#and then his clown ass gets owned by said demon man setting him on fire in retaliation

[stormyykat]

bing bing

#arthub #oc art #oc; avery #oc; lillith #oc; emotas #oc; jeff #avery x lillith in my brain now . #they would be qpps :)) #i think jeff and emotas could be friends but every conversation would end in a physical fight probably #when he and emotas first meet jeff sees just a tired old demon man he could probably just bully and get away with it #and then his clown ass gets owned by said demon man setting him on fire in retaliation #and hes like 'ok so your my best friend now' and emotas just has to deal with him now #emotas: i want you dead #jeff: i know but whats your favorite pokemon generation mine is gen 4

[shirtlesssammy]

15x08: Our Father, Who Aren’t In Heaven

Then:

Fighting the good fight since 2010

Now:

At the Lucky Elephant Casino, God’s knocking back fruity drinks, playing slots, and murdering everyone around him. Things don’t look so fun in Chuck-land. 

Meanwhile, Eileen is living her best new life hunting a werewolf. She’s kicking butt but has a temporary setback when Sam shows up. She shoves him out of the way to finish the job. She asks Sam if he’s following her. MAYBE he’s being a little overprotective, but c’mon, he did just bring her back from the dead. I’m guessing he’d like to keep her on the side of the living a little longer than a week or two.

Later at the bunker, they’re eating their respective burger (Eileen) and salad (Sam), and Dean walks in with the demon tablet. He’s hoping the tablet will reveal a weak spot with God. They’re going to need Donatello!

Cas knock’s on Donny’s door. Hmm, I see, divorced husbands still communicating about the case and Cas still doing things for the cause. 

Donatello comes back to the bunker, but isn’t happy about it. He gets to work eating chicken wings and translating the tablet again. Sam, Dean, and Cas casually hang out in the library and sneak concerned looks towards the prophet.

Donny finds some footnotes written by Metatron about God’s secret fear that he only shared with “his favorite.” Lucifer was already locked away by the time the tablets were written. He must mean Michael. The problem with finding Michael is that he’s locked away in the Cage. Donatello starts to freak out over how overly dramatic TFW’s lives are but then passes out in a chair. He comes to --but it’s Chuck this time communicating directly through his prophet. He tells them to leave it alone. Then he threatens all the women in their lives if they don’t (and I just hate/love this because this calls back to early SPN so much when the women died for all their man-pain.)

They tell Donatello to go home. Then they all decide (Cas reluctantly) to go to Hell to find Michael. Dean sarcastically tells Cas that he can “stay here” at the bunker. And I can’t for the life of me find the post now, but whoever made a post of Dean increasingly going from sarcasm to flat out begging for Cas to stay at the bunker is my hero. 

In the bunker’s kitchen, they cast the same spell Rowena used to get Cas and Belphagor to Hell before. Dean cuts his hand as part of the spell (something he’s done a thousand times before) and Cas takes the time to heal him (but doesn’t touch him like he normally does) and it takes so much of him to do it. I’m just going to sit here quietly for a bit before proceeding. 

Once in Hell, Cas leads the way until they run into a bunch of badass lady demons that completely kick their asses. Well, they do until a very familiar voice bellows, “STOP!”

It’s ROWENA!!! 

She’s now Queen of Hell. She’s also posturing up a storm. Ah. They tell her they want to lock up Chuck and they’re looking for Michael. She tells them he could be anywhere. The Cage opened just like the rest of the doors in Hell. She sends her demon minions to find Michael. 

Back at the bunker, Eileen is watching over the spell, and she gets a call from Sue, another hunter. She needs help with a vamp nest. Eileen agrees to help as soon as she’s done helping TFW. 

In Hell, TFW meets with Rowena in her throne room. She tells Sam that killing her was a good thing. She’s queen! Then she asks him to get her another drink (!) so she can have a little therapy time with the other two clowns. She tells them to “fix it” because there’s no reconciliation in death. A demon comes in to inform them that Michael “is nowhere to be found.”

For Perfect Framing Science:

Actually, he can be found at Jaci’s Red Wagon diner. It seems that Adam and Michael are good buds and Adam’s currently enjoying his first burger in ten years. 

Dean checks in with Donatello just one more leeeetle time to see if he’s gotten any Chuck-adjacent flashes. Just when you think you’re out, yadda yadda yadda… He THEN checks in with Sam about Eileen. She is FINE, Dean, they have “an agreement.” Dean picks up on Sam’s waffling, and tells Sam that she fits the parameters of a potential partner: she knows the life, plus she’s hot. That’s way better than the life Sam tried to build with Amelia, a bag of limes, and a dog. This conversation is also notable for Dean’s admission that he’d been in a very dark place not long ago but he’s climbing out of it now.

At the diner, Adam continues to chill with Michael and contemplate the future when Lilith arrives. 

She’s there to bring Michael to Chuck. “I’m not accustomed to being fetched,” Michael says coldly. It looks like things are headed towards fisticuffs when Michael just…burns her to ash right there. Ah, archangels. (Side note: I rewatched this section with the sound off while gathering images and watching her performance is every bit as engaging. I’ll miss you, scrunchy-nose Lilith.)

Donatello has a vision and sees Michael’s spiteful smiting (smiteful?). He calls Dean with Michael’s location. He’s in Cairo! Time for Dean to hop on a plane and hold Cas’s hand nervously the entire time… I’m ready for an airplane destiel fic episode!

Cas has an alternate, non-hand-holding suggestion. He’ll pray to Michael instead. In the quiet of an upstairs corner of the bunker, next to a REAL and also METAPHORICAL CHESS SET, Cas characterizes their last meeting as “unpleasant” and asks to meet up. “I’m not your enemy anymore. Now we all have the same enemy. God himself.”

Mmmkay, compelling words. Michael meets Cas in a warehouse. He remembers Cas. “You called me assbutt and set me on fire.” LOL, classic. Cas faces Michael stoically and lights a circle of holy oil around him. That’s the Winchester’s cue to enter and they do so with STYLE.

DAMN!

Dean presents a set of warded cuffs for Michael’s consideration. There’s clearly only one way out of the circle of fire.

For Check out the Curtains Made of Chains SO PRETTY Science:

Michael is twenty-five shades of pissed off at being confined. In the bunker he accuses the Winchesters of abandoning their brother and then shocks them all by flashing Adam back in control. 

Adam seems much more chill than Michael and reveals that he and the archangel only had each other in the cage so they came to an agreement. Dean, who only recently stopped dragging himself around in a post-Michael traumatic haze, is gobsmacked that Michael’s letting Adam walk and talk. He tells Adam that there’s nothing they can say to fix what they did by leaving him in the cage. “How about ‘I’m sorry?’” Adam suggests.

Michael wrests back control and we go back to Chuck talk. Team Free Will attempts to briefly explain that Chuck isn’t trying to usher in “boring” paradise. Instead, Michael’s dad would rather see everybody suffer, including Michael.

Adam pops back behind the helm and advises them to stop their paltry attempt at convincing Michael of Chuck’s perfidy. On his (their) own, Adam unpacks the situation. He doesn’t forgive the Winchesters for what they did, but he does think they’re operating from good intentions. I don’t remember where I saw this online, but somebody posted that they have never liked Adam more than in this episode. I completely agree! There’s a lovely amount of complexity and growth hinted at through this performance.

Michael finds it hard to shake off a near-eternity of being God’s favored son. God is “having a mid-eternity crisis,” Adam suggests. Maybe Michael should at least entertain the possibility that Chuck isn’t on the up-and-up. Michael doesn’t want to doubt his father. “You still care about that after he left you in the cage?” Adam asks.

Meanwhile, Eileen’s friend Sue calls again. She’s ready to move on the vamps and needs backup NOW. When Eileen hesitates, Sue needles her about having to ask for permission. Eileen rises to Sue’s barb and agrees to meet up. The camera tumbles, Sue swears, and Eileen acts immediately as the call ends. She races to Sam’s room and fills him in on her friend’s perilous situation. Together, they run off to give Sue backup. (I love how this scene both shows Eileen’s need to assert her own independence and her absolute trust and pragmatism in getting Sam to back her up.) 

Cas heads in to speak with Adam/Michael. Michael is still not on board the fight-Chuck train. Cas responds with sass, as is his custom. “I never liked you. I thought you were too haughty. Too…to paraphrase a friend, you had an entire oak tree shoved up your ass.” 

Now Cas finds him pitiable. Michael isn’t God’s favorite. He’s just a tiny part of Chuck’s favorite soap opera. DAMN, Cas. 

Cas goes even further, telling Michael that Lucifer was the smart one all along, and Michael SNAPS. He flips Cas over the table and gets him in a headlock. Cas struggles, and manages to lock both his hands on Michael’s temples. It’s brain zapping time! Even an archangel is no match for Cas’s mind mojo, and Cas dumps a clip show of Chuck being a dick writer into Michael’s head. 

