner for Schitt’s Creek, to play Abby’s best friend, who is constantly there for her to kvetch and who shows up to pretend to be her boyfriend. (Oddly, there’s a lot of that sort of thing going on in movies this week.)

Happiest Season works as a perfectly fine albeit fairly traditional holiday rom-com in a similar way as The Family Stone. More than anything, Duvall continually proves her abilities as a filmmaker that can handle comedy and drama equally well.

Next up, is Alan Ball’s UNCLE FRANK (Amazon), the Oscar-winning writer of American Beauty, directing only his second movie after 2007’s Towelhead – you might remember his HBO shows Six Feet Under and True Blood. This one, set in the ‘70s, stars Paul Bettany as the title character with Sophia Lillis from It Chapter One and Two playing his niece Beth, a teen from Creekville, South Carolina who worships her New York-based professor uncle. When she goes to college in New York, she attends one of Frank’s parties with her pseudo-boyfriend and ends up learning that Frank’s “roommate” Wally (Peter Macdissi) is actually his boyfriend. When Frank and Beth return to South Carolina for his father’s funeral, he has to try to keep his sexuality and relationship with Wally a secret from his family. Yeah, this does sound a little like Happiest Season, doesn’t it? It is, but only to a point.

At first, Uncle Frank is a cute but not-particularly-deep coming-of-age story about Lillis’ character as a fish out of water in New York City. Once Wally is introduced, he seems to be there just to make jokes and lighten the mood as it turns into a road trip. From his previous work, I’ve grown to enjoy Ball’s unconventional storytelling, but by comparison, this movie is very by-the-books, so it never really grabs the viewer.

The biggest problem with Ball’s latest--and it’s one that I see in a lot of movies these days--is that it doesn’t know whether it should be a comedy or a drama, and because it isn’t particularly funny, you expect it to fare better as a drama and yet, it doesn’t.

Ball has such a great cast including Judy Greer, Margo Martindale, Stevens Root and Zahn, all playing the duo’s racist Southern family, but they disappear for long sections of the movie, and then don’t do much when they return for the more dramatic last act where it turns into such a maudlin melodrama once Frank and Beth get back to South Carolina.  As they mourn the dead patriarch, Frank keeps reflecting back on what drove him to New York in the first place, and we’re pummelled with so many flashbacks. Lillis’ character almost gets lost at this point, even this story is supposed to be told from her point of view.

Essentially, Uncle Frank falls somewhere quite literally between Hillbilly Elegy and Happiest Season but not being as good as either. It’s just disappointing that Ball didn’t have someone offering good advice on handling material that will constantly have you groaning, “What was the point?”

Screenwriter Matthew Michael Carnahan (The Kingdom, State of Play, 21 Bridges makes his directorial debut with MOSUL, which will debut on Netflix this Thursday. As you can figure out from the title, this takes place in Iraq in the fall of 2016 where an army of 100,000 Iraqi soldiers and militia men mobilize to liberate Iraq’s second largest city from ISIS along with the embedded journalist Ali Maula. Surprise, surprise, this is another movie from last year’s September festival season, too, and there also was a documentary from last year with the same name about the same story, too.

I’ve been a fan of some of the films Carnahan has written over the years, some mentioned above, but his directorial debut certainly sounds ambitious, since he’s working with an all-Arab cast. I look forward to watching and reviewing this one, hopefully before Friday.

Premiering on Disney+ this Friday after losing its theatrical release – this is becoming the norm for Disney, huh? – is Ashley Avis’ adaptation of Anna Sewell’s classic piece of literature, BLACK BEAUTY about a girl and her horse. The girl is played by Mackenzie Foy from Interstellar and The Conjuring, and Black Beauty the horse is voiced by Oscar-winning actress Kate Winslet. No, I did not make that up, and I can’t wait to watch this, to see how that works exactly. Look for my review later this week… hopefully.

On top of that, those Trixie Pixies at Disney+ have somehow managed to secretly pull together a Taylor Swift concert called folkore: the long pond studio sessions, which will premiere exclusively on Disney+ November 25. Oh, that’s today!

Debuting on Showtime this Sunday is Errol Morris’ new doc MY PSYCHEDELIC LOVE STORY, which takes a look at the Acid King Timothy Leary through the eyes of his lover, Joanna Harcourt-Smith, trying to figure out her part in his turn into a narc for the CIA. Another one I hope to get to soon because while I like Morris’ political films like The Fog of War and even the Steve Bannon doc American Dharma, this seems more in the vein of Tabloid, which I also enjoyed. Will try to watch this over the weekend and report back.

Also of note is that the doc She is the Ocean (Blue Fox Entertainment) will be hitting On Demand this week. I guess I never got around to reviewing it.

So, let’s see. We’ve had some good movies, we’ve had some not great movies, and we’ve had a few movies that I just didn’t get around to watching yet. What does that leave? How about two of the worst movies I’ve seen this year? Are you ready?

SUPERINTELLIGENCE (HBO Max) is the latest comedy from Melissa McCarthy and hubby director Ben Falcone, and boy, it won’t take you long to realize why New Line decided LONG before COVID not to give it a theatrical release, instead handing it over to its new streamer HBO Max. 

In this, McCarthy plays Carol Peters, an average Seattle woman, who – I mean, honestly, does it even matter what she does? It’s irrelevant. Carol encounters an artificial intelligence being with the voice of James Corden that has just achieved self-awareness and wants to study Carol in order to understand humanity. But what are its plans… to save humanity or destroy it? Only Carol has the power to keep the world from finding out. 

I honestly don’t even know where to begin except that I was a Melissa McCarthy stan for a long time before Bridesmaids;  Superintelligence makes it all-too-obvious that she needs to stop making movies with Falcone. It’s not that he’s an incapable director, but he just doesn’t give her the actual direction she needs. The movie is just all over the place, starting with the physical comedy McCarthy has done so much in her movies, but then turning into a romantic comedy as the AI tries to reunite Carol with her college boyfriend George, played by Bobby Cannavale. Apparently, making The Heat with Sandra Bullock has made Falcone think his wife could or should be Sandra Bullock. No, she can’t. Throwing her into a ridiculous concept like this one that isn’t very solid does little to endear McCarthy to the fans she keeps driving away with bad movies like this.

I’m sure it doesn’t help that I really hate James Corden and hearing his voice over the course of the movie while also acting very META by referencing the ACTUAL James Corden, Carpool Karaoke, etc. Just none of it is very funny. Oddly, this is written by the same guy who wrote the duo’s earlier movie, The Boss, which I didn’t think was that bad, but mainly because McCarthy was paired with Kristen Bell for a lot of the movie.

On top of that, Superintelligence wastes its entire supporting cast from Brian Tyree Henry to Sam Richardson (from Veep) but also has Karan Son from Deadpool playing the EXACT SAME CHARACTER he played in Like A Boss, but only for a few minutes then he’s gone. At least it had the forethought to cast Jean Smart as the President, but the fact that I didn’t even like Bobby Cannavale in this might be the biggest sign of how much I absolutely detested Superintelligence.

There are movies you might hate when you see them in theaters but later realize that they’re probably funny enough cable. That is Superintelligence, except for the funny part. What else can I say except that “Superintelligence” is not a term I'd use for whoever greenlit this piece of crap.

Also debuting on HBO Max this week is the new thriller series The Flight Attendant (HBO MAX), starring Kaley Cuoco, who really hasn’t been doing much outside The Big Bang Theory, so this should give her a chance to show how funny she is. She plays a woman who wakes up in the wrong hotel and wrong bed with a dead man, so it already sounds like a great premise right there. I guess the entire first season will debut on Thanksgiving.

And yet, believe it or not, Superintelligence isn’t even the worst movie of the week! Nope.

Apparently, Josh Duhamel’s new comedy, BUDDY GAMES (Saban Films/Paramount), played in some theaters over the weekend, but it’s now available on digital and On Demand. It’s Duhamel’s directorial debut, and it’s about as dude-bro as you can possibly get, as it has Duhamel, Dax Sheppard, Kevin Dillon, Nick Swardson, Jensen Ackles and Dan Bakkedahl as a group man-children friends who regroup five years after going their separate ways to bring back their “Buddy Games,” a series of obstacle and endurance tests that end up reviving ill feelings between a few of them.

I’m not sure how quickly I knew I was in trouble with this one, because at first, I thought that maybe Duhamel made a fun indie comedy about friendship ala the underrated A Good Old Fashioned Orgy. It didn’t take me long to realize that I was wrong as wrong could be, since by the halfway point it turned into something as innately immature as Jackass.

The general idea is that Duhamel plays Bob, the guy who found enormous success after splitting from his friends, marrying Olivia Munn’s Tiffany, but then he finds out that his old friend Shelly (Bakkedahl) has been put in rehab for a drug overdose. Turns out that at the last Buddy Game, Swardson’s character shot Shelly in the nuts with a BB gun, and he eventually lost his other testicle as well. That’s about the level of this low-brow comedy that rarely fails to grab the lowest hanging…um… fruit.

As it goes along, it just gets worse and worse to the point where there was one scene where the guys are at a bar while trying to get girls to buy them drinks that just got so disgusting, I almost turned it off. If I did, I would have missed the scene with a gila monster going after steaks strapped to the heads in another lame competition.

I can go on and on about how Buddy Games is but probably the worst infraction is that it does the most sexist thing possible by basically putting having women for a few moments and none that particularly advance anything.

Duhamel isn’t a bad director, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he got hired to direct another comedy someday soon, but this movie just very bad, very gross and almost excruciating to sit through at times. To call Buddy Games moronic, idiotic or even asinine, would be an insult to the morons, idiots or asses, who are likely to be the movie’s target audience.

On Friday, New York’s Metrograph is bringing back the 2017 4k restoration of Fruit Chan’s Made in Hong Kong as a ticketed screening running from Friday through December 3. You can also still catch Shalini Kantaya’s Coded Bias and the French New Wave anthology Six In Paris as ticketed screenings through December 3.

Up at New York’s Lincoln Center, you can catch its World of Wong Kar Wai with a couple films available this Wednesday, including his fantastic drama In the Mood for Love, but you can also get the 7-film Janus Bundle for $70 which is a saving over the individual movie cost of $12 apiece. Those seven films and five more will be shown over the course of December.

Other stuff out this week that I wasn’t able to get to include:

The Christmas Chronicles 2 (Netflix) Last Call (K Street Pictures) Faith (Vertical) Saul and Ruby’s Holocaust Survivor Band (Samuel Goldwyn) The Walrus and the Whistle Blower (Gravitas Ventures) Life in a Year (Amazon Prime) 32 Weeks

Have a great Thanksgiving, everyone!

By the way, if you read this week’s column and have bothered to read this far down, feel free to drop me some thoughts at Edward dot Douglas at Gmail dot Com or drop me a note or tweet on Twitter. I love hearing from readers … honest!

