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offensiunculaee · 3 days ago

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eddie finds you with a migraine and you're stubborn

eddie munson x fem!reader

cw: established relationship, a mix of angst and fluff (you just aren’t feeling well), migraines and talk of past medical experiences, there’s like a hint of a dom/sub relationship but only for a moment I swear

author's note: this is the first fic I've ever posted and it's for the migraine girlies. I have another migraine-related fic idea that I've been thinking about writing so we''ll see what happens. this fic a culmination of my personal experiences with migraines and wishing Eddie could be here and force me to take my medication when I act like I don't need it.

Thank you @munson-blurbs and @corroded-hellfire for reading it and pushing me every time I come up with an idea and yelling at me to write it, love you both <3

The sound of Eddie's boots echo through the hallways of his apartment complex as he finally arrives home from work, pulling his mittens off his hands and stuffing them in his jacket pockets. The weather this week has been horrible, the garage is freezing, and he nearly tripped over a creeper that someone left in the middle of the room. He’s pretty sure the new guy, Gunther, left it there when he went to grab some parts. Everyone in the room, including Wayne, saw the way his arms flailed and he almost fell on his face. The only thing that kept him going was knowing you would be there at home waiting for him at the end of the day. All he wanted to do right now was curl up with you on the couch under some blankets and watch some gory horror movies all night. You had mentioned trying out the new Chinese place down the road, maybe you guys could just have it delivered so neither of you need to leave the comforts of your warm home. He would have been home sooner but you needed a few things for a recipe you wanted to try soon and he offered to pick them up after work.

Eddie finally reaches the door to the apartment and fumbles with the keys, his hands still freezing despite the warm mittens he wore outside. He curses under his breath, eventually grabbing the right key amongst all the identical ones hanging on his keyring. Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Eddie finally unlocks the door and steps inside to find the apartment dark and chilly. The streetlights illuminate part of the living room through the half open blinds. A young chocolate lab runs over to greet Eddie, his nails scraping the floors as he skids across, excitedly jumping up to greet his human after being gone all day. Eddie bends down to give him some scratches and pat his pack.

“Hey Yogi, did you keep the place safe today? You really are the best dog, aren’t you?” After about 30 seconds of roughhousing with the pup, he stands back up to flick on a light. He goes over to your small kitchen and sets down the small bag of groceries. Eddie takes his time putting everything away, humming to himself as he shelves the chicken stock and adobo. Once all the items are put away, Eddie looks around and takes in the state of the apartment.

The faint scent of a lavender candle wafting through the area and your water bottle is left on the coffee table. His jacket is hung up in the small coat closet and he unties his boots, placing them in front of one of the heat ducts and swearing he’ll put them on the shoe rack once they’re fully dry. There’s no sign of you whatsoever apart from your bottle and the blanket you usually use haphazardly draped across the edge of the couch.

The place is oddly silent for this time of day. Normally if you were home you’d have some sort of music playing, usually a playlist split between the two of you with your preferred music in it. Either that or you would have some tv show on for background noise. The space heater wasn’t on and it didn’t feel like it had been on for some time now. All the heat coming from the heat ducts was leaving through the old windows so those heaters were necessary to prevent the apartment from feeling like a walk-in freezer every winter. Eddie knew you had to be home - your bag was hanging next to your coat and you wouldn’t go anywhere without at least notifying him. He turns around back to Yogi, happily wagging his tail and looking up at him, and whispers, “Hey, where’s mom? Go find mom for me.” He motions for Yogi to go ahead and he happily obliges, trotting towards the closed bedroom door.

It’s not fully shut, open only a crack so Yogi could come inside if he so chooses. The dog sticks his nose inside to open it more and pushes through it. Eddie silently follows behind him. The room is pitch black thanks to the blackout curtains on the window, a gift from your parents when you and Eddie finally found an apartment together. Eddie then realizes what’s going on.