Later, Cas decompresses alone in the kitchen. Dean arrives, then suggests that Cas might have misjudged the situation and gone too far with Michael. D E A N. Before Cas left, Michael essentially said, “Leave. Get out. I want you dead.” We’ve all been in agony for several days now over the parallels between this line and what Cas thinks he’s getting from Dean and AAAAUGH THE SWEET PAIN OF IT. “We didn’t bond,” Cas summarizes. If you need me, I’ll be hunched in this burning dumpster, muttering about profound bonds. 

The bunker rattles, and they race to Michael’s room. He greets them with, “God lied to me.” He gave everything for Chuck, but it turns out he’s not even unique across the multiverse if there are other Michaels out there. 

Sam and Eileen arrive at the hunt and discover abandoned vehicles. Sam’s suspicion bone is tingling, but then Sue shows up. She’s got this swagger, so Boris and I immediately assume she’s been turned into a vamp because we’ve been watching this show since forever. Uh, Sue’s not a vamp. She’s Chuck! Or…you know, Chuck’s her! [Admiral Ackbar voice] It’s a trap!

Michael agrees to help Team Free Will. He pulls out a slip of paper with a spell on it that can contain Chuck just like it contained Amara. All they need is myrrh, cassia, rock-rose, and the nectar of a leviathan blossom. It’s a flower that grows in Purgatory. Michael opens up a rift-style door with the snap of his fingers.

The door will stay open for twelve hours. Dean uncuffs Michael/Adam and apologizes for what happened to his half brother. Adam smiles sadly and wishes them luck in their Chuck-fighting endeavors. After he/they leave, Cas and Dean turn towards the glowing rift. It’s Purgatory time, baby! And you know what they say about Purgatory. It’s the perfect place to work out your emotions in a friendly, non-deadly environment!

Quotingmoon in Purgatory:

There’s a crack in his invincibility shield

When I go crazy again, just shoot me

Usually I enjoy our little process. I toss something at you guys and you slam it right back. It’s fun! Like tennis! With monsters

What am I picking up from you two? A wee tif? Tell your Auntie Rowena

Why would he send you, a demon, a speck of infernal bile?

Oh, I didn’t come to beg

Since when do we get what we deserve?

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

#spn recap #spn 15x08 #our father who aren't in heaven #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #chuck shurley #eileen leahy #rowena macleod #donatello redfield #adam milligan #michael #lillith #supernatural season 15

[satonthelotuspier]

❄️ Untamed Winter Fest 2019 ❄️

Day 31 - Beginning - 2.0k

More Xicheng from my Jiang Family AU - the story leads on from Day 2, Day 4, Day 21 and Day 26 if you missed them.

CW for living with Mental Health Issues.

“I’ve emailed you three properties that might work, will you have a look later and let me know whether you like any of them? I’ll arrange a viewing for the weekend if you do”

Jiang Cheng had his phone on speaker; he took the brief interlude while he spoke to Lan Xichen to fuss Snowdrop who had been sleeping at his feet.

“If I can get this commission sent for approval this afternoon I will” he promised as Snowdrop tried to jump into his lap to investigate his desk. Hearing Lan Xichen’s voice but not being able to see him confused her greatly.

“Are you struggling? Do you want me to stay at mine tonight? I can come and collect Snowdrop”

“No no, I should be finished, I’m just at a roadblock right now; your call came at a great time to give me a break actually”

“If you’re sure...”

“Very, I’m going to take Snowdrop for a you know what once we hang up and treat myself to a trip to the coffee shop on the way back. That should get the braincells firing again” he stretched his kinked shoulders out, spine arching to release the tension of being hunched at a computer screen since first thing that morning.

“Right, I hope you enjoy your Chai Latte or whatever abomination you end up ordering, I’ll be there about half seven tonight, I’ve got a quick meeting with Wangji and Uncle Qiren at six. Shall I pick up some food on the way over if you’re on a deadline?”

“Great, yes, thanks,” he jumped up as Xichen hung up and went to collect Snowdrop’s leash.

They walked to the park and he spent a little more time on training Snowdrop how to play fetch with a suitable stick he found, then back to his building via the coffee shop, where he treated himself to the promised Chai Latte and a muffin for lunch.

They were virtually at the door when Snowdrop spotted another dog and gave an almighty yank on her leash in her excitement, he just about managed to keep hold of her but his Chai Latte was firmly knocked out of his hand and the luckily cooled drink drenched him from head to toe.

He would have been frozen in shock if he didn’t have to wrestle with an overexcited dog, “Snowdrop, sit” and she finally relented, looking at him expectantly for a treat when she complied. “Are you joking? You think you’re getting a treat after your shenanigans?” he demanded in irritation, wiping at his face, futilely as it turned out because his sleeve was just as soaked in coconut milk and chai.

He noticed the man who’d stepped onto the pavement and stood watching then; and fuck but his heart stopped.

Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen’s uncle. What was he doing here? What was wrong?

He didn’t fid out the purpose of the visit. Lan Qiren merely confirmed Lan Xichen was alright, stayed to have tea with him and discuss various bland topics then left, without ever saying much beyond the formalities.

He shrugged it off, showered and changed out of his stained clothes and got back to work on his project, hitting the send button just after six.

Nice, he’d have time to check Lan Xichen’s email before he arrived with food.

He scanned the properties and quickly discounted all of them. They were all beautiful, close to parks for Snowdrop, with generous gardens so she’d be able to run loose when she wanted, but they were well out of his price range.

He wasn’t poor by any standards, he was comfortable and could afford a nice apartment on his own, but the Lans were in the big money leagues. Perhaps Xichen just wasn’t aware of the difference in their means. Some people born to money didn’t have much of an understanding of how it worked in reality, and while Xichen was anything but stupid he could be naive about some things.

It would be embarrassing but he’d have to say something; he didn’t want Xichen to think he was being obstructive and he genuinely did want to move in with him but it needed to be something that wouldn’t bankrupt him in a few months. As a freelancer he couldn’t always guarantee his income and he couldn’t afford to dip too often into his savings.

He set the table so it was ready for when Lan Xichen arrived and grabbed his tablet to do some searching of his own.

The best way to end any conflict positively was to show Xichen he was taking it seriously, so he would present some possible properties of his own.

He’d found one that was a tentative tick for all his boxes by the time he heard the doorbell, so he bookmarked the page and went to let Xichen in.

Over dinner Lan Xichen regaled him with the tale of how his uncle Qiren had laughed for 10 minutes straight during their meeting when he told them of the Chai Latte incident and how hilarious it had been to have Jiang Cheng act formal and serve him tea still covered head to toe in coconut milk.

Jiang Cheng was less than impressed.

“Really, so he turns up for what reason? Sees me at my least glorious, makes me serve him tea then has the temerity to tell my boyfriend and my brother-in-law while laughing his ass off that I looked like an absolute twat”

“Wanyin, honestly it wasn’t like that. And the reason was as we’re talking of moving in together he wanted to come and visit you. He approves, honestly I’ve never heard him laugh like that before, it was like he was possessed. He said you’d make me happy”

“Oh great, your uncle approves because you’re moving in with a fucking clown” he threw his chopsticks down on the table and Xichen reached over to try and take his hand.

He snatched his away.

“Why are you pouting about this Wanyin? It was a funny accident, and my uncle didn’t mean that at all. He did the same to Wei Wuxian when he and Wangji were becoming serious; he didn’t mean any disrespect” he put his own chopsticks down and moved around the table to kneel beside Wanyin and catch hold of his hands. “I’m sorry. I’ll ask Uncle to apologise too if it will make it better, we didn’t mean to hurt you”

Jiang Cheng shook him off and got to his feet, putting space between them, and honestly he knew he was being childish and pathetic, but when had that ever stopped him before? Really Xichen was going to find out about this side of his personality sooner or later, better now before they’d committed themselves to a home together. Lucky for Xichen even.

“Nice, then I look like the petulant child who can’t take a joke, lets not do that” he jammed his hands into the pockets of his battered jeans to keep him from going to town on the contents of the table.

“If it hurt you then we need to apologise”

“I’m not hurt. Stop making me sound piteous”

He saw the moment Xichen realised no matter what he said he was going to get a negative response; it was like shutters went down behind his eyes and his face lost it’s usual expressive warmth. He had never looked more like Lan Wangji in Jiang Cheng’s sight before.

“So what do you want me to do then Wanyin?” he asked with spread hands, but they both probably knew at this point nothing he could do or say would help.

Jiang Cheng moved to the table to take up his crockery, “Stop being so accommodating, it’s pathetic” he snapped and stalked off to the kitchen. He slammed the crockery down so hard some of it smashed, and Lan Xichen had followed him into the kitchen.