[typewriterbot]

another dreamer

guardian drags one more soul into the dream, and ira is, once again, too slow to stop it

guest starring artemis (@slumberblues)

cw for (not permanent) death and guardian’s general creepiness in this au

Yharnam was a maze at best, full of dead ends and twisting streets that served to confound any who dared walk them. At night it was worse, shadows grew from forgotten corners, hiding all sorts of terrors from the few unfortunate souls that found themselves outside. The only saving grace Ira had was his knowledge of all the twists and turns the city had. The misadventures of his youth serving a purpose as he prowled through the streets, cleaver and pistol in hand. He moved quickly, never staying in one place for long, and scanned the darkness for the sounds of crows or, more importantly, the click of heels on stone.

Guardian had vanished, and he grew more and more anxious the longer they were gone from his side. He knew he wasn’t responsible for them, not really, but he felt like it was his duty to keep them from harming anyone.

Not that it worked well so far, but he had to try.

The flutter of bird wings made his ears perk, and he swung his head to stare down a dark alley that he knew led to a small open alcove. He listened once more and when he heard they cry of a crow, he walked briskly down the alley, fingers clenching and relaxing around his weapons. There, standing in the middle of the alcove surrounded by crows (real crows, not the fat, flightless things that bit at ankles), was Artemis, wearing her mask and feeding pieces of meat to her murder.

“Ms Sealg,” he said. He left enough distance between them to avoid her blades. Despite coming to friendly terms with each other, he wanted to avoid any unnecessary injuries just because he sneaked up on her. The crows cawed at him, fluffing up their feathers and stared at him with beady black eyes. Artemis was slow in turning, perhaps afraid that Guardian was with him.

If only!

Artemis bobbed her head in greeting when she faced him, and he took that opportunity to cover the distance between them in two easy strides. “Mr Aurum, where’s Guardian?”

“I don’t know,” Ira said. “I was hoping you’ve seen them lately.” Hoping that he wouldn’t have to go off on a wild chase through all of Yharnam to find the Choir thorn. Hoping that he could save another soul from Guardian and their desire to “help.” Ira growled low in his throat when Artemis shook her head.

“No, I haven’t. How long have they been missing?” He didn’t miss the way Artemis’s hand fell to the grip of her blade, or the sudden tension in her shoulders.

“I’m unsure. I’ve visited their workshop, the libraries of the Choir, the Church itself, and even the Dream! They’ve slipped away and I- I would rather have them by my side than wreaking havoc across Yharnam.” The way Artemis tilted her head sympathetically made him feel slightly better about losing Guardian. Only slightly though.

The crows scattered without preamble, taking to the skies as one. Artemis brushed past him easily, her crow feather cape flapping behind her, and said, “Then we’ll look for them together.”

Gratitude died in his mouth. It would have to wait until Guardian was found, and not a moment sooner.

—

Asher wiped his mouth. Again. The frequency and severity of his coughing, and by extension the blood that inevitably dribbled down his chin and stained his shirts, was growing worse the longer the night went on. His chest ached from the force each cough drew from him, and his ragged breathing afterwards did nothing to help.

If this was what it felt like to die, he hated it. Give him a swift death rather than this slow crawl he was forced to make to his own grave! Anything but the minutes spent in agony only to feel exhausted later, like he was drowning and only just managed to flop ashore.

He slumped over in his chair, closing his eyes and listened to the silence of the house. Creaks of settling wood, the low crackle of the fire, and his own wheezing breaths offered him a sense of comfort. He loathed to admit that the only sound missing was Ira quietly shuffling through the house, muttering to himself as he puzzled out some mystery.

But Ira was out on the night of a Hunt, and Asher was content with what he had.

The sharp click of heels on wood flooring echoed through the house, and Asher snapped his eyes open. His hand clenched the arm of the chair as he eyed the pistol Ira left behind for him in case of some emergency. At the time he scoffed at the gun, saying he had no need for such a thing. Unease settled in his gut. It seemed that he had been proven wrong.

An all too familiar figure stood in the doorway to the sitting room, blocking the only exit he had. The smile underneath the blindfold cap unnerved him as it always did, and Asher tensed even further. “Guardian,” he rasped, “where’s Ira?”

They hummed and entered the room. The hem of their robe swished around their ankles, giving the impression that they floated in the low light of the room. Their hands were fists at their sides, and while Asher was glad that they were missing the cane they usually carried, he couldn’t trust what he couldn’t see.

“Guardian!” He snapped, feeling his diaphragm push against his lungs again. No, not again. Not another fit.

Guardian stopped in front of him. It felt like they were sizing him up with the way their head tilted from side to side and the metal of their earrings clinked against the metal of the cap. They bent forward, bracing their weight on the unused arm of the chair, and in turn, Asher leaned away from them. His chest shook with coughs that he stubbornly kept inside, eyes watering from the strain of it. He wheezed when Guardian moved in closer, their lips brushing against his ear as they talked.

“What does he see in you?” They asked. “A sickly ex-scholar who’s going to die, and yet he pours so much energy in a way to save you. I don’t understand.”

With a strength he hadn’t possessed in months, Asher shoved Guardian off of him and sprang up from the chair. The move, however, cost him. The pain his chest worsened and he could no longer keep himself from doubling over, heaving great coughs that forced blood to crawl up his throat and fill his mouth. He limped to the hall, eager to put some distance between himself and Guardian.

He didn’t even make it halfway before he was grabbed and forced to the ground. He hit the floor with a gasp, blood rushing back down his throat and making him choke. Asher pushed against the Choir scholar, trying to worm his way out from under them as they continued to shove him down and lock his arm in theirs. “At least you only have one arm,” they commented. “This would be much more difficult if you had two.”

Ministrations were addicting. Asher knew that well enough from all the times he had been given treatment by the Healing Church. The way the blood sang in his veins and dulled every pain in his body was glorious. It was like being drunk on the most potent solutions, divine in every way even as he came down from the high. For a time he honestly believed that the blood could heal him, but as the Ministrations went on and his condition got worse, Asher stopped taking it. There was no use in deluding himself with some magical cure to his illness, and he would not prolong his life if death was so eager to meet with him.

He knew from the second Guardian trapped his arm, pressing their chest against his to keep from knocking them off again, and felt a pinch in the crook of his arm that he had been given blood.

He wasn’t expecting it to hit so hard.

His vision swam and blurred at the edges, and for a moment he saw the sharpest teeth imaginable in Guardian’s mouth. Asher moaned, from pain or the slow onset of delirium he wasn’t sure, but the wracking coughs ended and the blood in his throat stopped trying to kill him and suddenly breathing was so much easier.

“I was like you once,” Guardian said. Their voice was everywhere, filling the room and Asher’s skull, the wheeze was overlaid with a voice as clear as a bell and Asher couldn’t understand where it was coming from. “Sick and dying, an outsider in every way. I only want to help, but Ira keeps stopping me!” The voice roared, the teeth snapped, and the room darkened, and for a split second Guardian was something else entirely.

Asher screwed his eyes shut, trying to wrench his arm away from Guardian, but his limb was limp and useless. His insides felt like they had been rocked about violently from the outburst, and he felt sick when Guardian’s lips were once again pressed to his ear. “I’m sorry, I only want to help you like the Church helped me. Like the dream did. It saved me, you know. The respite from reality where the moon is cracked but sings a gentle song. It can help you too, you just need blood.”

“No,” he rasped, jolting his head away from them. “No more blood… please…”

Guardian cooed in his ear, as if he was some child that needed soothing. One of their hands stroked his jaw and kept him still. “No more blood,” they agreed. “You only needed just the one vial to be allowed into the dream. Oh, Asher, I would take you there myself, but Ira deserves to explain everything.” The blade slipped between his ribs, and not even the blood he had been given could soothe the pain. He gasped wetly, clutched at Guardian’s robes. They pried his hand off easily, and he felt something slip into his hand. “Ira will despise me, but he will forgive me too now that I’ve saved you.”

“Asher!” Ira’s voice was muffled. He must be outside the window. “Asher! Answer me, please!”

Turning his head took a strength he didn’t know he had, but Asher managed to stare at the window. He could see Ira’s large silhouette just outside, trying to find him through the small opening in the curtains. He choked on his own blood calling out to Ira, and Guardian sighed.

They stood up, sliding the blade out from his chest, and watched as he died.

–

The door was open.

Why was the door open?

Ira’s skin tingled with fear and his heart was a hammer in his chest. There were no signs of beasts around, no signs of forced entry either, and Ira couldn’t understand why the door was open.

He ran inside, barely aware that Artemis was still following behind him. He stopped abruptly when he came across the sitting room, and he dropped his weapons on the floor. He didn’t feel Artemis slam into his side, so focused on the scene before him.

Guardian was standing above Asher, knife covered in blood, and staring at nothing. Ira’s chest tightened, and the beast he kept locked away in his head roared against the bars of his mind.

There were very few times when he let the beast inside get the better of him, he was a man after all and he had to maintain control at all times. Still, Ira couldn’t help the way his man bristled and the fur down his spine stood up straight beneath his clothes. The beast pushed against his skin, baring its teeth and roaring, shoving him into action.

He wasn’t sure when he slammed Guardian against the wall hard enough to make the bookcases shake and could feel something snap underneath his hands, but at least it got the Scholar away from Asher. Guardian stared up at him, void of any expression, the knife in their hand dropped to the floor. “What have you done!?” He yelled, barely keeping the beast from erupting. “Why!?”

“We saved him,” Guardian answered. “We saved him for you and now he won’t die. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Ira slammed them into the wall again. “He’s dead! How is that saving him!? Dammit Guardian, what are you even playing at anymore!?”

“Ira.” He ignored that.

“Why do you think you can use people as if they mean nothing!?”

“Ira!”

Guardian tilted their head. “You mean everything to us.”

“Ira! Stop!” Artemis dug her hand into the crook of his elbow, forcing him to drop his arm. She stared at him through her crow mask, and it took all of his self restraint to not toss her aside. “Look.” She pointed behind him, and when he turned around, he dropped Guardian unceremoniously to the floor.

The blood that was stained Asher’s chest was gone, and he knew that if he checked for a wound there’d be none. His face was less gaunt now, though the worry lines and wrinkles and heavy bags under his eyes stayed. Straining his ears, he listened for the soft breaths of someone who was sleeping, except it missed the rasp that Asher had, a sound he had gotten used to forever ago. On shaking legs, Ira moved to kneel beside Asher, almost afraid to touch him. He swallowed his worry and pulled the sleeping man into his lap, cradling his head and leaned over him.

“Guardian,” Artemis breathed. “What have you done?”

“We told you, we saved him.”

–

Asher woke up in a field of white flowers that glowed in the moonlight. He shot up, hand going to his chest, feeling for a wound that was supposed to be there but wasn’t at all. He looked up to a grand building, and if he was to find answers, it’d be there.