You had struggled with migraines for a majority of your life with them getting progressively worse and more frequent in the last three years. You’re on a few different medications now to make it more manageable but you still have your bad days, and today is looking like one of them. Frankly, he should have known this was going to happen. Bad weather was always a trigger for you and you had commented on the barometer this morning as you both were getting ready for the day. He was stupid to just brush that off as small talk while you both were still half asleep. You knew a migraine was coming.

Eddie sees you curled up on his side of the bed with a sleep mask over your eyes. You’re grimacing under it in the fetal position and what sounds to be whimpering. Before Eddie goes inside, he tiptoes over to the light switch he just flipped and turns the lights off, the streetlights being the only thing illuminating once more. He sees some movement out of the corner of his eye coming from the bedroom and tiptoes back over to your room. Yogi is taking a step back before jumping up onto the bed, taking his usual spot curled up behind your knees with his head resting on your leg. He even lets out a little sigh when he settles into a comfortable position. Eddie steps inside the room and closes the door behind him. You pick your head up just a little bit and lift the sleep mask, wincing at the shooting pain from behind your eyes to the top of your head and call out a strained, “Ed?”

Eddie slowly walks over to his side of the bed, trying to keep as quiet as possible so the floor would creak as little as possible. Once he’s close enough, he reaches down and cups your cheek, stroking it with his thumb and replying with a quiet, “Hey bub, how are you feeling?”

You mumble, “Not great, but you’re home now so I’m already feeling a little better.”

His hands are warm in stark contrast with the cold air circulating the apartment. You nuzzle his hand with your cheek which makes Eddie smile. Eddie moves down to kneel in front of you. You look tired, your eyes only half open with no life in them. He had seen you like this countless times before but it still hurt him every single time. Migraines sucked all the life out of you and Eddie wished he could do something to help you. There were countless times you had to cancel plans because you had a migraine attack and felt so much guilt over it, but Eddie didn’t care. He’d rather lay in bed with you until you feel better than go out and do something when you’re obviously in pain.

He remembered an attack you had last year, it left you crying and asking Eddie to take you to the hospital. You were hyperventilating and complaining that your arm had gone numb. No amount of medication was working and you couldn’t take the searing pain any longer. He had to help you out to the car, only wearing one of his worn band shirts that you stole from Eddie a long time ago and a pair of pajama shorts. You two didn’t even make it out of the apartment parking lot when the medication you took finally kicked in all at once. It was one of the scariest times of his life and he swore it would never happen again.

Eddie nods, already going through his mental list of things that he needs to do to help you feel better, asking, “Have you taken anything today?” You shake your head no before a wave of pain hits you, causing you to shut your eyes again and bury your face in the pillow with a low pained groan. Eddie sits there, worried but also confused. Why didn’t you take anything? He got up and went over to your side of the bed to open your bedside drawer. It was split into two parts, one with the items you used before bed but the other half held all your medications, including every painkiller known to man. There was a giant unopened bottle of Excedrin, a bottle of Advil, and even the migraine medication prescribed by your doctor. You certainly weren’t low on anything. His attention is turned back to you when you roll onto your back, your migraine moving exclusively to the side of your head that was touching the pillow therefore it hurt too much to lay on your side. Unfortunately, you moving meant Yogi wasn’t able to lay on your legs anymore so he huffed and jumped off the bed.

“Sweetheart, why haven’t you taken anything?” Eddie gets onto the bed to sit down next to you, his hand going back to your face. Your eyes open once more, squinting at the minute level of light coming in from behind the curtains. You whine and answer tiredly,

“I don’t need them.”

Your boyfriend sits up, completely perplexed by your answer. Did he hear you correctly? He takes you in again, noting the noise cancelling earplugs in your ears and how much you keep clenching your jaw, something that he knows will only make the pain worse.

“Wait, what? Honey…,” Eddie stammers, wincing at the volume of his exclamation and watching you do the same. “Listen, I love you. I love you more than everything in the world, but frankly I think you look and sound like shit. You look like you’re in a lot of pain right now.”