Why wouldn’t he back off and leave Jiang Cheng alone to cool down like any sensible person would? If he’d had sense he’d have taken Snowdrop and retreated to his own place by now to let Jiang Cheng rage in peace.

Because he had the audacity to stick around obviously Jiang Cheng wouldn’t let him be. “Oh and those places you sent me, you’ll have to scratch them all off the list. You need to get real and look in a more reasonable price range” You fucking idiot, you know you should do this when you’re calm and sensible.

“Jiang Wanyin, that doesn’t matter, money isn’t an object-”

“Wrong” he snapped, “Money isn’t an object for you, pretty little rich boy, it most certainly is for me. Sorry you shacked up with a prole, Your Highness, but that means you have to take notice of things those of us who live in the real world have to consider, like how much I can seriously afford to sink into mortgage repayments or rent each month”

“I didn’t intend to rent or mortgage”

“How nice for you. As mentioned, however, that really isn’t going to work for me. I’m not your royal whore, Your Highness, I will be paying my share” like he’ll still even be here tomorrow, never mind want to move in with you.

Xichen pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, “Can we talk about this another time please Wanyin, when you’re not so-?”

“Emotional? Brutally honest? Sure, whatever, get lost” he turned his back to Xichen and busied himself in the sink.

He heard Xichen’s sigh, heard him walk out of the kitchen, the rattle of Snowdrop’s leash and the outer door open and close behind them.

Great. That was that then. The end. He’d done it again. Well done Jiang Cheng, your one hundred percent record of self sabotage remains undiminished.

He channelled himself into cleaning up like a demon to work through the remaining anger, and then the pain.

Pain was difficult to deal with when it was purely self-inflicted though, when half of him wanted himself to suffer because he knew he fucking deserved it.

If he went into default depression mode and went straight to bed to lay and brood all night once the cleaning was done then that was now his business.

He must have drifted off (cried himself) to sleep pretty quickly as it was only later, when the bed dipped behind him that he realised he wasn’t alone in the apartment anymore.

He rolled over, confused.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you” Xichen’s soft voice.

“Are you coming to smother me?” he asked tentatively, and Xichen laughed that sweet, soft laugh of his.

“No, but can I hold you? Will it get me eviscerated?” he reached down to tentatively cup Jiang Cheng’s jawline and brush his cheek with a soft, stroking thumb.

“Not now” Jiang Cheng admitted timidly, nuzzling into the caress like a cat. Then he threw his arms around Xichen's neck and squeezed him tightly. “I promise I’m taking my medication. I can usually deal with it, neutralise it, it just took me by surprise tonight. It’s been a long time”

Xichen gathered him close against his chest and made soothing noises, “Soon can we talk about how best for me to help you if it does happen again? I didn’t know what to do and it was worrying for me”

Jiang Cheng nodded against his chest, “Honestly, just get out of my way. I’ve never yet been violent but I’m verbally nasty. It’s better for you to just go leave me be, take a bath and lock the bathroom, take Snowdrop for a walk”

“Alright, we’ll talk about it more later, just cuddle with me now Sweeting, we can deal with everything else another day”

“I didn’t think you were coming back” Jiang Cheng admitted.

“I did. Today is just the beginning of our lives together. Tomorrow will be too. Lets take the things we need to one day at a time, and plan for the things we can” he felt Xichen’s lips brush his forehead and snuggled closer.

#untamed winter fest #day 31 #xicheng #jiang cheng #lan xichen #mental health #mdzs #mdzs fanfic #mdzs fic #Jiang family AU #shay's stuff

[bigskydreaming]

Batman AU where a pissed off Dick Grayson, after being fired from Robin and kicked out by Bruce, doesn’t go back to the circus when he was off finding himself. Before he became Nightwing. He meant to, even made it all the way to Europe on his way to their latest stop, but in London he got....distracted, when he ran into one John Constantine.

Now, back at this point in canon, Constantine was probably in his mid-twenties at most. I’ve always pictured him mid to late thirties in current comic canon, he’s one of those guys who comes off as older than he is, b/c like, lbr, dude lives ROUGH, lol. But me being me, like, I’m not looking to hook nineteen year old Dick Grayson up with a mid-twenties staggering disaster in whiskey-soaked human form. However, that does not mean that Dick, recently feeling disillusioned about numerous things as well as lost and directionless, two things that define John in a lot of his decades, let alone twenties - 

Like, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t THINK about it, and perhaps romanticize the idea of him and John being kindred spirits. As well as maybe a little attracted to Constantine’s patented performative way of living, aka “watch how I windmill through life, giving no fucks whilst taking whatever latest misfortune befalls me in an unaffected and devilishly snarky stride, because of the thing about the no fucks, see, that’s the connection there.”

And okay, if we’re being totally honest here, its not like it just COMPLETELY didn’t occur to Dick that he was coming up with reasons to justify sticking around and hanging out and also crushing on one of the people MOST likely to tick his dad off. I mean, let’s face it, John is like, the combination of three things Bruce has zero patience for and avoids or outright disdains whenever possible: 

1) Magic, ugh, unreliable, illogical. (Bruce’s super-objective POV on the subject) - Look. It makes no sense. Follows no logical rules. Every usage of it is a breakdown of the normal universe and the ordered mechanism of The Way Things Are Supposed to Work, the things Batman relies on, needs in order to be him, the Great Detective, the guy who understands how everything works and that’s how he stays one step ahead of everyone else.

In a word, magic and all its works are RUDE and they like....annoy him just on principle.

2) Eternally late and relentlessly slovenly (not everyone has a live-in BUTLER Bruce, jeez) 

and 

3) ...John Constantine. (Let’s be real. This one just is what it is. There’s not a whole lot of getting around it. Its hard for Dick at age 19 to pretend buddying up with John isn’t guaranteed to make Bruce grind his teeth, given that its hard for anyone at any age to pretend that while Bruce almost certainly respects the things John has accomplished at various times....being in the same zip code as him is something he tries to avoid. Their personalities are not super compatible).

So, its a tiny bit possible the Great Divergence of this AU from canon.... comes down to one accidental team-up with one of Batman’s Top Ten Favorite People, No Seriously....and then Dick kinda leaning into being a bit of a petty shit here. Look, its not his finest hour, but Bruce started it, and also, like whatever. Alexa, play ‘Teenage Wasteland’ but y’know, all...SUPER LOUD and ANGSTILY. 

Ahem. Anyway.

So even though Constantine rather famously likes neither people nor drama, and Dick is both those things.....Dick is also always effortlessly charming and makes friends wherever he goes. In the end, it should come as no surprise to anyone but Constantine that he is no more Immune to Dick’s innate Likeability Quotient than most of the rest of humanity. 

And for a couple of weeks they kinda just hang out, get into random mishaps with magical gargoyles and ensorcelled ravens around the Tower of London and also one specific clash with a demonically possessed umbrella that turned anyone who held it into like, Mary Poppins, but also, y’know, EVIL - look it was this whole thing, don’t ask, Constantine still doesn’t like to talk about it. He even offered to show Dick how to do a minor cantrip if his mischief minded companion would agree to keep his mouth shut on the subject from now until the end of eternity.

Dick had to hem and haw over that one for a bit, but ultimately his innate curiosity won out over his fondness for telling a rousing but also hilarious tale. It was a very narrow margin, but that was all that was needed to have Dick’s foot take its very first step along a very different road in this universe. 

See, Constantine’s not really expecting much to happen even as he walks Dick through the steps of the simple spell. Magic’s as unpredictable about who it’ll roll over and play tricks for as it is in how it operates and functions and like...basically accomplishes all the many varied feats that make Bruce develop spontaneous frustration migraines, because that’s not how reality works, none of this has anything to do with how reality WORKS, what happened to the RULES, dammit!

And sure, there’s all sorts of different kinds of magic, and all kinds of different lines various magic practitioners sort into....some are born into it, like the Zataras, and Constantine himself actually, though in a very different way from the former....others end up developing a knack for it after significant encounters with arcane or occult beings, forces, artifacts or the like, as though their exposure to such a focused concentration of it resulted in a kind of charge rubbing off on them, just enough to make them able to attract and gather and channel magical forces from then on themselves. Others are chosen to it, and some just have no clue why spells will work for them but not ten random pedestrians they stop on the street and use as a rather strange sample group.

But bottom line is magic isn’t just about practice and skill, you tend to either have a knack for it or you don’t, and more people don’t than do, so John’s pretty much expecting to fulfill his end of their little gentleman’s agreement and then watch Dick duplicate everything he did exactly, with zero result.

