#jneph writes

beware of mention of death, eating disorder, drugs, murder, grooming, abuse, depression, suicide, and more related things.

morgan drew / carnival created by @jnephrite .

BRIEF CHARACTER SUMMARY — harley & ivy’s adopted kid . parents murdered by the joker in front of her did serious damage to morgan .

after the incident , she got some weird abilities (fourth wall breaking) she couldn’t explain and practically made harley quinn to take her in and help her get back to the joker .

BEFORE YOU FOLLOW / INTERACT — i won’t do novella roleplay on my carnival account i will on this account. morgan’s lore will follow her original lore in JACEVERSE but with the mix of my interactions here (so technically, she’s still in jaceverse but with a little tiny changes).

main ship is superboy (kon- el) / conner kent but is open to other ships (like oc x oc). currently in a relationship with @conner-kent-central

don’t also refer to her as carnival @shecarnionmyval since the account is for MORGAN DREW (civilian identity) .

MORE UNDER THE CUT.

(memories by maroon five) — warning: none.

She was never a quiet person. 

At least, that’s what we know of her but she doesn’t know that. 

Delphi was taught and trained until she couldn't breathe to remain and move quietly unless they asked otherwise. Delphi never talked as much as she used to. But she never knew that. All she knew was that all her life she wasn’t loud.

Morgan, however, was never a quiet person. Even for a thief. She was loud and performative. She loved it when eyes were on her. 

Now, Delphi was quiet. It felt familiar to climb up a building, breaking a lock of a window. Breaking in a house wasn’t taught— Delphi was taught to assassinate outside to instill fear in others— so breaking in this place was too easy. Like she was born to do so.

It wasn’t even hard to break free of the Cave’s hold.

Now she found herself standing in a room that was filled with teenage paraphernalias and plants, the only light in the room was coming from outside, peeking through the small crack of the ajar door. She wasn’t even supposed to be here, she was going against orders.

It’s okay, they won’t know, we told Delphi.

We’ve kept this secret from her for so long. Afraid that we’d lose our control over her as a vessel if we tell. Some of us didn’t agree, so the rest of us drowned those voices away. But some things are never meant to be contained for so long.

Delphi heard those voices. We had no choice but to tell who he was. Where he was.

Now Delphi stood in the middle of Morgan Drew’s old room. A typical teenage girl’s room. 

But in the middle was a crib. A crib. Look, we pushed. Delphi tilted her head to the side and stared for a moment. Not talking. Not entirely looking. There were voices outside though. Harley’s. Ivy’s. Delphi lifted her feet, not making a sound and closing the door fully.

It was dark but we could see. Which means she could.

Delphi walked towards the crib and there he was. A baby. Frowning in his sleep like he was thinking of something unpleasant. We cooed. It’s been so long since we’ve seen him.

We waited for a response from Delphi. Her breath hitched. For a moment we felt Morgan.

Delphi reached for her wraps around her eyes, revealing the familiar orange and blue. She let it fall on the wooden ground and stared at the sleeping baby.

Morgan reached for him. Delphi hesitated before she let herself go. We didn’t even need to control her. We shouldn’t control her. We like the power it gives but we aren’t monsters— yes, we are— no, we aren’t.

She touched the forehead, rubbing her finger on the crease, soothing away the frown on the baby’s face. “Liva,” Delphi said. There was a part of us that cheered— Morgan must have remembered, right?

We wished it was simple. But Morgan would never call Lee by his full name.

Delphi retracted her hand back when Lee opened his eyes. He didn’t cry. He stared and gave her a gummy smile and babbled. We went quiet inside her head once more. Lee remembered his mother.

Delphi gasped. She must’ve loved the silence. She couldn’t even get that in the Cave where she needed to be isolated. 

“Oh,” she mumbled, caressing Lee’s chubby cheeks again before her eyes darkened.

Oh, we repeated. She remembered. Delphi looked to the side. A picture of the clown with dart marks was on the wall. She pulled back from Lee and she clutched the edge of the crib. Delphi remembered that her purpose wasn’t to serve The Syndicate. 