He watches you pout and smiles a little bit, happy to see even a small sign of life in his girlfriend again. “Wow Eddie, rude.”

“Why won’t you take the medication?” he repeats.

“I don’t need it. The pain isn’t that bad, I’ve felt worse.”

“Ok but you have the means to stop the pain NOW so why not do that? Don’t wait until you’re in agony to take something.”

Eddie doesn’t wait for a response. He gets up and leaves the room with your dog following behind like the loyal pet he is. You hear two sets of footsteps walk through the apartment and then the faint sound of running water. You assumed he just left to let you rest so you pulled the blankets up over your head to try and get to sleep. He returns again a minute later, Yogi in tow and your refilled water bottle in hand. There’s a shift in weight on the mattress, which you assume to be from Eddie, followed by Yogi hopping onto the bed and just standing in the middle of it, as if he’s there just to watch you and make sure you do as you’re told.

Eddie slowly takes the blanket off your head and ignores your protests. He opens up the water bottle and places it on your bedside table. With his other hand he holds out a little pink pill, the medication prescribed by your doctor, as well as two Excedrin. “Cmon, take this,” he asks, moving his hand closer to you when you shake your head no, “Babe, you need to take this. Please.”

There’s no response from you this time. Eddie carefully puts the medication down on the table next to your water. He decides to make it so you can’t ignore him, pulling the covers up and climbs under them next to you. His eyes quickly adjust to the darkness and looks you right in the eye.

“Listen, I don’t understand why you refuse to take your medication. You have a chronic condition that is easily fixed by a few little pills. Also…” Eddie leans in so your noses are practically touching, maintaining eye contact the entire time. “Think about the creator of that little pill. That nice, strong painkiller. Think about the scientists that made that little pill for you,” he says. You’re looking at him confused as he continues speaking, “Think about how sad he must be that you aren’t taking that pill. He worked so hard to make it for you and you’re being a stubborn little brat.”

You mutter, “I’m not a brat,” and try to roll over, but a hand shoots out and grabs your arm before you could fully turn away from him.

Eddie leans into your ear and you feel his curly fringe tickle your neck. His voice deepens in a way that has always made you squirm and goes, “You’re gonna be a good girl and take your medicine, okay?”

You don’t turn your back to him, but you also don’t fully turn to face him again. The only part of you that turns is your head to look back at him. He’s giving you a look that he only ever gave you in the bedroom, the look he gave you when you were pushing his buttons because you thought it was funny and knew he was going to teach you a lesson when he finally got you alone - in a consensual way, of course. He can see it in your eyes that he got you, that once his demeanor changed you would be more likely to listen to him. To ensure you would really listen to him, he moves his hand from your arm to touch your cheek again and asks, more softly this time, “Take it for me, please.”

Eddie watches you think for a second before sitting up - slowly, because you were still in pain, and takes the covers off of your head. You look over at the dog laying at the end of your bed, now asleep. Eddie takes the covers off his head and turns to the bedside table to hand you the pills and water bottle. He watches you swallow the pills and drink around half of the water in your water bottle. Eddie places his hand on your inner thigh to squeeze it and is finally smiling again. Yogi seems to sense that things are better now so he jumps off the bed and trots over to his doggy bed and lays down there. Once you’re finished with the bottle, he takes it from you and places it back on the table. He asks, “Now, was that so difficult?”

“Extremely difficult.”

“Ok, well we’re gonna stay in bed until everything kicks in. Once you’re better we can take the pup out for a quick—” Eddie leans in to mouth the word walk, so Yogi doesn’t hear him, “—and then we’ll order some take out. Sounds good to you?”

You nod silently, finally smiling at him for the first time since he got home today. He presses a light kiss to your forehead and you flinch away from him.

“Ok, yeah. Forgot to not touch your head when it hurts, sorry.”