Except turns out, Dick Grayson DOES have a knack for magic, same as he has a knack for well, everything. The guy was crime fighting and kicking bad guy ass in middle school. Forget James Bond and Captain Kirk, forget even Batman himself, ROBIN is the original and ultimate Gary Stu. Of fucking course Dick would be good at magic if he ever tried it. There’s a fairly large school of thought in this universe that posits that the force they call magic is an almost living entity in its own way, perhaps even sentient. Most of the magicians and wizards and sorcerers in that school of thinking kinda all quietly nurse the opinion that magic just, like....likes Dick Grayson, and he just charmed it with his first attempt at that simple spell and had it wrapped around his finger by the time he said Abra Kadabra.

(Because of fucking COURSE John picked a spell he could end with Abra Kadabra, have you met the man? He’s the most dramatic of them all, why do you think he hates both people and drama so much??? He’s the people and the drama!)

So there we have one lost and directionless Dick Grayson, feeling like he’s lost his footing and all his old plans and projected paths don’t really fit him anymore, or at least not well enough to help him feel like he’s headed somewhere, doing something.

Buuuuuut, then there’s that petty teenage side of him again, the one that goes fuck Batman, and also I’m right to say so.....and at least that IS a direction to focus on, even if not the most noble one....so the same brain cells that linked up and logic’d him around to the conclusion that ‘Bruce will never think to look for me with John Constantine of all people, and LOL how much would he hate that’....like, big fans of the positive reception their prior performance had received, those same brain cells leap back into action with zeal and zest and steer him to the not all that distant conclusion:

“LOL, how much would Bruce hate it if I ended up being this like, super talented magician, with expertise he knows nothing about? Could you imagine?”

Turns out Dick could, and did, and so much like that initial inch in this direction, is the true basis of him following up on that and becoming a renowned sorcerous superhero in this universe the fateful last words “Screw you dad, you’re not the boss of me and I’ll do what I want!”

I mean. Yeah. That’s pretty much exactly how it began. Yup. Oops.

But the thing is, that’s just how it starts. A random string of chance encounters and events that capture Dick’s attention and interest at a time and a place in his life where he was looking for literally anything to do just that....but once it HAD his attention and interest, everything changed. It was no longer about thinking ‘hey this will really tick Bruce off,’ because Dick’s capable of that train of thought and gut/impulsive decision making, sure, but he’s not about to commit his entire LIFE to that just to flip Bruce the proverbial middle finger. 

It only continues, he only keeps going and furthering his magical studies because he genuinely comes to love it for the sheer versatility, the unpredictability of it, the way holding reality in one hand and magical forces in the other is like walking a tight rope with no safety net, and sure its not the same thing as flying, but on that note, did you know there are spells that can literally make you fly? 

Dick does, now, and he knows like, seventeen different ones.

And so Dick throws himself into studying magic the same way he throws himself into everything. He’s never done anything half-assed in his life. He’s physically allergic to the very idea of it. When he does a thing, he fucking COMMITS, and becomes the best he possibly can at it....which ultimately almost always puts him in the one percentile of that thing. 

He learns everything he can from Constantine, or at least as much as Constantine’s willing to teach him. Eventually their paths diverge, not because of any bad blood, but just because Dick isn’t interested in the same specialties as Constantine. So then he moves on. Travels the world, similar to what Bruce did when he was his age, training to become Batman. But Dick trains with magicians, wizards, alchemists. Madame Xanadu. Sebastian Faust. Raven. Even charms freaking Circe into teaching him an enchantment or two, because lbr, a mystically inclined Dick Grayson would inevitably intrigue the more infamous mystics of the DC universe in the same way a combat-focused Dick Grayson intrigues Deathstroke and assorted others.

Everyone except for Zatanna and Jason Blood, the magicians Bruce actually respects and relies on, and who Dick is sure would report back to Bruce about him, and he’s still ticked. Plus, Zatanna’s type of magic is innate, not really something that can be taught, and Blood’s stems from his sharing his body with a demon and Dick’s not really looking for a roommate right now.

Eventually, Dick is satisfied enough with his skills and knowledge to return to the Titans. He adopts the name Nightwing, same as in canon and for the same reasons. He’s still the same man, same leader, same fighter with all the skills he already had....just now with the added repertoire of someone who’s branched off in an unlikely direction. 

Hey, Bruce did want him to go to college and learn something new. Not Dick’s fault his particular field of study isn’t Bruce-approved. (Okay, its entirely Dick’s fault, since that was after all the point, but eh. Oh well).

Nightwing’s still an acrobat and hand-to-hand fighter. He’s invested too much time, effort, himself into those skills to just give them up. He’s an adrenaline junkie, thrives on motion, activity, the rush of going head to head with someone who can really push him, challenge him. His magic is incorporated into his fighting. He constructs who he becomes as magician around the foundation already in place due to who he is as an acrobat, detective and hand to hand combatant. His magic is an added skill, not a replacement for his previous skillsets.

So he has alchemical potions on his utility belt, amid his ordinary smoke bombs and gas pellets. Tools and spells of divination and scrying for when a trail goes cold and can’t be tracked further by ordinary means. But now the Titans have another mystical expert to turn to for magical related missions, not just Raven. Their specialties are entirely different, but they’ve worked together since Raven first came to this plane, and they still complement each other well.

Of course, this changes things in other ways too. Dick’s new focus takes him further away from his time with Batman than even in canon. He’s still traveling and training for most of the time Jason is Robin and never even meets him before his death. Of course he kept tabs on Gotham no matter where he was. He absolutely knows about the adoption, about a second Robin. And about Jason’s eventual death. But he’s still somewhere places unknown in the aftermath, not easily tracked down by Tim, who sets out to help Bruce on his own, wearing down Bruce’s resistance to him being Robin between just his and Alfred’s efforts. Dick remains largely estranged from the Batfamily as Cass is adopted, Steph takes her turn as Robin, etc.

And then Jason comes back from the dead. 

But again, things play out differently here. This Jason is never found by Talia and the League, never dumped into a Lazarus Pit. Instead, Leslie Thompkins opens up her clinic one day to find a catatonic Jason in a bed inside, not long after he’s resurrected. He recovers as mysteriously as he returned, helped along by being in familiar environs, surrounded by loved ones as he’s of course immediately returned to the Manor and attended on by Bruce, Alfred, Babs, Tim and Cass. So he has less resentment for Tim, for being replaced. Its harder to deny Bruce’s love for him when he has Bruce by his bedside, day after day, watching and waiting throughout his recovery. He never suffers from Pit madness. Is never influenced by League ideology. Never trains with monsters and murderers awful enough he wants to kill them himself after he’s done training with them.

And its hard to resent Bruce for not avenging him and killing the Joker, when no one’s seen the Joker since almost right after Jason’s death. The clown never returns to Gotham from Ethiopia, not as far as anyone can tell. By the time Bruce set out to hunt him down, after Jason’s funeral, the trail had gone entirely cold. Bruce hunted for him, sure, but Jason can’t be too mad about Bruce giving up before finding him. The Joker’s never been one to lay low. When even just a few months had passed without even a hint of the villain or his future plans, it was hard to imagine he was still alive - he never lacked for enemies, after all. Not unreasonable that someone else had gotten to him first.

Plus, of course, its hard to compare yourself to the ‘golden boy’ and find yourself coming up short, viewing yourself as less loved than Dick Grayson, when said golden boy still remains estranged. He’s the prodigal son in this reality, with Bruce’s anger towards his eldest for never coming back to the Manor, not even after Jason’s death - its obvious to everyone, even Jason. Tim doesn’t have the close, brotherly bond with Dick that he does in canon, and with less resentment from Jason for replacing him, its easier for the two middle sons of Batman to bond after Jason’s return.

Jason returns to crime fighting, probably still takes up the name the Red Hood - his sense of humor and irony had nothing to do with his death or the specifics of his return. He and Bruce still clash. They have their ideological differences, Jason’s harsher than Bruce would prefer. But this Jason has reasons not to force an all-out divide between he and his father, sticks to the line (even if reluctantly), not because he believes differently - he still thinks he’s right about Bruce’s way being flawed and will always argue so - but because he has reasons to stay. Things he actually feels he’ll lose if he pushes things too much, actually leaves the family. Because he has a family, he has no doubts about that here. Tim and Cass and Alfred and even Bruce. He’d miss them, if he lost them. So he makes sure he doesn’t.

And then, a couple years after his return, Jason starts feeling hunted by something. Some presence, some force constantly shadowing him, stalking him. Something supernatural. Otherworldly. In time, there’s no denying it. He’s actually attacked by some unseen, invisible presence, like some kind of monstrous beast that’s hunting him and only him.

Its hard to come to any conclusion other than that it has something to do with his resurrection. Nobody knows how that happened after all. Not even Jason. But there was definitely nothing natural about it, so with something unnatural hunting him, almost as if he’s ‘the one that got away’ or some kind of affront to the natural order of things, the Batfamily adds 2 + 2 and gets ugh, fuck, we need to call a magician for help, don’t we?