It was never about The Syndicate.

It was revenge on this man.

She always had the itch to kill that could never be satisfy despite the amount of people she had assassinated for The Syndicate. Delphi remembered why it never disappeared. 

She had been killing the wrong person. And Lee just reminded her that.

It’s not an order from The Syndicate, we warned.

Kill him, Mags— who is Mags?— we said.

“Keep you safe,” she murmured, voice still raspy from the lack of talking especially in English, leaning down to kiss Lee’s forehead. No, she doesn’t remember. But Delphi felt like it was the right thing to do. “Where is he?”

Arkham, we replied in an instant. Dead— The Joker— Don’t do it, The Syndicate will be not pleased— kill him— he’s dead— no— Mags— she’s not Mags—

Lee made a sound of protest, a whine coming out of his throat when he saw his mother pull away. Delphi doesn’t waver. Our voices drowned away the noises Lee made in his crib— he knew she was leaving. It’s not like we could stop her anyway. 

(brand new heartache by the everly brothers) — notes: baby talk + i took advantage of conner mun’s hiatus to make angst soooo not my fault /j

Morgan sat on the wooden porch of the Kent farmhouse, watching some people walk by, listening to the animals in the barn, or the chirping from the birds that flew by. She held her phone tightly as her leg bounced in anticipation.

note: i was listened to ttpd & the bridge of this song reminds me of @jacynkaplanbrake and @morgsdrew !!

i literally wrote this on discord so it’s messy !!

And I don't even want you back, I just want to know / If rusting my sparkling summer was the goal / And I don't miss what we had, but could someone give / A message to the smallest man who ever lived?

i added this part because of and i don’t even want you back i just want to know / and i don’t miss what we had part especially rn with morgan who maybe still struggles to let go not because she still wants him but because there are still lingering questions left unanswered on why the fell apart… and like considering jacyn’s actions post break up or even pre break up, she wondered if any of it was real

(forever winter by taylor swift. a character study) — warning: overdose & suicide attempt.

(Wait For It, Hamilton) — warning: descriptive murder & violence, and multiple mention of death.

13 is the number of death. The unlucky number.

Coincidentally, Morgan’s luck began to diminish as death began to loom over her at the age 13. But she was never the target. Death seemed to enjoy seeing a child witness direct or indirect deaths of her loved ones, snapping his fingers and taking their breaths away before her.

First was her nanay and táta. It was brutal, they died on a friday when she was 13. She was only 13, a 13-year-old shouldn’t be seeing so much blood. A 13-year old should be worrying about her first day of high school, not sitting between her parents, her new shoes soaked in their blood.

The same year, her friend died. She was in the orphanage, watching the news. He saw his face— his hair that was once red like hers was dyed black, but it was Jason’s face regardless— on the screen; Billionaire Philanthropist’s adopted son, dead. She was only 13 and she already felt so alone.

Everyone’s gone but Death himself.

13 is the number of death. It must be her number.

Because she was 13 when she snapped back to reality up blood in her hands. 

Morgan began to hyperventilate, the blue knife clattering on the ground— where did that come from?— as she stared at the body before her.

“Morgan!” she heard a voice called out but it was drowned by the multiple whispers in her head— she doesn’t understand it, they’re talking a lot, all over each other— and the fact that her hands were red and wet.

She wished she didn't remember. But she remembered it clearly.  

It was one of Fish Mooney’s goons, cornering her and Harley by some alley, demanding for the heirloom Fish was after.

Morgan survived purely by instinct and Harley’s huge hammer. She wasn’t sure what was going on, Chat— the whispers, the eyes, you, the reader—wanted her to fight and help Harley. But then one of the goons had slipped Harley and Morgan was cornered. The guy loomed over her— like how Death does, like how the clown did—

FIGHT—FIGHT—FIGHT—FIGHT BACK— The voices were loud, for the first time, they all agreed on something.