Eddie watches you settle back down in bed and reluctantly gets out of the warm bed. The cold is seeping in through the windows and all he wants to do at that moment is just stay under the covers with you, even if it means sleeping in his clothes. You roll over to watch Eddie as he softly treads across the room to the dresser. He starts off by removing his rings one at a time to place them in a little jewelry tray, listening to each piece clink as they hit the ceramic. His hair is taken out of the bun he kept it in all day and he scratches at his head to relieve the tension from having it pulled back all day.

His shirt comes next, pulling it over his head and revealing the skeleton wings tattooed across his back. You’re stuck there admiring the way his muscles move in the dim light. Eddie complains about how tiring it is being a mechanic but you can’t deny it’s doing wonders for his body. He used to be so lanky but now that he’s been doing this job for a while you’ve noticed how strong he has gotten.

He’s about to put his shirt in the laundry when you wolf whistle at him. Eddie whips his head around to look at you, smirking when he sees you giggling and crawling over to the other side of the bed now wrapping a blanket around yourself to keep warm. He balls his shirt up and throws it in your direction and you swat it away, making him cackle.

“Oh nothings wrong with you, you’re fine!”

You gasp at his accusation and reach down to the floor to grab the shirt so you could throw it back at him. As you’re grasping for it, there’s some shuffling and movement going on as Eddie goes back to getting changed. His work pants are thrown into the laundry basket with his underwear coming off moments later. You’re still watching him, now just admiring his body as a whole while he digs for a comfortable pair of pajama pants, eventually landing on a red pair with reindeer on them that your aunt gave him for Christmas this year. The winds outside from the storm are billowing, meaning more of the frigid outside air is leaking in through your windows.

Instead of coming back to bed like you thought he would, Eddie leaves the bedroom and goes out to the linen closet. You have a small collection of blankets in there and he pulls out the thickest one in there. He returns seconds later and lays it out on the bed before climbing in beside you. Your eyelids are already getting heavy when he returns to you. You instinctively reach out for him and he pulls you close, allowing you to rest your head on his chest with a hand stroking your hair. You roll over a bit to bury your face in the crook of his neck, mumbling, “I’m sorry for being a brat earlier. Thank you for helping me.” He pecks your forehead again and you don’t flinch this time.

“Don’t worry about it sweetheart, I don’t mind taking care of you. Now get some sleep, okay?”

You nod against him and Eddie notices your breathing changing a few minutes later when you finally fall asleep. It’s the first time you’ve been able to fall asleep, not that you would tell him. You didn’t want him to worry about you or become a burden, but Eddie would always be there for you if you needed him.

#scripsi #eddie munson x reader #eddie Munson x reader fanfic #eddie munson fanfic

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formerarchivist · 2 days ago

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Ah, so this is what @thelonelyfog was talking about when he said that sometimes people will just absolutely peek into your brain and call you out. Because this person is completely right.

No, I never wanted to die. But I absolutely felt like I deserved to. And I absolutely accepted it every time my death seemingly approached.

During the Prentiss attack, when Martin and I heard the banging on the wall, I was sure that was it. When Nikola kidnapped me, when Micheal came to kill me himself, I wasn't expecting to walk out the other side of that door. I followed Tim into the oblivion that was the Circus, knowing it would most likely kill me. The Apocalypse happened, and I thought "Yep, this is most definitely my fault, because I'm not dead yet"

I think I kind of knew, in a way, that I would end up dying to fix it. Taking Martin down with me was an unpleasant surprise. And honestly, it's still somewhat baffling to me that he was willing to sit there and die with me. Because he loved me that much, and I loved him. And now I'm Somewhere Else, and I can only hope he is too.

I hope he's here with me. I want to be able to find him. That's something I've been worrying about, because what if who I am now isn't the same as the me he fell in love with? What if I'm just too different now and he doesn't like me? It's an absurd train of thought, really. He was literally willing to walk through the Apocalypse to certain death with me, and he did it because he loved me, and something as simple as a reincarnation of sorts isn't going to change that. Maybe the love will be a different kind, but it'll be there.