Bruce calls in Zatanna and Jason Blood first, of course. But this is well outside Zatanna’s area of expertise, she has no insight to offer. Blood’s a little bit more help. He’s at least able to confirm that the force is otherworldly, not native to this plane, and might very well have something to do with Jason’s time....not on this plane. And he is able to affirm that there’s nothing demonic about the presence, no whiff of Hell surrounding either it or Jason.

Finally, reluctantly, Bruce calls in John Constantine, at Blood’s suggestion. His number isn’t so much the last one in Bruce’s old-fashioned rolodex so much as its buried somewhere on the Manor grounds, locked in a puzzle box that affords Bruce countless opportunities to turn back or try something else before he finally gets it open and pulls out the card with his contact info and the header: IF YOU ABSOLUTELY MUST USE IN CASE OF EMERGENCY WITH ALL OTHER CONCEIVABLE OPTIONS HAVING PREVIOUSLY BEEN EXHAUSTED PRIOR TO THIS - HERE I GUESS.

Okay, maaaaaaaaybe I’m embellishing a little bit on that one there. But whatever.

And its not like Constantine is the actual last of the last he contacts here. For instance, even more than he’d like to not have to bring in John, he’d really rather not call Raven either, though he knows of her as well of course. 

In this reality, the Titans remain more distant from the Justice League and other heroes. They took Dick’s side when Bruce kicked him out, closing ranks, not to mention Roy’s falling out with Ollie resulting in a similar sentiment from them. And Dick and Roy’s diverged paths here similarly result in them paralleling each other in not reconciling with their fathers - they reaffirm to each other that whatever ‘their part’ in their disputes were, they deserved better than how Bruce and Ollie handled those situations, and they’re not going to let each other settle for being afforded less than the respect and care they deserve. 

So to be clear, its not that even after a couple years, Dick is still actively avoiding Bruce - Bruce’s failure to extend the hand first, make the first attempt at reconciliation and conveying that he still wants and needs Dick in his life, his family...that’s still the underlying issue, and the real change in family dynamics comes from Dick not caving and returning to a similar status quo to what he left, without Bruce ever actually addressing his own behavior and mistakes in driving Dick away without making any real attempt to get him to stay, or to follow him, or to ask him to come home.

As for the rest of the Titans, Wally still became the Flash here when Barry died, but he felt no real need to ‘move up’ to the Justice League, and with all of the rest of the original Titans remaining a cohesive family unit here, he chose to stay with them when not patrolling Central City. And when Kyle Rayner became the last Green Lantern and joined the Titans as in canon, the team was closer, more family than the line-up he was briefly a part of in canon, and so he remained with them as well. 

So the end result is in this universe, for the end of their teens and the early years of their twenties, the Titans go their own way, and they and the JLA keep to their respective ‘corners’ as it were. Meanwhile Tim’s generation remains known as Young Justice.

So back to the Batfam’s problem and Jason’s unknown pursuer. Constantine’s not much more help than Jason Blood was. After all, demons are his specialty too, just in different ways than they are Jason Blood’s. and the other magic he knows isn’t of a sort they need here either. 

He is however, able to offer one bit of advice - what they need, John says, is a magician who specializes in the otherworldly, not just the netherworlds. There are more things in Heaven and Hell than well...just Heaven and Hell. Plenty of other worlds, plenty of other dimensions....the kinds of places something like this creature could have come from. What they need is a planewalker. And luckily for them, Constantine just so happens to know the name of a planewalker who could help them.

Dick Grayson.

And of course the estranged eldest still comes when he’s called, because its never that he didn’t care, its just that he wanted, needed to be called. Even when tragedy struck the family, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to return and be a comfort to them, its just that he wasn’t sure his presence would be a comfort. 

(Though it takes numerous arguments while working on the mystery of Jason’s hunter, like, before this gets even brought up, let alone clarified. All parties involved are of course world-class experts at the cold shoulder, not to mention avoidance tactics and evasive maneuvers of all types.)

And as Jason and his other siblings get to know their mysterious oldest brother, the much alluded to but rarely spoken of first son, the Zitka in the room, the shadow they’ve all always been aware of but never known much about - other than that he had a definite Talent with a capital T for getting under their father’s skin, and while they might be closer with Bruce in this reality, Bruce is still Bruce and that’s still a Talent they all can respect and appreciate - well.

It would be a mistake, Jason realizes, to assume that just because Dick left, that meant that he didn’t keep informed on what he left behind. He has many many means at his disposal now, for getting information when he wants it. 

And it would be a mistake to assume that just because they didn’t see him care, that actually meant that Dick didn’t care. He didn’t have to actually meet Jason to feel at least a connection to the second son to be raised by the same father, the second person to wear his colors, bear his mantle, fight at Bruce’s side. He didn’t even have to know him, to grieve that now he’d never get the chance, when Jason died. To be outraged at the Joker, on his behalf. 

And its not like Dick didn’t have plenty of other reasons to hate the Joker as well - he was the reason he was fired, the reason he and Bruce were estranged, the catalyst of so much of his family’s misfortune.

And no one did ever find a trace of the Joker after Ethiopia.

Almost like he’d dropped off the face of the Earth.

Vanished from it entirely.

Of course, while Dick Grayson might be estranged from his father, he still abides by the code Bruce instilled in him at an early age. He doesn’t kill.

But there are worse things than death, some might say.

Especially for a man like a Joker, because he does have one thing he truly cares about: landing a punchline. Its why everyone assumes he was killed by some other enemy after Ethiopia....the Joker can never go long without making a reappearance. He needs an audience too badly to ever stay hidden for long. 

After all, what is a joke, if there’s no one to hear it?

And then as well, the family never did figure out how Jason ended up in Leslie’s clinic, after he crawled out of his grave. 

How someone found him so quickly, and knew the best place to take him. However Jason ended up resurrected, it surely had to involve considerable power of some sort, supernatural energies that surely had to attract some attention....

at least from someone attuned to the supernatural, who knew how to see such things....

and had reason to occasionally visit the Wayne family cemetery.

Yes, even in this vastly different universe, there’s still a way, still time to reunite a family even this fractured. When you’re a planewalker like Dick Grayson, there’s no road beyond your reach, its just a matter of finding the right one. 

And just because it takes time to find the road that finally leads home....that doesn’t mean its not out there.

[clown-bait]

A Very Monster Christmas (Monster Roommate AU) PT5

H-Hey everybody? This took me 5000 years to write. I have no excuse so I'm just gonna release both of the final chapters at once and then the first for part 3 so everyone is happy.

CH22 Babies Were a Mistake

“Don’t touch it!”

“Junior quit being a baby and hold still”

“No! Get away from me!” Hissed a very upset monster clown with a knife in his eye. His uncle threw up his hands in defeat returning to his chair. The giant seated next to him fidgeted  nervously knowing that his landlord could get very violent when wounded. A soft hand landed on Bubba’s arm and the giant cannibal looked over to leech’s mom smiling sweetly at him. “Sweetheart will you hold him for me?”

The masked killer blinked clearly scared of the monster clown howling in pain on the floor. “Its ok big fella I’m going to make him stop.” the witch said calmly reaching into her bag. “You need to hold him for me though can you do that?”

“BABIES WERE A MISTAKE!” Penny roared and screamed still clutching his face.

“I am so glad to be awake to see this.” the elder Pennywise sighed happily resting his head on his hand with a toothy grin as he watched the younger clown sob in pain. Leatherface stood and cautiously approached the shrieking eldritch who’s other eye tore open solid red and black with anger. “DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH ME!” he snarled and snapped his enormous fangs wildly like a wounded animal. Leech’s mom slowly approached him from the front and held out a small bag of herbs which she poured into a small ashtray and set it on fire. “Shhh inhale the smoke.”

“NO! NO ONE APPROACH I WILL TEAR YOUR FLESH FROM YOUR BONES!”

“Sally doll, sit down and let em’ cry it out like the baby he is.” the elder clown suggested starting to grow worried for his date’s safety. His worry was quickly gone when Sally Smith snatched the roaring monster harshly by the ear and pulled hard motioning for Leatherface to grab his arms as the creature whined in pain.

“Inhale.” the woman said sternly and shoved the smoking embers to his red nose. Pennywise had no choice but to breathe in the smoke deep into his lungs exhaling it with a couple coughs as his body relaxed. The witch quickly removed the small knife from his eye earning a pained roar from the restrained eldritch who was released and immediately skittered into a corner slumped over in pain. Tiff who had been watching stared at the substance in the bowl with wonder. “What was that you gave him some sort of magic herbs?”

“Oh no sweetie just simple cannabis!”

The doll blinked a few times as the elder pennywise began to howl with laughter from his chair “Yeah you're Fangs’ mom alright.”