He stood up on unsteady legs, walking slowly up a dirt path, and pointedly ignored the shattered moon that hung overhead. The door to the building was already open, and standing inside was a burly looking man wearing worn down clothes and reading a book. Beside him sat a ghostly figure, leaning against the man’s leg as if they were being told a story.

Asher cleared his throat, and the book was snapped shut.

“Hello,” the man said.

“Where am I?” Asher skipped over the greeting. There were more important things to cover than pleasantries.

“Ah, I see you’re one of the people Guardian wanted to bring into the dream. I am Zavala, friend to the Hunters,” Zavala introduced himself with a nod of his head. “They mean well, but…”

“They killed me,” Asher spat. “In my own home! Now answer my question: where am I?”

Zavala was silent for a moment, glancing at the specter beside him. “You’re in the Hunter’s Dream, and for that, I am sorry.”

The air in his chest was knocked out, leaving him gasping and leaning against the bookcase. “A dream?” Zavala nodded. “But- this makes no sense!”

“In time it will. Until then, if you wait long enough, then Mr Aurum will come and explain things to you better than I can.”

Asher’s head snapped up. Ira knew of this place? Did he know Guardian was going to kill him? His head hurt more than his chest ever has. Large hands guided him to sit in the lone chair that Zavala had stood up from, and he collapsed on it, bending over and clutching at his hair. Zavala muttered something under his breath and left him alone to his divigations.

He wanted to die human, and now-

Now he won’t die at all.

[dramaticironyoflife]

Baby Bird (Fly Home) - Chapter 4: Where Did Your Family Go?

Chapter 4 

Summary:

After years, Virgil and Logan have finally spoken. Now, time seems to drag for both until they are reunited...

Notes: I have not been consistent with my posting here so Imma post a frick ton of chapters...enjoy?!

The length of time that it would take Virgil to get to him was uncertain. Logan occupied his time with school and putting up the Plumber girls. It was almost a week after the phone call and Logan was walking back to the Plumber’s after school. Rain soaked his clothes and just about everything but his water-proof back pack. He kept his eyes trained on the sidewalk to avoid seeing the stares of sympathy from the people in their cars. He made it back to the house in time for dinner. The family was oddly quiet. Logan found the change pleasant. He could almost get used to the girls having sore throats. Mr. Plumber read his paper and Mrs. Plumber scrolled through her phone, looking at recipes. Logan finished his meal, asked to be excused, washed and dried his plate, cup, and utensils, and retreated upstairs to finish the last of his homework. He looked out the window after that, just staring at the stars. The lights on the streets and coming from the houses made it hard to find many of the constellations that he’d learned to love. Finally, he turned away and prepared himself for bed. He crawled into the soft mattress and fell into a light, uneasy sleep that had him tossing and turning.

*Rat* *Tap* *Tap* Logan opened his eyes and squinted into the dark. There was a rhythmic tapping. A clink of something against glass. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. With a curious glance around, he was able to locate the source of the noise. The boy slid out of bed and pattered over to it, trying to see into the dark. Another pebble hit the glass. Concern flooded Logan as he moved back to the bed and grabbed his glasses and dug a flashlight out of his backpack. Weapon in hand, he crept back to the portal and clicked on the light. He flashed it down and was surprised to see a figure clad in all black, crouched in the yard below. A hand came up to shield the light and Logan could see that the intruder wore fingerless gloves. He opened the window and leaned out over the sill. The intruder stood. “Curiosity is gonna kill you one of these days, Lo-Lo.” He said simply, moving his hand away to squint into the light source. Logan almost dropped the light. “Verge?” He asked with a gaping mouth. Virgil looked panicked as he brought a finger up to his lips, “Sh! Turn the light off and come downstairs…please.” He looked urgently up at his brother and watched him vanish from view. Logan couldn’t move fast enough. He tiptoed down the stairs as quickly as he could, praying that no one else was awake. He got to the back door and unlocked it. As it swung open he had to simply stop and stare. Virgil stood before him, the moonlight perfectly hitting the left side of his face. Long bangs, held in place by a black beanie, covered his right eye but Logan could see the moonlight glinting off it. The teen was tall, much taller than Logan recalled. He stood in a baggy hoodie and looked back at Logan. Virgil took Logan in, gosh, he was still skinny. In fact, it appeared that Logan had lost significant weight since Virgil had left. The elder boy bit his lip in worry. He’d always been there to make sure that Logan was taken care of properly. He was so tiny in his blue stripped pjs. The large brown eyes looked at him from behind the big spectacles and Virgil couldn’t help but think of a baby bird. He smiled at the thought and carefully lifted his arms up. This was it. Would Logan reject him? Turn him away? Heaven knows he was deserving of such treatment. With bated breath, he waited. Logan stared at the outstretched arms. His mind was going a million miles a minute as he stepped onto the dew-laden lawn. It felt uncomfortable on his bare feet. He took another step forward and took another deep breath, trying to understand that what was in front of him was real. Then he ran. He raced towards the older boy, towards Virgil, towards home. He slipped on the slick grass and dropped to his knees in front of him and the two looked at each other again in the moonlight. The wet grass soaked into their clothes and the crickets fell reverently still, observing the reunion with respect. The two boys sat in silence, like they were unsure of how to cope with each other’s presence. Logan was blinking hard, trying to hold back his tears. Suddenly, Virgil grabbed him and pulled him close. Logan let out a broken sob at the sudden contact and Virgil began to rock him slowly. “I’ve got you.” He murmured, “I won’t let you go again. You’re safe now, Lo-Lo.” So, Logan let himself go and he cried. He cried and Virgil held him just like he used to. Just like it should’ve been. The tears subsided and hiccups set in. Logan always got them after he cried hard, and they used to make Virgil worry about their father finding them. As soon as the first one came out, Logan stiffened and clamped a hand over his mouth. Virgil held him closer, “It’s okay,” He soothed, “he’s not here. I’ve got you.” Time froze between them. Logan hiccupped occasionally and Virgil smoothed his hair back. It must’ve been mere minutes, but it felt like hours when Virgil gently pulled them both up. Logan gripped his hand and Virgil brushed away a lone tear. “Go get your things, Lo. We’re leaving.” Logan blinked at him in surprise. “Where are we going?” He asked carefully. “Home.” Virgil promised. He squeezed Logan’s hand again, “I’ll wait for you out here. I promise.” Logan didn’t let go. He stared at the house and bit his lip. Was he ready to just leave it all behind? He was torn. Running off with Virgil was a decision that he didn’t feel was something that he should take lightly. But could he…lose Virgil again? No, not again. With a fiery determination, Logan slipped his fingers free and crept back into the house. He was swept with Deja vu as he began to gather his meager belongings together. He’d performed this ritual hundreds of times, first came the clothes. The pants, the shirts, and then the pjs slowly made their way into the backpack. He paused only to change into some black jeans and a collared shirt. He added a tie out of habit and continued the ritual of packing. Next went his books. There were only two of them, an Alice in Wonderland puzzle book and a well-worn copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He tucked these in with care and finally grasped the picture. He hesitated, without the frame, the photo could be damaged. Finally, he slipped it into the middle of his puzzle book. He pulled on the hoodie and then shrugged on the pack. With a final glance around, he turned off the light and closed the door to a crack. The house was quiet as he treaded lightly down the stairs. At the back door he paused and looked back. “Good-bye.” Virgil was waiting outside, just as he promised. He took in Logan’s outfit as he extended his hand towards him. Logan trotted over and slipped his own hand into Virgil’s. Together, they slipped into the night.

[lunaraen]

“I am NOT crying, okay?! I’m allergic to jerks!” Fem!Jesse/Aiden Please :3

As off putting as the night couldbe, dark and filled with monsters desperate for someone to attack, there wasnothing like a celebration to make it more inviting.

The inky night sky was filledwith stars, a sliver of the moon peeking past the grey, fluffy cloud thatcovered the rest of it, flashing colors overlapping and trying to outdo eachother as more and more fireworks were set off.

The near nonstop whistling,booming, and fizzing was hard to miss, as was the way the ground reflected backwhatever color was currently taking up the sky, even if someone didn’t look upand even under the noise brought on by people. Every stall was filled withsmells and noises that threatened to be overwhelming in the best of ways, thesteady chatter underlying the likewise constant chimes and clanks from stallsbursting with flashing and noisy items and the crackling and popping ofroasting food that was never more than two stalls away.

It wasn’t Endercon, but a regularfestival was still better than no festival.

Aiden had a feeling he’d beappreciating it more if he hadn’t been the one saddled to get the snacks,something the Ocelots rarely indulged in. They treated it like they dideverything else, though, and maybe it was because they enjoyed snacks so rarelythat everyone had decided to go overboard.

Or maybe it was because theyliked the way it made Aiden grumble when he realized how much food he’d have towait in line for and carry back. One fourth of it was his, sure, but justbecause he went overboard didn’t mean everyone else had to.

(Though to be fair, if theyhadn’t decided to get so much food, he definitely wouldn’t have either.)

Finding a stall that would havethe food they wanted wasn’t hard, but getting to it was thanks to all thepeople who had also apparently decided they were hungry.

Still, Aiden ended up stopping inthe flow of traffic, pushed to the edge and just close enough to see somebody,a figure that stood out as the festival was continually lit up by fireworklight, in the alley a few steps ahead.

It wasn’t often that he saw peoplein the alleys, dark and dingy with barely enough light to keep monsters fromspawning, and he supposed it wasn’t often he went looking for them.

Not that he had gone looking, butwith all the bright colors and lights, an abandoned alley stuck out, especiallywhen somebody was just barely visible out of the corner of his eye.

People who wanted to be safe, whowanted to be comforted, would find someplace nice and bright, preferably withwhatever friends they had. No one went into a dark area expecting to be safe.

People who were in dark alleyswanted to be left alone.

And Aiden was the sort of nosyperson who didn’t usually care about what other people wanted, so it wasn’thard for him to take a little detour, after a bit of shoving and pushing, andpeer into the alley instead of walking over to the stall. This alley wasbetween a bookstore and a butcher’s shop, both closed for the festival and bothdimly lit too, meaning that the light coming through their windows didn’t helphim see the shadowy figure as more than a dark blob.

A few moments of his eyes adjustingdid help, though, his boots crunching on the mix of gravel and dirt as hestepped off of the stone street.

Aiden wasn’t sure who he’d beenexpecting to see, but Jesse wasn’t it.

Her shoulders were hunched, herknees drawn to her chest as she rested against the grimy brick wall, handrubbing and wiping at her eyes. Her breathing was off, shaky and fast, and eventhe dimmer light of the alley didn’t hide how splotchy the skin around her eyeswas, or that her eyes looked near bloodshot. He almost thought she was hurt,but the red in her hair was the same dyed bit as always.

This wasn’t too far from wherethe two of them had last ran into each other, little over an hour ago, butAiden had figured she’d been on the other side of the festival since then. Ithadn’t exactly gone well, especially not after Lukas had tried making smalltalk.