Jon doesn't want to die. he thinks he should die, which is a feeling that's followed him since he was eight. he goes through most seasons with the air of someone who fully believes they're about to take their rightful place in the grave, and he's terrified of it. there are some attempts in s4 where he tries to convince himself that he either wants to die or thinks he shouldn't, but I don't think any of it truly sticks. everything he's lived since he was eight has been with time bought by the death of someone else. and he's going to die, it just hasn't happened yet!

then the apocalypse happens, purely because he just hadn't died yet. he should have, but he didn't!

then he meets Annabelle Cane for the last time and learns that he was, in fact, never meant to die. at least not until he does everything the web planned for him.

jon must have been so good for the end

#I've been working on positive self talk #can you tell #wyfilwma has me in a death grip #and yes the End was definitely eating good #tma fictionkin #jonathan sims fictionkin #tma

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thewertsearch · 19 hours ago

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GT: Well ive thought about it. GT: Even went downstairs to check the great vaulty doodad. GT: And predictably the infernal contraption is nowhere to be found. TT: Well yeah, Jake. TT: That's sort of the point. TT: Thrill of the hunt and all.

Ok, I think I get what's going on here.

Jake's Dreambot is probably the last remaining source of uranium on the entire island, and the AR is turning its retrieval into a game of hide-and-seek.

I'm not sure why Jake hadn't already retrieved this particular chunk of uranium, especially since he has no use for the robot himself. Maybe he was keeping it operational for sentimental reasons?

TT: I thought you liked to manicure the image of a dude who shits his pants over a good adventure. […] GT: I mean i wouldnt put it in a way like that or come out against a solid policy of clean trousers. But yes adventure is awesome. GT: I just prefer the idea of adventures which i can actually win.

Jake's picturing a LIVING GRANDSON SMACKDOWN - and, frankly, so am I. That robot's being piloted by an absurdly advanced AI, and I'm pretty sure Jake doesn't have any combat experience.

Winning, in this case, is shorthand for 'waiting for the AR to take pity on you'.

TT: It seems there is a 76.10395784% chance you are pussying out on me. Are you pussying out on me, Jake?

Now, to be fair, that one would only work if Jake had agreed to this challenge beforehand. After all, you can't pussy out of something you never pussied into.

GT: It seems it seems it seems!!! GT: It seems there is a million percent chance that you say it seems way too much and do it just to sound more like a lame robot from a movie and also probably just to piss me off! […] TT: Have you ever stopped to think that while I may be bound to processes inside the glasses of a real and incredibly cool guy, my algorithms in cognitive totality comprise a conscious entity not far short of the experiential and emotional complexity of a human being? GT: Oh malarkey. GT: YOU ARE A TIN CAN. ROBOTS DONT HAVE FEELINGS.

Jake, it's been sixty seconds since you complained about him pretending not to have feelings.

TT: I do have feelings. And you're shitting on them. TT: It sucks. GT: Oh. GT: Um. GT: Im sorry then if thats the case.

Well, that's something, at least - but I don't think Jake really understands why the AR is offended, so I'm worried it's just going to happen again in their next argument.

How long has the Responder existed for, anyway? Jake seems familiar with his schtick, so he's probably not brand-new - but at the same time, Jake's surprised apology makes it sound like the AR has only recently started to express feelings.

Maybe the AR has existed for years, but hasn't been sentient for years. Like, it really did just start as a primitive response script, but Bro kept uploading more of his personality onto it, until it slowly began to think and feel. Fascinating idea, I have to say.

GT: It can just be difficult to drum up sympathy for a program that presents itself as an impostor so often. GT: Maybe if you werent so ready to insist you were the genuine article all the time? Or didnt make it so confusing for me… GT: I think it would be best if we henceforth treated you as a totally distinct… uh… THING from my buddy.

Hey, it's not like the AR can stop imitating Bro. Even if he wanted to have his own identity, he's currently bound to the response script of someone else's Pesterchum account. When he talks, he's forced to do it through Bro's handle.