-------------------

A howl filled the air as a group of hunters made their way down the snowy streets of the town of Derry. The sound rattled the doll and put the vampires into a state of extreme alert their fourth companion simply groaned. Three figures appeared in front of them and two from behind. The hunter’s own arrogance had shifted their position to the role of prey. “Pen’s gonna kill me” Leech groaned as the bones in her hands snapped and reformed.

“Get in the middle of us apprentice. He will kill us before you if we return you with so much as a scratch.”

“I appreciate the gentlemanly gesture Dracula but I can handle myself. Besides you Fred's got no power here and Chucky has a bread knife. You boys really think you'd be more effective against fucking werewolves than a juiced up vampire?”

“Ouch Fangs.”

“If you want to fight fido alone be my guest Chuck.”

“She has a point, I really don't want to deal with going through another resurrection on the holidays. Phil gets weird during this time of year.”

“Holy shit I’ll say did you see him last week he freakin headbutted a nativity display and started eating the manger! Could have just been hungry though….could have also just been a regular goat.”

“Who the fuck else in this town has a giant ass black goat with a leggings fetish?”

“I don't know Fred goats are really popular right now they're all over Instagram!”

Dracula let out a long sigh and stepped backwards “Myers.” he tried to say over the arguing friends.

“What? What does Mikey have to do with goat yoga?” Freddy asked before suddenly being torn from his standing position and chucked into a wall.

“That.”

The masked killer casually kicked a shrieking  Chucky into a trash can and both vampires found their necks being squeezed in the vice like grip of The Shape himself as a pack of women surrounded them from behind.

“Hello blood suckers!” Sandy the werewolf said cheerfully behind the tall slasher.

“You're dating Myers?” Leech wheezed and tried to claw her way out of the grip on her throat.

“I am! Thank you for finally asking!”

Dracula cursed loudly in Romanian as winds picking up strongly through the alleyway.

“Sandy have them put down, we need to have a little talk.” Laurie nudged her sisters arm who motioned for her boyfriend to release them.

“You!” Leech hissed “Couldn't settle for my familiar could you bitch!”

“Jim and I broke up vampire!” the she wolf snarled with obvious pain in her voice. Dracula took notice of the tear in her eye.

“Yeah it was very sad be nicer!” one of the other sisters chimed in and Leech slashed forward in warning holding up her injured hand.

“Your leader tried to kill me and cut off my fucking finger! I think we're past being nice!”

“Its just a finger bloodsucker.”

“She tortured me!”

“And you turned her into Hamburger Helper!”

“I think I had the right to!”

“Stop taking credit for that Fangs that was your damn demon spawn!” Freddy interrupted deciding to join the argument.

“I helped make them Fred I can claim credit!”

“You’re pregnant?” Laurie said in shock as Dracula continued to awkwardly stare.

“See me,” he whispered “See me now.” Laurie glanced over at him and gave an uncomfortable wave.

“Oh great now everyone knows.” Leech rolled her soulless eyes and retracted her fangs.

“How?” Sandy asked and then grimaced in disgust when she remembered what manner of beast the vampire was dating “On second thought maybe don't share that.”

“It was actually a pretty normal process surprisingly, what isnt normal is the eldritch horror morning sickness” Leech casually sheathed her claws and fixed her coat.

“Oh well um congratulations then?” Sandy said almost confused.

“Yeah uh thanks... I’m still kinda processing it all myself.” Leech laughed nervously.

“Well this is hella awkward. I’m not gonna fight a pregnant woman.” one of the girls said.

“Yeah you know we were gonna come and get our revenge and what not but to be honest it's just kinda weird now.” Laurie said side eyeing a still wide eyed Dracula.

“You guys uh….. you guys know where we can get something to eat?” the younger vampire asked. “Kids need some food you know.”

“Y-yeah there's a frat party down the street from us you can grab someone there.”

“Cool……...um so is this like a truce or….”

“Its christmas man just forget about it.” Sandy took her tall silent boyfriend by the arm signaling to leave.

“Yeah alright. Cool. See you at work then.”

“The fuck is going on?” Chucky shouted from the trash can.

“Weird ass women shit Chuck.” Freddy said as he tipped the can over.

-------------

Pennywise squatted in the corner of the decaying kitchen lapping at a bowl of eggnog like an extremely dangerous kitten. His good eye darted around defensively as he lapped the obnoxiously sweet drink. He didn't even notice the front door bursting open or the loud thud in the living room of his mate returning with a large meal.

Leech draped the muscled youth over the coffee table like a hunter proudly showing their family the prized turkey they caught for dinner. She even began placing her boot on his rear to show off even further.

“He's still passed out drac and I have been keeping him drained and Fred’s been keeping him scared in dreamland. It only took two of my special mix to get him falling on his ass not bad for a pregnant lady I'll say!” Leech beamed wide and knocked on the young man's skull. “Hey Fred you good in there?” the limp body jerked his arm up in a thumbs up position.

“Not bad?! All you did was flash the guy a little cleavage and hand him a couple shots. Where's the finesse?” Chucky complained carrying a large stolen pizza box with what looked like a bloody hand print on the sides. “You shoulda seen what I did to the pizza guy now that was art!”

“I'm not going for art I'm going for easy. My family was hungry and I provided.”

“Yeah yeah you're a strong woman Fangs, we're all very impressed now go clean up your idiot for us.” the elder clown called out to her casually sipping the sweet spiked eggnog that sat perched in his gloves. Leech groaned and put her hand to her face.

“Jesus the fuck did he do this time?”

Chucky looked up and snarled finally noticing the lack of twins in the room. “I said it once and I'll say it again blood sucker, I aint paying for therapy.”

The kitchen was much quieter than out there with all the noise and chatter and merryment. Pennywise wrinkled his nose in disgust and snarled still cradling his wound and purring in an attempt to heal himself. Babies were a mistake. Who was he kidding he was the eater of worlds and children. He hated children and here he was on his way to becoming a father. Oh the irony. The clown groaned and held his head tighter shutting his good eye to try to escape further.

“Mr. Pennywise?”

His eye flew back open.

“Mr. Pennywise I-Im sorry about Glenda. She takes after dad I think. Much better at the family business than I am.”

Pennywise’s breathing grew harder and his pained purring became an alarming growl as Chucky’s son bravely got closer.

“Mum says you’ll try to eat me if I came to talk to you but I don’t think you’re so bad.”

“You are quite the fool then boy.” He finally said giggling to himself a bit before wincing in pain. Glen stopped for a moment then continued forward.

“I-I just want to tell you that I thought your tricks were real neat that's all.”

The clown's growling softened and his molten yellow eye soothed. Maybe it won't be all bad, this one at least could appreciate perfection when he saw it.

“Um they have dinner out there if you want any.”

From a hole in the ceiling Leech watched her mate unfold himself and take his glove from his eye which was already beginning to heal. The boy bravely took the hand of his natural predator and led him out. He definitely had a long way to go but this was progress. She smiled to herself and felt the tug of exhaustion once again. “We'll get there together eventually.” she sighed and slipped away stepping back from the others and into the comfort the shadows.

#pennywise #pennywise x oc #pennywise fanfiction #slasher fanfiction #horror fiction #freddy krueger #chucky #Charles Lee Ray #tiffany valentine #bubba sawyer #monster roommate au #it fanfiction

[liesandlibations]

Fear and Loathing in Los Santos

*tape recorder clicks on*

"It was never easy for me. I was born a poor black child..."

Laughter, cough, cough, spit. Cursing.

No, no, goddammit. That is the intro to Steve Martin's "The Jerk" you asshole, what the fuck are you doing man? Don't come at these people with this kind of weirdness right out of the gate, Jesus Christ. Fuck. Start over.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on, high-pitch rewind squeal*

"Okay, okay, I've got it now, okay. Second take."

Deep breath.

"Tonight on assholes interviewing themselves in the mirror, some fat douchebag failed writer turned clichéd alcoholic talks about himself for hours."

Laughter.

"Fuck. Okay, okay, everything is fine. It's fine. Just get into it already."

So, hey, about me. Uh. I'm a Leo, an INTJ, a Fire Rooster, I've got an IQ that is just shy of about one-sixty depending on how fucked up I am when I take the test, and my favorite color is, believe it or not, Seafoam Green. Not that any of that matters, of course. Is it cool if I have another drink? Thanks. Yes, I realize that was a frightening amount of alcohol but you want to talk about my past, right? That's what it takes then, and here it is.

I was born to an unwed drug-addicted teenage mother in the bad part of the South in about 1980. Before she gave me up, though, she scribbled my name on the birth certificate.

"Memphis."