She had smiled at Lukas, a goofysmile he knew she only ever gave to her friends, and Aiden… he… might’ve snapped,just a little, once Lukas walked away, and insulted her until Jesse had finallygotten the hint and ran away. He almost never got her to outright bolt, thoughin hindsight her smile had gone from being warm to thin and tight as soon asLukas had left, so Aiden probably hadn’t had that much to do with it if hermood had already been poor.

(Not that he doubted picking onevery bit of her appearance and her lack of skills and how likely it was thather friends couldn’t even stand her had something to do with it.)

Still, picking on her was soeasy. Finally seeing her snap had felt so good, so rewarding.

So why didn’t it feel that waynow?

Probably because when she ranaway, he figured that was that and he wouldn’t have to deal with however elseshe reacted.

He could’ve turned around andleft. He was planning on it, actually, and beginning to do just that when thosesame red, puffy eyes went from staring at the wall to focusing on him.

Notch, if it had been awkwardbefore, Aiden was sure this was as uncomfortable as anything could get.

Not that uncomfortable situationshad ever stopped him before. Having shame, any form of decency, or commoncourtesy were easy liabilities for someone who thrived best off of tearingother people down. Throwing rocks didn’t mean anything if he didn’t care when people tried to get him back.Being just as vulnerable, though, as his targets was practically suicide. If he was just as easy to get back at, people would bemore than happy to get revenge, and he’d deserve it for being a hypocriticalidiot.

A coldhearted jerk didn’t haveanything to worry about.

So, Aiden decided as he kept hiseyes on Jesse, moving to lean against the wall, there was nothing keeping himfrom going back to the other Ocelots and forgetting a sore loser. Which meantthat, if he stayed, it was his choice. He was doing this because he wanted to,not because he felt guilty or like he had to save face.

After all, that would beridiculous.

Still, whether or not he had tobe here, which he didn’t, that didn’t change that Jesse looked ready to breakinto tears again at any moment, even while she stared at him.

No matter how her eyes looked, itshouldn’t have felt like they were burning a hole through his head.

But it did, and he was prettysure they would if given enough time, which meant he had to do something if hewanted to make it less awkward.

“Are you… crying?”

“I am not crying, okay?! I’m allergic to jerks!”

Jesse never spoke. Not to him,anyway, though he was sure he was the only one who got the silent treatment. Itwas always sharp looks and rolled eyes, but despite run-ins at the market andtheir usual interactions at Endercon, she had yet to say so much as a word tohim.

Well, until now, and it wasbecause he’d made her start sobbing. That wasn’t exactly how he hoped it wouldhappen.

(Not that he’d hoped that she’dstart talking to him. With his luck, she’d be rambler and would never shut up.He just wondered every now and then, was all, about when she would and what hervoice sounded like. He’d only ever really heard it from a distance, and hecould safely say he’d never heard it stilted and thick like it was now.)

“That’s the best you can do?” Aiden sat down, choosing not toslide down the wall so his jacket wouldn’t get scratched up, one of his feetcovering one of the few pitiful scraggly tufts of yellow grass that poked outof the ground between bits of grit. “‘Jerk’? Really? Come on, you spendall your time just glaring at me and not saying anything. Don’t you haveanything better than that?”

Saying the look he got was flatwould be like saying that the streets were only sort of filled with people. Itwas a look he was more familiar with, icy and sharp and not up for dealing withhis usual brand of bullshit.

“Okay, fine. I’m allergic toassholes.”

Aiden raised an eyebrow, andJesse either gave up on or couldn’t hide her smile anymore. He pretended tothink about it for a few moments, humming lightly before shrugging and shakinghis head.

“…nope. Still not feelingit. You can’t suck more at insults than you already do at building.”

Her groan sounded as fake as hishum did, but all the same her smile disappeared a moment later.

“Why are you talking to me,Aiden?”

He wanted to say that it was noneof her business, and he nearly did, but she was kind of the person he wastalking to, which meant even he couldn’t deny that it was at least partly herbusiness.

It wasn’t often that he had toswallow his words.

“I could ask you the samething.” Aiden shifted, crossing one leg over the other as he linked hishands and put them behind his head, tilting his chin up slightly.“Besides, I don’t have to waste my time here.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”Jesse straightened up, pressing her back to the brick wall, as her hand shot upjust in time to catch the handkerchief Aiden tossed her way before he settled his hands behind his head again. It was light blueand faded, and he’d been meaning to get a better one anyway. He definitelydidn’t want it back, especially not after Jesse used it to wipe under her eyes.“Why aren’t you with your friends?”

“Just because we’re a greatteam doesn’t mean we have to be attached at the hip all the time.” He didn’tbother to hold back his eye roll. It seemed like it was really easy foreveryone to think of the Ocelots as some sort of collective, like they had tobe to be as good as they were, as if they weren’t all just incredible buildersand even better friends. Aiden made sure his glance at the moving crowd on the streetlasted long enough for Jesse to notice. “'sides, where’re yours? Don’ttell me they ditched you after you ran crying to them.”

“No. They’re around.” Jesse crossed her arms, opening her mouthto say more before sighing and closing it. She stared at the ground for severalseconds before looking back up at Aiden with a grimace that looked like it was afailed attempt at either a smile or a frown. “They don’t know I’m here.They think I’m just roaming the festival, like yours do.”

They were both bathed in red lightas a firework went off almost right above them, a giant circle that took asmall while to fade and fizzle.

“That’s a pretty bigassumption on your part.”

“If you thought they knewwhere you were, you wouldn’t be hanging out with a loser.”

“We’re not hanging out.”An actual insult, biting and sharp, came to mind, but Aiden found himselfshoving it aside at Jesse’s grin and the one worming its way onto his face. Hereally hoped this wasn’t going to become a trend. “Shut up. I’m not theone bawling on the ground.”

“Right. You’re just ajerk.” Jesse’s grin could almost be confused for being warm as Aidenraised an eyebrow again. “Sorry, asshole.”

“Yup. Don’t you forgetit.” Aiden hesitated before getting to his feet, brushing his jacket offbefore turning back towards the street, pausing to glance back at Jesse. “Goodluck, loser. Your friends are gonna start looking for you soon if you don’tshow up.”

He couldn’t hear if she saidanything over the steady roar of the crowd and the fireworks, and when helooked back, the alley was already empty.

Besides, he had his own friendsto get back to, ones that probably were starting to wonder where he was.

Not that it looked like he’d need an excuse.

Aiden winced as he approached thefood stall, a large group of people crowding the front and every other nearby stall looking just as busy.

[like-a-bag-of-potatoes]

With You By My Side - Five

A/N:  I have said this before and I’ll say it again. This series is gonna be 90% angst. By now you all know that the Reader is sick with terminal cancer, so it shouldnt come as a surprise that its gonna be a bumpy ride. I will try and warn appropriately in each chapter, but if I do miss something, please let me know. Also, thank you for all of your feedback, keeps me motivated and inspired. Thank you to my preciou beta @thorne93, you’re the best.

Characters: Jensen, Reader, Jared, Gen

Warnings: Sick reader, some angst, some fuff, flashbacks in itallics.

Wordcount: 2457 CATCH UP HERE

It was late Sunday night when Jensen arrived at your house, the next morning he was coming with you to the hospital to remove your stitches and do some tests to see if you were ready to start chemo. To say that you were nervous would be an understatement, it wasn't necessarily the treatment itself you were scared of, but more the side effects, or maybe it was that you didn't know what to expect at all.

Jensen had stayed up with you through the night when you couldn't sleep, holding you close and stroking your hair to try and soothe your nerves, even if it helped just a little it would be worth it. The car ride to the hospital was uncomfortably quiet, neither of you knowing what to say.

You stepped out of Jensen's car in the garage at the hospital, thinking you were ready for whatever came today, but all of a sudden your legs were unable to move. Your eyes widened in horror as the situation dawned on you and Jensen was fast at your side, taking your hand.

“I can't do this,” you whispered.

“I can't imagine how hard this must be for you, but I know how strong you are. I know that you can do this (YN), and I promise I'll be here every step of the way,” he said, clutching your hand in his and looking into your eyes.

There had always been a comfort for you in his eyes, maybe it was because they always revealed how he felt, maybe because they changed color along with his mood, maybe because you could look into those eyes and feel at home. You took a few more deep breaths before your legs were able to carry you through the parking garage and into the hospital.

**

The first thing that happened was that you were guided into a room by the nurse that had been with you after the surgery, to remove your bandages and stitches. She told you that it was healing well, but even with the stitches removed you should keep a bandage on on for at least a week longer. After that you were taken to see your oncologist.

“So all we really have to do now is get you a venous access port, or a VAP, which we will use during your chemotherapy and you’re good to go,” Dr. Hansen finished explaining.

You would have three days of chemo every other week for two months, in all four treatments, before they did another evaluation. The first day you would have to stay at the hospital for four hours while the chemo was injected, and then you would go home with a pump that would use 24 hours to inject another type of medicine, then you would have to come back to the hospital to get ‘disconnected’, as he put it, and another round of four hour therapy on day three. It sounded scary and confining, but Dr. Hansen assured you that this was the easiest way to go about it and he stressed the point that you were free to live your life as normal the other days.

“When do you think I will start to feel sick?”

“As I said before, there is no guarantee that you will feel sick at all. Everyone reacts differently,” he said, leaning his elbows on the desk.

“From the cancer I mean? I'm still a little sore from the surgery, but other than that I don't feel sick at all,” you corrected. It was a surreal feeling, knowing that your body was dying and you didn't even feel it happening, hadn't it been for the lump in your chest you wouldn't have gone to the doctor at all.

“Oh.. I can't answer that at this point. We will see in two months how your body reacts to the chemo, if we’re lucky we will be able to contain the spreading, but even then it's hard to have an answer to your question.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

You had asked Jensen to wait in the hallway while you talked to your doctor, not because you didn't want him in there with you, but because you wanted to be able to ask the questions that you had on your mind without having to consider how the answers affected him.

**

“What's on your mind, sweetheart?” Jensen asked as he joined you on the beach. It was your last night in Bora Bora before you headed back home to Texas.

“Just enjoying the sunset.” You smiled up at him. He took a seat behind you, spreading his legs so that you could rest your body against his, wrapping his arms around you.

“What is it with you and sunsets anyway? I've known you for years now and you never told me,” he questioned.

“My dad used to read me bedtime stories outside while we watched the sunsets. He told me that that way my mom could listen aswell,” you said through that lump that always formed in your throat when you talked about him. Your dad had always been your hero, your rock. Your mother had died when you were just two years old and after that it had been just you and your father. He worked hard to provide for you, making sure that you always had what you needed, he had been both a mother and a father to you as well as your friend. Even as you grew older the two of you had sat in the garden and watched the sunset, both of you feeling a little closer to your mom, often he would tell you stories about her to help you know her even though she was gone.