This man works for Fish Mooney, he wasn’t probably above harming a child. Morgan acted on impulse when he got too close, fear in her veins and Morgan rarely feels afraid nowadays. When he grabbed her arm, the guy’s face changed until his lips were red, his skin was bleached, his hair was green…

Morgan began to hyperventilate. It was him. Here. Again. Before the clown could do anything, Morgan wordlessly raised her arm, gripping her knife— wait, where did that come from?— and slit his throat.

When she saw red, Chat stopped. Morgan was surprised by the silence so Morgan didn’t stop. As the clown stumbled back, choking on his own blood, she lunged and plunged her blade into his skin. Not once. Not twice. All her anger was released with every push of the knife and it…

It felt freeing. To end him. Because that meant she’d be freeing the people he had killed too.

Chat quieted down. Is this how to make it stop talking? (Is this why she does this again? Is this why she takes and she takes and she takes?)

Until with a blink of her eyes, the clown wasn’t the one bleeding on the alley floor. 

And Morgan staggered backwards. She was only 13 when she caused a man to bleed out. Her eyes widened in fear of what she just did, she let out a strangled gasp, the knife clattering on the ground.

As she stood there, Morgan realised there was no guilt pooling in her stomach. No, it was more of a... 

“Morgan!” she heard Harley call out to her again.

… Disappointment.

Chat returned to her head. Ecstatic, amazed, terrified, and worried. And Morgan was disappointed because it was just a guy, it wasn’t him. The clown was still alive out there, Morgan didn’t kill him. She no longer felt free.

“Morga— oh my god,” Harley said. Morgan turned to her with an unreadable expression. “Oh god, did you—“ she shook her head and approached the redhead, concerned etched on her face. “Morgan, are you okay? What happe—“

She was only 13. A 13-year-old like her should be worrying about her upcoming recital, not thinking about how annoyed she was that it wasn’t the Joker that was on the floor, that it wasn’t the Joker’s blood in her hands.

(sweet dreams) — warning: violence.

Everyone dreams.

And Morgan Drew wasn’t an exception to this.

She could never be an exception to this. Morgan doesn’t just dream, she gets nightmares. Every Time her eyes closed, darkness would engulf her briefly but then her vision would contort into her fears, her past, her possible future.

It’s either she wakes up with a gasp or she wakes up crying, sitting upright on her bed, limbs tangled up in her sheets.

No matter who she’s with as she sleeps— her boyfriend, her mothers, Lucy, even her baby hyena— Morgan’s could never be peaceful.

In those dreams, she sees him. The man in the purple suit and bright green hair. His laughter rang in her ears alongside the whispers of her audience even if she was unconscious.

She hated his smile. It was too wide. Too red. And in her dreams, he was smiling as the knife plunged down and pierced through her parents’ skin. And Morgan felt like she was 13 again. It was gruesome but she couldn’t look away in the dream. Just like when she couldn’t look away when it happened to her.

She didn’t look away so he thought it would be funny if he pierced the knife through her eye.

But before the blade hits, Morgan was in his place.

She hated this part.

Morgan was in his place.

She was holding the knife. Her knife. It was blue and diamond shaped. Made just for her by the audience. It was blue until it wasn’t. It was red.

Like the blood on her hands.

Her hands were twitching as she stared down at her victims. They deserved it— you’re a killer just like him!— eh, they were annoying— I am hungry— they deserved it, they work for him— but maybe they needed the money; for their family?— that’s so sad— guys, I really am hungry— shut up! shut up! the audience chanted. Morgan could no longer figure out which thoughts were hers. Was she guilty? Did she like it?

She doesn’t hate it anymore.

She couldn’t control what happened next. Her grip on her knife would always tighten in the dream. She’d raise her hands, she’ll hear his laughters, her parents, Harley—

Before the knife hits, Morgan would always wake. Either with a gasp or screaming and crying. Depending on how visual it was.

oh fuck i— oh gods— shit— can’t do this.