No idea what she meant by that. Was I conceived there, was she from there? Dunno, to this day the answer eludes me but whatever, the name stuck. I was put up for adoption immediately and really I can't blame her, shit, who could? Stuffed into the state orphanage system as an infant and shuffled around from place to place for a while. Never really stuck anywhere for long, as I was riddled with physical illness and undiagnosed mental problems and generally considered too difficult. One family, according to the records which I unearthed years later, reported me as "possibly demon-possessed" at the tender age of three. Life in the Southern Baptist South, right? Whatever. I bounced from foster home to foster home until I finally just ran from the whole system at about the age of fourteen. Spent some time on the streets and a lot of time on other people's couches. I was too smart for my own good by then, angry at everything, hated the world, and in the very beginnings of a life of mental and emotional issues.

That was when I met the Professor.

I'd made it to Memphis, Tennessee. City of my namesake. The home of Elvis, the Blues, the birthplace of Rock and Roll, and the final stop for Dr. Martin Luther King. A place almost as fucked up as I was at the time. I was broke and homeless when I stumbled into a coffee shop somewhere in the art district, hungry and hoping for a handout.

I saw him for the first time, sitting in the back at a table with a chess board full of pieces laid upon it, wisps of grey hair catching sunlight through the dirty windows, staring at me over thick-rimmed black glasses. He introduced himself, "My name's Robert, but everyone just calls me the Professor," he said. Bought me a sandwich and a cup of java. He had a kind voice and an easy demeanor, was keen to know where I was from and where I was going. I, of course, young and impressionable, consumed both the sandwich and the attention with equal gusto. We talked through the day and into the night, and when he found out I was homeless he offered me a place to crash for a while. We walked down the worn sidewalks of the Midtown neighborhood past homes gently lit from within, on a warm evening, and it felt like things were going to be okay.

When we got back to his house, I was introduced for the first time to methamphetamine and sodomy, both with a startling swiftness.

I stayed with him for three years.

I hated it but what else could I do? No hope, no friends, no prospects. The meth almost made it worth it, but not really. It's an old story but at least I had a place to sleep and regular food, and I think he did care about me in his own fucked up way. His house was full of books, floor to ceiling, and I devoured every word I could get my hands on. All the greats, man: Keats, Hemingway, Bukowski, Thoreau, Kerouac, and finally the king, Hunter S. Thompson. I even started writing a bit, here and there, which the Professor was super critical of, naturally. But I found an outlet in some of the anarchist 'zines from the coffee shop and for the first time I got to experience that totally orgasmic feel that a writer  has when he sees his words in black and white print. Seemed some other folks liked those words too, so I struck up a friendship with the local punks and anarchs, which he did not approve of either. Yeah.

Eventually this led to me taking a bunch of his shit and moving out of his place in the middle of the night, into a communal house owned by a punk band who liked my writings. He showed up pounding on the door and demanding to see me, saying he'd ruin me, turn me in to the cops, out me as some kind of whore, the whole nine yards worth of emotional manipulation, sure. But I'd begun to emulate my heroes of the Word by then, so I opened the door and pressed both barrels of a sawed-off twelve-gauge shotgun to his head and told him that if he ever tried to talk to me again I would turn his skull into a fucking canoe.

When I clicked the hammer back, he got the point, and that was the end of that chapter, yes."

Shit. Okay. Need another drink after that. Yes. That's better, it burns going down, right? Where were we?

"So anyway, I started writing in earnest. Throwing words at paper as if my life depended on it, and maybe it did. I had a pretty serious meth problem by that time and the Words helped to keep the wolf from the door. Luckily the anarchists I'd fallen in with were all straight edge, which I have to admit was annoying as fuck but honestly had it not been for them I might not have made it. They were good kids, at the end of the day, and I am forever grateful for their support. This ragtag group of weirdoes with Mohawks and piercings was probably the best family I'd ever had. Good times in the commune, too, writing and reading, crazy concerts every weekend, just thrashing and bashing and letting the anger out. I even had a girlfriend, for a time, and she, being much better organized than myself, managed to get me to a GED and then enrolled at a local college in some writing courses, specifically Journalism. The girlfriend didn't last, of course, I was still pretty much a mess as a human, but the journalism thing stuck with me and I actually accidentally graduated with honors and a metric fuckton of student loan debt. I was writing more and better than ever before and it was glorious, but I needed credit within the industry, and this led to the next, unfortunately darker chapter.

Jesus Cinnamon-Titties Christ, I need another drink.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on*

"HEY THERE BOYS AND GIRLS IT'S TIME FOR WHIPPY THE SQUIRREL!"

 Goddammit. I still hate that voice. It's sort of what you would get if you let the Chipmunks smoke crack and then stuffed them in a blender.

 Sometimes we do things we regret when we are young, I guess. I was in my early twenties when I snagged my first legal job, a bullshit internship at a local TV Station. Jesus. I showed up all bright-eyed for my four in the AM shift and was handed a threadbare squirrel costume, complete with giant horrifying cartoon head. It reeked of booze and ass. "Morning kids show mascot," they said, "Whippy the Squirrel, beloved icon of local marketable children everywhere," they said, "Learn how to do the voice or you're fired." they said, and that last bit was the important bit. So I spent three hours in a cramped video closet watching reruns of the previous holder of the title, trying to get it right.

 Twenty years that poor bastard was the furred whipping boy for this station, and over the time lapse of the video tapes you could see his spirit wither away, slowly crushed by the awful mundanity of his chosen occupation. I found out later he'd showed up to work one morning, taken a little break to go to the dressing room, put the barrel of a .357 revolver in his mouth, and fucking BLAMMO. Cut to "Technical Difficulties" slate, call the cleaning crew, so it goes.

 But I really needed the job and the industry credit, so I lit a joint, got really fucking high, nailed the voice, and became the ultimate personification of local televised capitalism and commercial broadcasting. It wasn't really hard. Put on the giant stinking head, trot out in front of a bunch of bored children, try to get them excited about the next magician, clown, or Hannah-Barbara cartoon rerun. It didn't take long for me to fall into the bad habits again, smoking out and drinking heavily every shift just to get through it.

 The morning anchor's name was Jane Childes. A forty-something former beauty queen she was, with an older doctor husband, a very expensive set of fake breasts, and a predilection for cocaine. Before the news she would spend thirty minutes on her hair alone and then spend commercials doing bumps off the news desk. During the break between Sunrise News and Morning News, she'd do, well...

 Me.

 You ever hoover coke off a magnificent pair of middle-aged titties and have hot, sweaty, furry, squirrel sex in a video closet? And then have to go in front of thirty children and their parents and introduce a bunch of goddamned bullshit while reeking of pussy and weed? Of course not, and it went downhill really quickly.

 This whole horrible debacle led to a breakdown on television and a general brawl that got me fired. You wouldn't think eight-year-olds could throw down like that, but those little bastards will swarm you. They will climb right up your furry legs and punch you in the balls with all the skill and anger a disgruntled Taekwondo yellow-belt can muster.

 I was, of course, quickly and obviously fired. Barely avoided charges on that one, but luckily Mr. and Mrs. Childes were eager to stay away from any sort of public scandal and paid to have the whole thing hushed up. I suppose you could say that was my first introduction to real Old Southern Politics, where everything was about who you knew and how many people were related to you and little else in the way of reason. So it went.

 I got a letter in the mail from the Liberty City Courier the very next day, the third most popular newspaper in a crime-ridden city the majority of people hadn't heard of outside of the late night news. Seems they loved my work and wanted to make me an offer. So I sold all of my shit and bought a bus ticket.

 "Time for the big time," I thought.

 Goddamn, I was naive.

Let's have another drink, shall we? I'm not drunk, you're drunk, shut up. I'm telling this story, you goddamned reflection. Why don't you lose some weight, too? Fat bitch, I hate you. No, no, I didn't mean that. Finish the story and we can both go to bed.

Okay, bottoms up and here we go.

Oh fuck, oh fuck I have the hiccups, shit. OMG I HATE FUCKING HICCUPS. Okay, okay, wait... I'm good. Whew.

Liberty City in the early 'ought's, right?

Fuck.

I would call it a den of sin and iniquity but that wouldn't do it justice. I rolled into the Greyhound station ragged and jittery, too many days off the drugs and hard up for the next thing to prove myself. I grabbed my bag, walked outside, and saw a car fly through the air. It flipped upside down, murdered two pedestrians, hit a traffic light, righted itself, and sailed off into the night with about a hundred cop cars, lights a-flashing, trailing behind. Nobody called an ambulance for the poor smashed unfortunates, either, they just laid there as my taxi pulled up to take me to the low-rent apartments that the paper was paying for.

I was, at the time, unprepared for that kind of mental clusterfuck and had a bit of a breakdown in the car. My cabbie, who I think was some kind of Russian from his accent, laughed.

"Welcome to Liberty City, my friend," he said, as he wove in and out of traffic at a terrifying pace. I got to the apartment, locked the locks with a trembling hand, and called in to the paper. They wanted me to report at six in the AM. Fortunately I'd had my new cabbie friend stop off at a local liquor store and the fifth of Jack Daniels I'd procured got me through that night.