After he had died a few year's earlier, it had become so much more important to catch those sunsets whenever you could, you imagined your mom and dad somewhere out there, watching the sunset with you. You also imagined yourself reading fairytales to your own children and telling them stories about their grandparent as you all watched the sky change colors in the most magical way.

“Do you still think about him often?” Jensen asked softly.

“I still think about him every day, but it doesn't fill me with grief like it used to. But this makes me feel closer to him,” you said, gesturing to the now orange sky.

The two of you sat in silence until the stars started appearing on the darkened sky, there was a warm breeze fanning over you and the only sound you could hear was the waves as they met the beach. This had truly been a perfect vacation.

“Are you happy?” you asked wearily. Everything had happened so fast between the two of you, it was a dream come true for you, but you had to be sure he felt the same way.

“Never been happier.” Jensen smiled.

“I feel the same. Sucks that we have to go back to reality tomorrow,” you said truthfully.

“Well.. we still have one night left,” he teased, placing soft kisses to your neck.

**

Jensen sat in the waiting area at the hospital for the third time that week, thinking about that last night in Bora Bora, waiting for you to get ‘disconnected’ before he could take you back to your house. He really appreciated that you let him come with you, that you let him stay at your house so he could look out for you. The thought of you having to go through this alone horrified him. Being so close to you had its disadvantages though. The two of you had gone back to the way you were before you had started dating, and although he appreciated that, he hated it too, he hated that he couldn't sweep you into his arms and kiss you, he hated that he couldn't look into your beautiful eyes and tell you just how much he loved you.

“I'm good to go,” you said as you found Jensen in one of the waiting areas.

“Hmm…oh yeah.. Great..” he said, your voice had snapped him back to reality.

“Where was your mind at?” you chuckled.

“Don't worry about it. Shall we?” he asked, holding out his arm for you to take.

**

“Have you told Jared anything about what's going on?” you carefully asked once the two of you were back in Jensen's car and headed home.

“No, I haven't really found a good opportunity yet,” he answered “Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking that maybe I'll invite him and Gen over for dinner this weekend and I can tell them then. I don't feel like it's fair of me to ask you to do it, they are my friends too after all,” you explained.

“I think that's a great idea. You want me to be there too, or?”

“If you want to. I totally understand if you have other plans though.”

“Of course I'll be there, I'll even help you cook,” he offered.

**

Saturday came and Jensen was at your door bright and early, he wanted to come with you to get the shopping done for dinner that night, also he hadn't seen you at all on Friday and he was starting to miss you. It was strange how fast he had gotten used to being around you again and how empty he felt without you there.

There hadn't been any significant side effects of the chemo yet, you felt a little queasy at times and your energy level was a bit lower than usual, but other than that you felt fine. The conversation you knew you had to have tonight weighed on you though. Jared had been your friend since highschool and you and Gen had hit it off at once after she started dating Jared. You and Gen tried to hang out as often as you could, especially when the boys were in Vancouver filming, but after you had broken up with Jensen you hadn't really been in the mood for company so it had been a while since you had seen her.

“You know what you’re going to tell them tonight?” Jensen questioned as he was peeling potatoes.

“Not really. I figured I’d just tell them about the cancer and the surgery and that I'm on chemo.”

“Are you going to tell them that it's… you know… terminal?” Jensen struggled with even saying that word, it was as if he said it out loud it became so much more real.

“I might as well. The doctor seems pretty adamant that there is no chance of curing me, and I don't want to give anyone false hope.”

He agreed. Jared and Gen was the two people closest to you besides Jensen, and they deserved to know the whole story.

A couple of hours later the doorbell rang and you and Jensen went to welcome you guests. A round of ‘hello’s’ and hugs in the hallway before you showed them into the dining room.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Gen commented when she noticed the new wallpaper.

“Thank you. Feels a little more like me now,” you said. “Dinner is ready so you can just take a seat.”

Dinner was fun. Just four friends talking and catching up on recent events. Jared made a joke about Jensen leaving him high and dry all alone up in Vancouver for the last week, to which Jensen gave him a halfhearted smile and you just stared at your plate, feeling guilty for being the reason he had left early. Jensen noticed and gave your leg a reassuring squeze under the table.

“So, I kind of had an agenda when I invited you two over,” you confessed after everyone had finished their desserts. “There is something I have to tell you.”

“What is it?” Jared inquired, noticing the shift in both yours and Jensen's mood.    

“About a month ago I discovered a lump in my chest, the day after I went to the doctor and got some tests done and later that week I was diagnosed with cancer. I had surgery to remove both of my breasts, but the cancer had already spread through my lymphnodes and into my liver. I started my first round of chemo this week, but it's only to prevent it from spreading further, they don't think they’ll be able to cure me.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Jared asked, looking from you to Jensen and back, his hazel eyes filled with worry and shock.

“It means I’m dying,” you explained calmly.

“How much time do you have?” Gen piped in, her voice shaking and her eyes swimming with tears.

“They think maybe a year and a half, but we won't know any more before I'm done with this round of chemo.”

There was a lot of questions going back and forth and you answered them as best as you could. Jensen was by your side the whole time, holding your hand under the table, fighting hard against his own tears. The last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of you, he needed to stay strong for you, to be your rock through this.

When the Padaleckis left about an hour later, the mood was a little lighter, but the hugs you got from the two of them was a lot tighter than the ones you received when they had arrived earlier. You wished them a good night and made a promise to come over and say hi to the boys sometime next week.

“So, how do you feel?” Jensen asked as he sat down next to you on your couch.

“I feel a little tired, but other than that I’m fine,” you answered truthfully.

“You were really brave tonight.”

“You think so? I didn't feel all that brave.”

Jensen leaned back on the couch, grabbing your arm and pulling you with him so that you were cuddled up against his side.

“Jay?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you remember that last night we had in Bora Bora?” you asked a little awkwardly, you weren't sure if you guys were at a place where it was okay to talk about your failed relationship.

“I was just thinking about it earlier this week actually, it was a great night. Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular…” you trailed of, not knowing if you should finish that thought out loud. “I don't think I’ve ever been happier or more at peace than I was that night.”

“I know what you mean.” He placed a feather light kiss to the top of your head. “It's getting late, I should probably head home too,” he said.

“Please stay,” you begged, just loud enough for him to hear you.  

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[brinazzle]