It wasn't easy, but nothing was easy.

Except maybe dying, in Liberty City.

I started at the Courier the next day. Covering the crime beat and believe me I made waves right out the door, just by having the audacity to actually talk to the criminals and ask them for their viewpoint. Up until me, I guess the Liberty City Courier was most pro-police-law-and-order and then here I come with my anarchist bullshit, the fucking audacious idea that we examine the society that had led to criminals, consider them as people instead of the usual big bad villains. Having the sheer gall to suggest that the cops might be the bad guys too. The old dogs in the bullpen hated me and I don't blame them. Some dumbass kid from the South with a weird haircut and the wrong clothes rolling up in their turf questioning the very fabric of the very normal kind of journalism they practiced? Very much an asshole, no doubt.

But when I broke that story about corruption in the LCPD, and it went national, no one could deny me.

The public, oh the ignorant and so easily distracted public, they ate it up. Bear in mind this was the late nineties, right? Anti-heroes were in full effect and my kind of crude yet poetic narrative was having its day. Sure. I got invited to the best parties by criminals and celebrities, vast displays of decadence on yachts and in underground clubs everywhere. I was a hot ticket, for a minute. I even managed to get a new girlfriend, yeah, a lovely, uh, a perfect, a...

A goddamned angel, and no mistake.

Shut up, shut up. It's okay. Moving on.

Anyhow. I got in pretty good with some local heavies. Not as difficult as you would think, nobody loves to talk about themselves more than criminals. What's the point of being smarter and harder than anyone if you can't somehow tell everyone that you are? All I had to do was listen and write the words I heard, at the end of the day. Sure, a little embellishment, maybe a punch-up here and there. Change the names to protect the innocent (not that anyone was, of course), and then BLAM you have a newspaper article, then a column, and then a book, and then it all kind of went wrong in the worst way.

Shit. Okay, wait. I just need another drink. It's okay, just, ahem, it's okay.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on*

Heavy sigh.

 Okay, let's get into it.

I published my collected articles with a major publishing house and we titled it, "Fear and Loathing in Liberty City."

It went to the top three on the NYT Top Ten Publishing list immediately and stood there proudly for two weeks.

Nobody remembers that now, of course, and there is no reason they should. I wish it hadn't gone as far as it had.

See, it seems that some crime lords, arrogant and narcissistic fucks that they are, don't appreciate it when you publish a book in which they feature heavily (even if names are changed), and they are described in a less than favorable light and maybe with words like: "weak-ass Nancy-boys", "useless mentally-challenged fucknuts", or "punk-ass exploitative shit pimp beta fucks".

Well, sure, they get a bit pissed-off at you. Some of them. Well, okay, one in particular.

Sergio Antoine.

Eh.

So there was this mostly-unheard of gang of criminals on the Southside, right? Second-hand punks, mostly, pseudo-bikers. Garbage white-trash meth-heads, low-level drug dealers, pimps, and so forth. Called themselves the "Southside Desperadoes" and owned a three-story warehouse they'd converted into a sketchy strip club named "The Platinum Pony", which was basically a front for their meth and prostitution rackets. Their leader was an ugly bastard that fancied himself as some kind of made man with the local Mafia (none of which, mind you, knew who the fuck he was). Sergio Antoine. He wore expensive clothes and watches, drove Italian sports cars, and wore ridiculous hair pieces.

I swear to God, every time I saw him he had a new look. Short hair, long hair, dreadlocks, shaggy bush, high and tight, loosey-goosey, everything. Couldn't really make up his mind and he ran his gang about the same way. They were drug-lords one week, pimps the next, an MC biker club the week after. Pure chaos. But I managed to ingratiate myself just enough to get access to the inner circle and after that it was a real awakening as to the ways and means of the Liberty City underground crime scene. That formed the basis of "Fear and Loathing" and most of my articles thereafter. I told the club what I was doing, of course, transparency in journalism and all that, but when the book hit, well, they took exception.

Especially Sergio.

Look, I will acknowledge that I didn't exactly describe him in flattering terms, okay, but everything I said was a hundred percent accurate. That probably made it worse. Don't poke the ego-driven narcissistic bear, right? But look here; these people were not good people, they were psychopaths almost to a man, exploiters of everything around them, murderers when they found it convenient and  just overall terrible, terrible shitlord human beings. Bad as it was, every single word I wrote about them was true. I just wish it hadn't...

Well, I mean I should have known it would...

I...

Fuck.

I need another drink. Standby.

*tape recorder clicks off*

*tape recorder clicks on*

Her name was Sarah.

Yeah. Before all this really hit its stride, I'd gotten just well enough known at the Courier that I'd been assigned an assistant. Some young, plucky, college intern, much like I'd been once upon a time. We hit it off, she was amazingly competent at all the things I was not and for my part I was a hopeless wreck of a human being. We bonded over drinks and a predilection for old punk bands and one thing led to another and then my book hit (which never would have happened without her help) and we got engaged and the local press made a big deal of it and we were in love and that should have been the part of the story where the fucking narrator says, "they lived happily ever after" and the end of it.

*extended silence*

Goddammit.

*cough*

Sorry, sorry. We were walking out of a trendy downtown restaurant when a car rolled up on us and gunfire erupted from the windows. I found out later that Sergio had ordered the hit because he felt I'd made him look weak in the book. I took one bullet in the shoulder and one in the knee. Sarah took three in the chest.

I held her, um, hmm. Sorry.

I held her while she died.                                    

Um. I need a minute, okay?

*tape recorder clicks off*

...

*tape recorder clicks on*

So, yeah. Okay.

When I got out of the hospital I went on a bit of a bender.

I mean, like, some epic Greek-hero level shit. Total blackout. I dropped a ton of money on coke, meth, booze, pills, everything. Whatever I could shove into my stupid brain to make it forget the pain, right? Still don't remember anything, and that's probably for the best because I woke up in a cornfield in Iowa three weeks later, wearing a powder-blue dress and one sock. Drug my hungover ass out of the field and down the road until I could hitch-hike into the nearest town, get some breakfast and check the feeds. Iowa locals don't even blink about this shit, too many years in the middle of America and everybody's cousin has a meth problem. Your weirdness doesn't even make a dent.

But it seemed the Platinum Pony had mysteriously burned to the ground in the time I'd been out. Multiple dead, all members of the gang. Sergio himself had been found in the back, in a safe room, almost untouched except for a hole in his head the size of a train tunnel. What survivors there were reported an attack by a demon, a figure dressed in a squirrel costume with a high-pitched voice that terrified them as it hunted them one by one, relentlessly murdering everything it encountered with a sawn-off shotgun.

I've no memory of any of that time, of course.

But I did wonder.

So I got my shit together, such as it was, and sold it off to pay for my ticket home. Went back to the Tennessee hills and got me a little cabin up on the top of an Appalachian mountain. Spent my time collecting royalty checks from book sales, drinking moonshine, smoking meth, and hitting on local moonshiner's nubile daughters who might have read one of my books on the down low. I had my reasons, of course, I'd promised my publisher two more books and they'd already tried lawyers to no avail. I feared they would try hitmen next, ditto for the gang scene in Liberty City, who have large egos and long memories.

So I went to ground, grubbing it out on the top of a mountain. No contact with the outside world, just me and the booze and the meth and the occasional young lady with a passion for literature.

It was not the best life, but it was good enough for me at the time, yes.

Fast forward to now, though.

Two things happened, really, that got me off that mountain. Firstly, I couldn't write. It's fucked up, but too much clean air, too much sunshine, trees, grass, squirrels and whatever the fuck, it broke me. It was too easy goddammit. My brain could not deal, and thus no words. I was hamstrung by bliss, I think. Secondly, the money ran out. Surprisingly enough, moonshiners and meth heads don't give credit. So I drug my dumb blissful ass off the mountain and down to the city, made some phone calls to some contacts in the newspaper world, checked the feeds, and found out that Los Santos was the newest hottest criminal hotspot in the world. I felt it too, that vibe, when I stepped off the bus. That feeling that you could die at any time, strike sparks anywhere, and hammer the fiery words of the gods onto paper.

Los Santos smells like gunpowder, diesel fumes, and blood.

And somewhere in my soul, the old Muse stirs.

I'm here to write words. I'm older now, the reflexes aren't what they used to be, but I think I still have some stories left in me. This is the last ride for this old dog journalist, and I aim to make it count, to leave a legacy, whatever it may be, written in the stars of the universe and hopefully at least two books worth of shit because the publishing house is still after my ass for that contract. It's okay though, I know this music and I remember the steps to the dance. The next chapter of chapters starts here, and words are coming easy in Los Santos.

But if I've learned anything, it's that nothing is ever easy.

*tape recorder clicks off*