3

Most of us go through life unaware of how our environment shapes our behavior. When we experience “road rage” on a crowded freeway, it’s not because we’re sociopathic monsters. It’s because the temporary condition of being behind the wheel in a car, surrounded by rude impatient drivers, triggers a change in our otherwise placid demeanor. We’ve unwittingly placed ourselves in an environment of impatience, competitiveness, and hostility—and it alters us. When we take highly vocal umbrage at disappointing food in a restaurant by abusing a friendly waiter and making nasty comments to the maître d’—neither of whom cooked the food—it’s not because we regularly display the noblesse oblige of Louis XIV. Our behavior is an aberration, triggered by a restaurant environment where we believe that paying handsomely for a meal entitles us to royal treatment. In an environment of entitlement, we behave accordingly. Outside the restaurant we resume our lives as model citizens—patient, polite, not entitled. Even when we’re aware of our environment and welcome being in it, we become victims of its ruthless power. Three decades ago, when I started spending half my days on airplanes, I regarded being on a plane as the ideal environment for reading and writing. No phones, no screens, no interruptions. The constant travel wasn’t an annoyance—because it allowed me to be hyperproductive. But as the airlines’ in-flight entertainment offerings gradually expanded from one film on a single screen to universal Wi-Fi and fifty on-demand channels at my seat, my productivity dropped. What had been apocket of monastic serenity had become a glittering arcade of distraction. And I was tempted and easily distracted. Instead of getting work done or catching up on much-needed sleep while crossing several time zones, I’d watch two or three pointless movies in a row. Each time as I walked off the plane, instead of being happy to arrive safely on the ground, ready to charge into my next assignment, I berated myself over the time I’d wasted in flight. I felt that I had dropped the ball on being disciplined. I also noticed that where in the past I’d leave the airport feeling relaxed and rested, I was now more tired and enervated. It took me a couple of years to realize that the onboard environment had changed—and I had changed with it. But not for the better. If there is one “disease” that I’m trying to cure in this book, it revolves around our total misapprehension of our environment. We think we are in sync with our environment, but actually it’s at war with us. We think we control our environment but in fact it controls us. We think our external environment is conspiring in our favor—that is, helping us when actually it is taxing and draining us. It is not interested in what it can give us. It’s only interested in what it can take from us. If it sounds like I’m treating our environment as a hostile character in our life dramas, that’s intentional. I want us to think of our environment as if it were a person—as imminent and real as an archrival sitting across the table. Our environment is not merely the amorphous space just beyond our fingertips and skin, our corporeal being. It’s not a given like the air around us, something we inhale and exhale but otherwise ignore as we go about our routines. Our environment is a nonstop triggering mechanism whose impact on our behavior is too significant to be ignored. Regarding it as a flesh-and blood character is not just fanciful metaphor. It’s a strategy that lets us finally see what we’re up against. (In some cases, I advise giving our environment a name.) It’s not all bad. Our environment can be the angel on our shoulder, making us a better person—like when we find ourselves at a wedding or class reunion or awards dinner and the joyous spark of fellow feeling in the room overwhelms people. Everyone is hugging and promising to stay in touch and get together real soon. (Of course, that feeling often fades the moment we return to our regular lives—in other words, find ourselves in a different environment. We are altered by the change. We forget our promises. We don’t follow up. We don’t stay in touch. The contrast couldn’t be more stark. One environment elevates us, the other erases the good vibes as if they never happened.) Much of the time, however, our environment is the devil. That’s the part that eludes us: entering a new environment changes our behavior in sly ways, whether we’re sitting in a conference room with colleagues or visiting friends for dinner or enduring our weekly phone call with an aging parent. For example, my wife, Lyda, and I are not cynical people. Although it’s my job to point out people’s personal challenges during the workweek, in my “civilian” life I try to be a nonjudgmental guy. I make a conscious effort to accept people’s foibles and “let it go.” Lyda doesn’t have to work as hard as I do at tolerance; she’s always the kindest person in the room. Yet we become different people whenever we have dinner with our neighbors Terry and John. They are a droll, amusing couple, but their humor stems from a sour worldview. Nearly everything that comes out of their mouths—about mutual friends or political figures or the neighbors’ pets—is cynical and snarky, almost cruel, as if they were auditioning for a celebrity roast. As Lyda and I debriefed after one particularly mean-spirited dinner, we marveled at the sarcastic comments we made. It wasn’t like us. We searched for reasons for our unusual behavior, concluding that the only variable was the people we were with and the setting we found ourselves in. In other words, the environment. In the same way that people talk more softly with a soft-spoken person, more quickly with a fast talker, our opinions were fundamentally altered inside the dark conversational bubble created by Terry and John. Sometimes altering one factor can turn an ideal environment into a disaster. It doesn’t change us. It changes everyone else in the room and how they react to us. Many years ago I was speaking at an off-site gathering of partners from a consulting firm. Although my previous work with this firm had gone well, this time something wasn’t working. No give-and take, no lively laughter, just a group of very smart people sitting on their hands. I finally realized that the room was too hot. Amazingly, by merely turning down the temperature in the room, the session got back on track. Like a rock star demanding red M&Ms in the dressing room, I’m now a bit of a diva about insisting on a cool environment for my presentations. I’ve learned how one tweak in the environment changes everything. * The most pernicious environments are the ones that compel us to compromise our sense of right and wrong. In the ultracompetitive environment of the workplace, it can happen to the most solid citizens. I remember working at a European conglomerate with a top-performing executive named Karl. He had a dictatorial management style—obsessive, strict, and punitive. He was openly gunning for the CEO job, and he drove his staff mercilessly to further his career. His mantra was “Make your number.” He’d write off anyone who contradicted his “number” or said it was unrealistic. To those who remained loyal, he’d scream, “Do whatever it takes!” Not surprisingly, his team started taking shortcuts to make their numbers. Some went from borderline unethical to clearly unethical behavior. In the environment Karl created, they didn’t see it as moral erosion. They saw it as the only option on the table. Eventually, the truth came out. The scandal cost the company tens of millions of euros and even more in reputational damage. Karl’s defense was, “I never asked my people to do anything immoral or illegal.” He didn’t need to ask. The environment he created did the work for him. Our environment changes us even when we’re dealing one-on-one with people to whom we’d ordinarily show kindness. Weturn friends into strangers, behaving as if we’ll never have to face them again. I was conducting a 360-degree feedback survey with a woman named Jackie about her company’s chief operating officer some years ago when she and I got sidetracked into a discussion about the emotional toll of her job. Jackie sounded like she wanted to unload some deep issues, so I listened. She was an in-house lawyer at a sales organization, specializing in employment matters. One of her duties was to negotiate separation agreements with departing sales executives, whether they were leaving of their own volition or not. “It’s not my favorite part of the job,” she said. “I’m dealing with people at a fragile moment in their careers. Most of them have no immediate prospects. And I represent the company’s interests, not theirs.” Jackie specifically wanted to talk about an executive who’d been let go. She’d gone to college with the man, reconnected with him after they began working at the same company. They talked on a regular basis, occasionally socialized. It was Jackie’s job to hash out the terms of his departure. The severance package was contractual and generous. The negotiable part was determining how much of the ongoing revenue stream from the man’s sales accounts would go to him and how much to the company. For reasons she couldn’t articulate, Jackie took a hard position with the man. Over several weeks of back-and-forth emails and phone calls, she used all her negotiating wiles and leverage to ensure that the company got the lion’s share of sales commissions from the man’s accounts. At first, I didn’t see why she was telling me this. “You were doing your job, being a professional,” I said. But she was clearly troubled by the memory of her behavior. “That’s what I tell myself,” said Jackie. “But this man was my friend. He deserved some compassion. Instead, I argued with him over a grand total of twenty thousand dollars, a sum of money that wouldn’t have made a dent on the company’s bottom line but would be significant to a jobless friend. Who was I trying to impress? The company didn’t care. It’s the most painful regret of my career.” I’d like to report that I had wise and consoling words for her that day. But this happened about ten years ago and the environment’s malign power wasn’t obvious to me at the time. I see it now, of course. As a lawyer, Jackie was trained to be adversarial. She was accustomed to arguing and negotiating over minor deal points. In a sales environment where everyone’s measuring who’s up, who’s down, who’s squeezing the last dime out of a deal, Jackie wanted to show she was doing her part. It demonstrated her value to the company. Unfortunately, that same ruthless bottom-line environment fostered the aggressive behavior that blurred right and wrong for Jackie. In her zeal to be a professional negotiator, she behaved like an amateur human being. Some environments are designed precisely to lure us into acting against our interest. That’s what happens when we overspend at the high-end mall. Blame it on a retail experience specifically engineered—from the lighting to the color schemes to the width of the aisles—to maximize our desire and liberate cash from our wallets. What’s really strange is that the mall environment doesn’t jump out at us like a thief in a dark alley. We have chosen to place ourselves in an environment that, based on past experience, will trigger the urge to buy something we neither need nor want. (This is even more predictable if we go without a specific shopping list—and put ourselves at the mercy of random, undisciplined consumption and a vague feeling that we can’t leave the mall empty-handed.) In overspending we fall into a trap that we have set for ourselves. The environments of a casino or an online shopping site are even less safe. Very smart people have spent their waking hours with one goal in mind: designing each detail so it triggers a customer to stay and spend. Other environments are not as manipulative and predatory as a luxury store. But they’re still not working for us. Consider the perennial goal of getting a good night’s sleep. Insufficient sleep is practically a national epidemic, afflicting one-third of American adults (it’s twice as bad for teenagers). Sleep should be easy to achieve. We have the motivation to sleep well. Who doesn’t want to wake up alert rather than foggy, refreshed rather than sluggish? We understand how much sleep we need. It’s basic arithmetic. If we have work or class early the next morning and need six to eight hours of sleep, we should work backward and plan on going to bed around 11 p.m. And we have control: Sleep is a self-regulated activity that happens in an environment totally governed by us—our home. We decide when to tuck in for the night. We choose our environment, from the room, to the bed, to the sheets and pillows. So why don’t we do what we know is good for us? Why do we stay up later than is good for us—and in turn not get enough sleep and wake up tired rather than refreshed? I blame it on a fundamental misunderstanding of how our environment shapes our behavior. It leads to a phenomenon that Dutch sleep researchers at Utrecht University call “bedtime procrastination.” We put off going to bed at the intended time because we prefer to remain in our current environment—watching a late-night movie or playing video games or cleaning the kitchen—rather than move to the relative calm and comfort of our bedroom. It’s a choice between competing environments. But because we don’t appreciate how our environment influences our choice, we fail to make the right choice (that is, go tobed). We continue doing what we’re doing, victims of inertia, unaware that getting a good night’s sleep is not something we deserve because we’re tired but rather something we must earn by developing better habits. If we understood how our environment can sabotage our sleep habits, we’d change our behavior. We’d stop what we’re doing, turn off our cell phones and iPads and laptops, banish the TV from the bedroom, and turn in for the night—as if we planned it. How we learn to change our behavior from bad habits to good ones, through discipline rather than occasional good fortune, is the subject matter—and promise—of this book’s remaining pages. But first, I have one more piece of disturbing news. Our environment isn’t static. It alters throughout our day. It’s a moving target, easy to miss. If we think about our environment at all, we probably regard it as an expansive macrosphere that is defined by the major influences on our behavior—our family, our job, our schooling, our friends and colleagues, the neighborhood we live in, the physical space we work in. It’s like a borderless nation-state bearing our name that reminds us who we are but has no influence on our decisions or actions. If only that were true. The environment that I’m most concerned with is actually smaller, more particular than that. It’s situational, and it’s a hyperactive shape-shifter. Every time we enter a new situation, with its mutating who-what-when-where-and-why specifics, we are surrendering ourselves to a new environment—and putting our goals, our plans, our behavioral integrity at risk. It’s a simple dynamic: a changing environment changes us. The mother who, in the environment of her home, leisurely makes breakfast for herself and her kids before sending them off to school and transporting herself to work is not the same person who, immediately upon arriving at the office, walks into a major budget meeting headed by her company’s founder. There’s no way she could be. At home she is more or less chief of her domain—and exhibits the behavior of an ultraresponsible leader, caring for her family, expecting obedience, assuming respect. It’s a different environment at the office. She may still be the same confident and competent person she was at home. But, wittingly or not, she fine-tunes her behavior in the meeting. She’s deferential to authority. She pays close attention to the statements and body language of her colleagues. And so it goes through her workday, from situation to situation. As the environment changes, so does she. There’s nothing inauthentic about the woman’s behavior. It’s a necessary survival strategy in a professional environment, especially if you’re no longer in total command of your situation. It wouldn’t be any different if this same woman were the head of the company. Leaders alter their behavior to suit the environment, too. The head of a major construction firm once told me that as an active defense contractor, with differing levels of security clearances for different government contracts, she had to be incredibly scrupulous about the information she shared across parts of her company. She was required by the federal government to compartmentalize what she said. She could share sensitive information over here but not over there, and vice versa. As a result, she was hyperalert to the link between her environment and behavior (failure to do so could not only hurt her company but land her in prison). As an exercise, I asked her to track her environment and how many behavioral personas she adopted as she went through a typical day. Nine, she reported back. She behaved like a CEO among her office staff, a public speaker at a PR event, an engineer among her design wizards, a salesman with a potential customer, a diplomat with a visiting trade group, and so on. Few of us are legally mandated to be so aware. This situational aspect of our environment is what I’ve been working on with my one-on-one coaching clients. It’s not that these very smart executives don’t know that circumstances change from moment to moment as they go through their day. They know. But at the level these people operate in—where nine out of ten times they are the most powerful person in the room—they can easily start believing they’re immune to the environment’s ill will. In a frenzy of delusion, they actually believe they control their environment, not the other way around. Given all the deference and fawning these C-level executives experience throughout the day, such misguided belief is understandable. Not acceptable, but understandable. For example, in 2008 I was hired to coach an executive named Nadeem in London. A Pakistani by birth, Nadeem had emigrated to the United Kingdom as a child, graduated from the London School of Economics, and had risen to one of the top five positions at a leading consumer goods company. Nadeem had all the virtues of a rising star being groomed for CEO. He was smart, personable, hardworking, respected (even “loved”) by his direct reports. But some chinks in his nice guy reputation had appeared. I was asked by the CEO to smooth them out. We all know people who get on our nerves and induce us to behave badly. Around such people, we’re edgy, nasty, combative, rude, and constantly apologizing for our uncharacteristic behavior—though we rarely attribute the cause of our errant behavior to such people. It was the same for Nadeem. When I interviewed his colleagues, a recurring theme came up. Nadeem was a great guy, but he lost his cool whenever he was in a public forum with Simon the chief marketing officer. I asked Nadeem what his issues were with Simon. “He is a racist,” he said. “Is that your opinion, or can you back it up with proof?” I asked. “My opinion,” he said. “But if I feel it, isn’t it a fact, too?” My feedback had said that Simon loved to bait Nadeem in meetings. It wasn’t racial. Simon was a self-entitled “toff,” a product of Britain’s privileged class and elite schools. He had a penchant for pomposity and biting remarks. The sarcasmwas his way of reminding people of his background, elevating himself while diminishing others. He wasn’t a fun guy to be with, but he was not a bigot. Nadeem overreacted to Simon. When Simon challenged him in a meeting, Nadeem felt that, given the decades of racial resentment and tension between Brits and Pakistanis, he couldn’t be seen as backing down. “If I take his crap, it makes me look weak,” said Nadeem. So he fought back. In Nadeem’s mind it was a racial issue, but he was the only one who interpreted it that way. Nadeem’s colleagues saw him as a vocal proponent of teamwork who wasn’t modeling what he was preaching. It was branding Nadeem as a phony. My task was to make Nadeem see that • his behavior wasn’t serving him well; • it was isolated to the time he spent in Simon’s presence; • it was triggered whenever Simon challenged him, and • he had to change because he couldn’t count on Simon to change. The big insight for Nadeem was that his behavior was situational, triggered solely by Simon. Every time Nadeem found himself in the “Simon environment” (that’s what he named it), he would go on high alert. It was a new level of mindfulness for him—and a critical (though not the only) factor in his swift change for the better. We’ll come back to Nadeem in Chapter 20 to learn precisely how he changed his behavior and, in turn, won back the respect of his colleagues and his nemesis, Simon. It’s an uplifting story with a shocking admission from Nadeem—and (spoiler alert) it neatly encapsulates the most important benefit of adult behavioral change. But for now let’s absorb and wallow in Nadeem’s hard-won appreciation that our environment is a relentless triggering machine. If we do not create and control our environment, our environment creates and controls us. And the result turns us into someone we do not recognize. 

* I’ve since learned that David Letterman lowered his Late Show studio temperature to a chilly 55 degrees before going onstage. He experimented with room temperatures in the 1980s and discovered that his jokes worked best at 55 degrees, which makes the sound crisper and the audience more alert.

[thefragileblackdahlia]

Heaven: Final part

Chapter Summary:

Anna recalls her past and Sam and Dean understand why Castiel and Uriel want her dead. Anna recognizes Ariel from 'work' but doesn't remember her as the new and improved angel she is now. Ariel and Dean finally steal a moment for themselves

Character(s): Ariel, Dean, Sam, Ruby, Anna, Castiel, Uriel, Lucifer, Michael

Pairing(s): Eventual Dean x Ariel, Ruby x Sam, (former) Lucifer x Ariel

Warning(s): MAJOR Angst, Little bit of Crack, Angelcest??? Typical SUPERNATURAL Violence, Mild Language

A/N: I've been struggling to write this chapter since I have to write more than 3 characters than what I'm used to. Writing for Sam, Ariel and Dean is easy peasy but Ruby, Anna, Pamela, and the others are very difficult. I am publishing this chapter into two parts since I feel like that would be the easiest and because it's very long.

Also, I have no idea how Angel relationships work. They don't share the same DNA at all but only the same creator so under that, they are somewhat 'related' but not technically. Ariel and Lucifer have a strange, toxic, codependent relationship to begin with because of the bond- so I can expect them to be strange and touchy but with Michael and Ariel, she shuns it.

Please feel free to leave feedback.

Beta'd by Zoe (a friend)

Word count: 3,950+

JUNKYARD

EVENING

Immediately after she was pardoned from the duty of research, she teleported outside by a heap of cars. She placed a hand on the car for stability but it did not lessen the disorienting feeling.

'Does Dad know you're here? Better yet- Does Michael know?'

There it was again. His voice invading her mind, dominating her thoughts and pulling her into an unwanted flashback. She climbed onto a car, sitting upright before her eyes glossed over in white. It was clear these memories were being brought to the light on purpose.

The words just tumbled out of her mouth,

"They don't have to know..."

"Right, but if they caught you here without permission... You'd be in big trouble." The voice belonged to a man, none other than first of the fallen, Lucifer. The infamous archangel stepped forward out of the shadows of his domain to get a good look at Ariel. He sucked in air through his teeth, "So, how'd you find me, Little Red?"

Ariel tightened her grip on her sword; A weapon of Heaven. Michael had a Lance, Lucifer had his spear before the fall, Gabriel had his Horn of Truth, and Ariel had her Sword of Justice. Her eyes followed the corrupted angel as he circled her, taking in the sight of her armor and sword.

"Why are you dressed for war? I thought you were in Nature preservation..." Lucifer asked, appearing behind his sister and reaching down for the sword but Ariel flinched in terror. She had no idea what drew her here but it was clear her subconscious wanted her there.

The redhead trembled, her grip faltering causing her to drop the sword into his hand. Why couldn't she speak? She had so much to say, but now it was as if all the words had been stolen from her lips.

Her other half sighed at her display of terror, "Ariel, I'd never hurt you... You know that right?" Lucifer wrapped his fingers around the hilt of her blade, striking it into the concrete before taking her head in his hands. He dragged his calloused thumbs over her cheeks, forcing her to look up at him.

Ariel squeezed her eyes shut, slightly pulling away from him but he only held her head tighter as if he wanted to crush it- but that wasn't his intent. Right? He dug his fingertips into the sides of her head, unsure of what he truly wanted from her. She hadn't spoken and seeing her look up to him with vulnerable eyes, it made him itch.

Instinctually closing the gap between them, Lucifer could now feel her vessel's breath hitting his chin and it bothered him. Why did it bother him? He watched her tongue run over her pink lips, prompting him to do the same to his. His grip tightened.

They stood like this for a while before Ariel finally found the words to say, "Why did you hurt me?" She spoke softly, almost like a hushed whisper but in the empty room, it was loud.

"Because you hurt me," Lucifer's response was quick and didn't take him long to come up with. He didn't expect the truth to come out, usually, it would have been a snarky reply coated in lies.

Ariel looked away at this response, shaking her head. "Because I didn't agree with your rebellion?" She queried, placing her hands over his to pry him from herself but he was stronger; Always.

"Because we were in it together- you were made for me- not for humans- not for him." Lucifer's tone gradually went from soft to passive-aggressive. He snaked his hands up into her hair, gripping it. A small groan erupted from Ariel's throat, earning her a wolfish grin from Lucifer.

"I was created to serve God. If he tells me to love humans more than anything... I will."

"And if he told you to kill me? Would you do it?"

"Blasphemy."

The youngest raised her hand to his forearm, gripping it. She ran her thumb over his ivory skin, realizing the Mark was gone. Ariel locked eyes with him.

"Who did you give it to? What poor soul said yes to that monstrosity?"

Lucifer loosened his hold on the woman, glancing at his forearm as his mouth curved into a sheepish grin.

Ariel searched his eyes, "Why can't we go somewhere else? We can leave, go to the other side of the universe, far away from earth, Heaven..." Her voice broke near the end as her eyes started to well up with tears.

Lucifer's eyes snapped back to her azure one's, watching the tears fall over the precipice and down her red cheeks.

This was the first time he had ever looked into her eyes and saw both fear and love.

Lucifer vanished, leaving Ariel all alone.

"Not now, Red..." Being the last thing she heard.

JUNKYARD

NIGHT

The sound of the impala slamming caused Ariel to flinch, yanking her out of whatever the hell that was. Ariel blinked hard, feeling something wet drip onto her exposed cleavage. She had been crying.

What was the purpose of these flashbacks? It made her think of how Lucifer dealt with being alone for billions of years. What if all he had were memories too?

"Hey, Red. Are you done giving me the silent treatment?" Dean's gruff voice came from behind her, his boots scuffing against the rocks. Once he was closer, he repeated himself thinking that maybe she hadn't heard him. "Ariel?"

Ariel stared at the stars in the sky, wondering when night had fallen. When her human approached her, she stretched out her wings, beckoning him to take his rightful place by her side. She drew in her wings once he did and wrapped them around her and Dean; It was instinctual.

"I wasn't ignoring you. I was afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

Ariel chose not to respond.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at her large raven wing, encompassing his figure. He missed this warm feeling, but that was something he would never admit aloud.

The hunter parted his lips, "So, do i have to ask?" He quizzed.

"Did i really torture angels and kill innocent humans? Yes. Did I have a choice? No." Ariel replied shortly and reclined back on the windshield. She missed watching the universe, watching comets pass by, and wishing that were her. She had that chance, but now it's gone.

What did she really want?

Dean caught a glimpse of her moving in his peripheral, turning to see what exactly she was doing. A despondent smile appeared on his lips as he joined her in stargazing. 'We haven't done this in a while.' He thought. One hand propped up his head while the hand closest to Ariel remained at his side, itching to hold hers.

"I can relate."

There was a beat.

Ariel wasn't sure what to respond with so she changed the subject, "Have you decided whether or not I'm on your side?" Her voice was soft, quiet.

The question was abrupt and honestly, he hadn't thought that she heard Pamela; He forgot about her super hearing.

Dean raised a brow, "I never doubted you, why start now?"

Ariel sat up on her side, facing Dean. Her wings draped over the sides of the hood like a warm blanket, obstructing part of the moonlight that illuminated half of Dean's face. Dean could feel her shifting, causing the hunk of metal beneath them to creak. He turned his head catching her eyes boring holes into his chest.

The corners of Dean's mouth quirked up into a coy smile, "What is it?"

"Nothing," She whispered.

The hunter's smile faltered as recognition dawned on his face, "What?" He could tell something was bothering her. Dean came to an upright position as he watched her carefully.

Ariel turned her body, her feet dangling off the hood of the car. It was hard, being resurrected, hunted, and exiled from your home. She sucked in a sharp breath before letting out a cheerless chuckle, "I've only been alive for 36 hours... and I don't miss this." She gestured to the sky and to her vessel's heart, "And despite how hard I protested against Anna, I feel as if I'm no different than Lucifer..."

There was silence.

Dean wasn't sure what to say. The weight of her emotions overwhelmed him and triggered his own. Eyes darting between the ground and Ariel, Dean cleared his throat, "Nah..." He shook his head in disagreement. "You're better than him..."

Ariel snorted, "Am I really? I burned out Pamela's eyes. I tortured poor angels who just wanted freedom...I murdered thousands of innocent humans- How is that any different than him?" She paused and slid down off of the car, "I punched Uriel in the face."

Dean followed suit, sliding down after her. "Yeah, well Uriel a dick. So-" He held out his arms as if it were obvious.

Ariel folded her arms over her bosom, "Repeatedly, Dean."

"He deserved it." Dean argued.

The archangel scoffed, "That's not an excuse, Dean. I could've found some other way to get rid of him like Anna did. She's good. You deserve someone like her..."

Those words felt like a punch in the gut.

"If this was all too much for you- the fighting, hiding... I mean-" He slid his hands into his jacket pockets, "Just stay in Heaven, save yourself all the damn grief- No one was judging you there... Hell, why even fall in the first place?"

It irked Dean that Ariel repeatedly beat herself up and thought so lowly of herself. How could someone so bright feel so gloomy? She deserved better, she deserved the world, but Dean, he felt like he deserved all the heat.

"I fell because Heaven caused me grief... to either be locked away in fear or- or out here... fighting demons, killing Sam and Anna." Ariel pointed toward the house once she mentioned Sam and Anna. She placed a hand on Dean's sternum,

"I'm tired, Dean. What if i just give in?"

"What?"

"You give in and then what? Me and Sam have to kill you? Do i have to watch you murder the world- Ariel... I know you're tired but maybe there's some other way."

The jaded man shook his head, tenderly wrapping his fingers around her wrist and palm. Dean raised his other hand to her face and tilted her head up so he could properly get a good look at her, "Now you may have this... darkness or whatever you wanna call it, inside you... but it isn't you. So, if you doing all of those things make you think you're Lucifer- then what would you think of me?"

A line appeared between her brows as she absorbed Dean's words. He was right, there was a difference, a big difference. She had Dean Winchester. Ariel parted her lips and drew in a short breath as if she were going to speak but was cut off by the sound of Sam's voice.

"Hey," Sam shouted from across the lot.

Ariel moved away from Dean and smiled softly at Sam. 'Impeccable timing,' She thought as she gave him a once over. Dean immediately lowered his hands and turned to face Sam, clearing his throat, "Hey, uh- Did you find something?"

"Yeah, think so. Come take a look," Sam nodded his head over to the house and pivoted, leading the disheveled duo back to the house.

BOBBY'S LIBRARY - NIGHT

The sound of the front door opening caught the attention of Ruby and Anna. They were standing near the desk, hovering the map on Bobby's desk.

Anna turned toward the trio, catching a glimpse of Ariel's outstretched wings as if she were taunting. Was she taunting?

Ariel tilted her head, wearing an inscrutable grimace as she gazed at Anna who was sharing the same look. It was obvious Anna still held some resentment toward Ariel but what could she do about it? It wasn't like she could fight an archangel and win.

Ariel scrutinized the lesser angel, "Hello." Her hello was abrasive.

"I don't trust her." Anna challenged, folding her arms over her chest.

Ariel was taken aback by this statement. Why did Anna insist on causing trouble? She was being honest earlier, if she wanted to kill her, she would have. The superior angel set her eyes on the human, raising a brow in offense, waiting for her to say more.

Anna withdrew a sharp breath, "I don't think she should be here." She gestured to the ginger angel who was currently standing across from her and in between the Winchester brothers.

"Anna, she stays and Ariel no weird-angel-superiority thing," Dean nagged.

"I just want to help find HE grace. Maybe we can get to that if she stopped being so prejudiced," Ariel hissed. She set both hands on the table and leaned over the map, waiting for Sam to expound on what he found but before he could start, Anna also set her palms on the wooden bureau.

"Guys...we don't have the time," Ruby murmured.

Cutting it dangerously close, Anna leaned closer to Ariel's face, "Prejudice? Excuse me for fearing for my life. Last I remembered- you took them, not saved them." She sneered at the archangel, begging for a fight, tempting Ariel into showing her 'true self.'

"Anna, the Winchesters..." Ariel's eyes darted between the boys and Ruby before she decided to add the demon, "...and Ruby are my top priority. My grace is being contained in Heaven along with my two angry big brothers while yours is here on earth and easy to retrieve. If she can't be civil then I will just remove myself from the equation."

The redhead stretched for her black trenchcoat and swiveled on her feet, retreating upstairs.

Dean kept quiet, remembering his conversation outside with Ariel.

"Elle-" Sam held up his hands, watching as she walked away. He let out a sigh of frustration, "Let's just- Okay... So." The tall hunter cleared his throat, "So, Union, Kentucky. Found some accounts of a local miracle."

Dean glanced over at Anna before returning his full attention to Sam. "Yeah? He inquired.

"Yeah. In '85 there was an empty field outside of town. Six months later, there's a full-grown oak. They say it looks a century old at least." Sam looked around the table as he spoke, making sure everyone was listening.

Dean glanced at Anna, "Anna, what do you think?" He tapped his fingers on the desk.

"The grace." Anna returned Dean's gaze with wide eyes, "Where it hit, it could have done something like that, easy."

Dean's forehead puckered at the thought of the oak tree, he briefly looked at the ceiling before pursing his lips and speaking up. "So grace ground zero-- It's not destruction. It's..."

Anna spoke over Dean, "Pure creation."

At that moment everyone took a second to process this information, eyes darting between each other before Dean straightened. "Alright, let's pack and hit the road. I'll check on grumpy."

Half of the group scattered, grabbing their respective items before exiting the house and passing by Ariel who now sat on the steps in the hallway. Sam and Ruby were the first ones to the car, while Dean had gone to the basement to get more rocksalt. Anna was in the bathroom.

Ariel stared blankly at the dark spot in the wood, the sound of her blood surging through her veins filled her ears. She sat there for a while, disassociated from the outside world until Dean's hand landed on hers.

Just coming out of the bathroom, Anna stood quietly at the top of the steps, eavesdropping on their conversation.

Dean chuckled, "Did I lose you there?" A doleful smile tugged at his lips. "C'mon, Let's get moving we found where her grace might be and-"

Ariel pulled her hand away to help her stand up, grabbing onto the banister for support. "Maybe, I should go ahead in case it's not there or it's a trap... they know we're looking for her grace"

"No.." Dean shook his head, taking his leave with Ariel close behind. Once they were outside on the porch he turned around so he could finalize his statement, " The last time those two showed up... Look, you aren't splitting from the group. I'm sorry."

The righteous man resumed his travels down the gravel path that led to the garage and Baby.

"Dean..." Ariel started, stepping down to the last step and pulling at the duffle bag strapped over his shoulder. "Dean, just listen. It will save time... We can't afford to lose time because of fear or ridiculous feelings. I could contain her grace and bring it back... safe and sound." She pleaded her case, wrapping her fingers around the thick strap of the bag, slowly removing it from his body.

Dean shrugged her off. Ridiculous feelings? How could she say that to him? It was as if everything he said earlier went into one ear and out of the other. It was obvious that he cared for her, that he loved her. Why couldn't she just accept that he didn't want to lose her again?

"No.." He repeated again, starting for the garage.

The crunch of his boots on the gravel caused Ariel's nose to scrunch up. She parted her lips to speak but Dean sensed this and cut her off, "I don't want you going off alone." He grumbled.

"You don't trust me." Ariel hastily followed after the eldest Winchester, her heels scuffing against the rocks. "I thought you would never doubt me," She murmured with her arms stiff at her sides.

Anna stood at the front door now, quieting her breath.

Dean immediately whipped around at her absurd accusations, anger flashing in his eyes as he stepped over to her and covered the large distance between them in a short amount of time. He glared at his angel, "You've been alive for one day now. If you want to go on your one-woman mission to save the day with zero back-up, be my guest." The hunter pivoted on his heel but stopped mid-turn when Ariel snatched his wrist.

Ariel tried pulling him closer but he resisted her, "Dean, please. Be rational. I'm the strongest player. I have wings-"

The frustrated hunter yanked his wrist away, his head snapping back in Ariel's direction, "Exactly!" Dean shouted, his voice carrying through the air and grabbing Sam's attention.

Mindful of his volume and temper the hunter let out a shaky breath before taking a deep one. "You are our strongest piece on the board. I can't afford to lose you. So, get in the car." He made deliberate eye contact with her so she understood he didn't want to hear anything else.

Ariel let her hands fall at her sides, wondering what it was she had said that made him upset like this. She brushed past him, bumping his shoulder and strutting angrily over to the car.

Once he heard the car door squeak open and slam shut, he carded his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. He drew his gun instinctively and whipped around, but lowered his firearm once he saw it was Anna. "I thought you were in the car," Dean breathed.

"No, I had to use the bathroom. Y' know... humanly things," Anna joked, giving Dean a small nudge.

Dean laughed and rubbed where she nudged him and nodded his head toward the garage, "Ready?"

Anna gave him a curt nod, "What was all that about?" She questioned.

The hunter's brows snapped together. He thought she was using the bathroom, so what did she mean? He glanced at her and just started for the car again. He hoisted the strap on his shoulder, resting his palm on the side of the bag.

Anna followed the man and made a mental note to just leave it alone. It was apparent he wasn't up for questioning and after essentially coming after his- whatever she was, it made him wary of her. She pursed her lips, "If you need help-"

"Listen, Anna... You're a very nice girl and everything," Dean slid his fingers over the door handle and popped it but not before concluding his statement. "Let's just focus on getting your grace back. Okay?" Climbing into the car, he slammed the door shut and peeled off the duffle, sliding it in the middle of the long bench seat.

Not long after Anna climbed in on the passenger side, Ruby the demon separating the two angels.

IMPALA

NIGHT

Dean caught a glimpse of Ariel's sapphire orbs glistening in the moonlight that peeked through the driver's side windows. He flashed her a wistful smile before turning over the engine and shifting into gear. "Alright, keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times-" He grinned at his joke, looking over to Sam to see his brother giving him the bitch face.

"Really?" Sam questioned.

Dean held a hand up as he pulled out of the garage, "What?" He drove down the driveway through the junkyard and then out onto the highway.

Sam shook his head laughing at his brother's nonsense. Dean grinned and pushed play on the radio and turned it down low in case it bothered the girls who sat quietly in the back.

Ruby peeked at the archangel as she shifted in her seat to get more comfortable. "So, you know Lucifer?" She whispered as the A/C blasting plus the low music made it possible.

Ariel's brows snapped together at the inane question, "I knew him, yes." She turned her head only slightly, keeping her distance from the demon. It wasn't like Ruby was going to burn her if they made skin contact but Ariel was all righteousness and pure energy while Ruby... well.

Before Ruby has a chance to ask another question, Dean's laughter could be heard over the cold air and low Metallica music. She turned away from Ariel and gave the eldest Winchester a pointed look. "What?" She queried.

Dean chuckled, "Nothing." Smiling to himself, he took another look in the mirror and decided to explain his joke- that only he heard... in his head. "It's just two angels and a demon riding in the back seat. It's like the setup to a bad joke... or a Penthouse Forum letter," He eventually stopped laughing once he realized he was the only one enjoying the joke.

Ariel stared coldly into the rearview mirror while Ruby rolled her eyes and Anna pulled her lips into a tight line.

The girls were now uncomfortable.

Sam shook his head, failing to hide a bit of his smile as he went to address his older brother, "Dude... Reality... Porn." He was not impressed.

The surly hunter raised a brow at his younger brother, "You call this reality?" He looked into the rearview mirror once again, but with a dejected expression.

Ariel let out a despondent sigh, "Better than nothing, Dean." She laid her head against the window, watching the rain pellets beat against the glass.

As he went to return his gaze respectively to the road ahead, he watched Ariel in the side view mirror, catching her face just as the moonlight struck through the window. Her Prussian blue eyes glowed in their own way as if they were bioluminescent.

The corners of Dean's lips involuntarily curved into a faint smile, "Better than nothing." He mimicked to himself.

For the rest of the car ride, they went through three cassette tapes before Dean turned off the music and they all just listened to the hum of the Impala.

This. This was better than nothing.

TO BE CONTINUED...

SERIES MASTERLIST