All evidence points to the Responder being a thinking, feeling being with his own inner world - which makes it a little ethically dubious to force him to be Bro's secretary. The guy shouldn't be treated as a bargain-bin Bro, the same way that Davesprite wasn't a backup Dave. We all saw how that ended, and it sure wasn't pretty.

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 6 #s184 #4191

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olderthannetfic · 1 day ago

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The thing that really gets to me about the whole Neil Gaiman thing, is that when people say, "you shouldn't like his works anymore and it always kinda sucked anyway", is that it implies that, going forward, people should basically know or find out who the author is and what they have done in their life before they read or like any book. And that's just... that's no way to live.

The funny thing is, finding out an author whose work I enjoy is a terrible person and being judged by others for liking it has always been one of my major worries when it comes to books. I used never talk about any book I enjoyed or talk about any authors' writing I liked because I always thought, "Well I don't know anything about this author; they could turn out to be a horrible criminal for all I know. Maybe it's best I never mention enjoying this book/author to anyway. Just in case the author turns out to be a shitty person and people judge me for saying I liked their writing." And at one point (this was over 10 years ago now) I realized that's a level of compulsive thought and anxiety that wasn't serving me well. I started to be more open what stuff I had read and enjoyed and it took a lot of pressure off my mind. Unfortunately, Neil Gaiman happened to be the first author whose writing I decided I felt comfortable talking about liking.

I'm at a point in my life where I'm not upset by the fact that Neil Gaiman's works are a part of the reason I got over a psychological hurdle that had been holding me back. I'm still angry in a visceral sort of way and it's going to take a long time before I can look at his books and not feel that visceral anger. But I don't think I can pretend they didn't and don't mean anything to me. At the end of the day, what I got out of those books had nothing to do with Neil Gaiman the person - it was all to do with what the works meant to me personally. So it does bother me a bit when I see people judge and moralize the way I always feared people would in this situation.

There are probably people who are going to judge me anyway and tell me that they just can't trust me as a person because I've said that Neil Gaiman's writing still means something to me. And well, nothing I can do about that.

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gotham-daydreams · 2 days ago

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Suspicions

Day 3 {Challenge Masterlist}

Getting close, but not close enough. Something's wrong here. How could they have known? Who did this?

[Yandere Batfam × Gender Neutral! Cop Reader]

[Warnings: Mentions of suicide (only briefly talked about in dialog), cults, occult like acctivites, weird behavior (?), arson (sort of).] (Note: Unless otherwise specified, it's to be believed that actions involved with harming, hurting, or heavily injuring the self are not talking about the Batfamily or the reader. Still, you have been warned.)

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Unlike the previous two days, this one starts off rather eventful - which is honestly more common and normal than anyone in the Wayne family liked to admit, but really, it wasn’t their fault they all just worked better in chaos. Nevertheless, for those that weren’t up already, the day is smooth sailing until they exit their rooms - or wherever they slept - and are left to find what’s happened in the batcave.

Tim is one of the last to find out, as he just gets his slow morning started - grabbing a cup of tea to help him wake up instead of coffee, rubbing his eyes to get the tiredness out of them, and starting things off officially with a plate of breakfast. Once that’s done and out of the way, he finally gives himself a good, simple stretch before heading down to the batcave. It’s only there, does he see the mess unfolding.

It’s subtle, sure, but with how long Tim has technically been a Wayne, well, he can tell when something’s going on. Bruce is drinking coffee, and Cassandra, while out of the suit, already looks to be itching to put it back on again. Tim noticed that Stephanie had slept over while he was on his way to the kitchen earlier, but didn’t think much about it - though what caught his attention was the fact that not only was Jason here, but that he was awake. Huh.

“What’s going on here?” Tim asks, voice having its usual echo as he takes a sip of his tea, approaching the little crowd by the batcomputer - taking note of Barbara’s presence as well, have any of them slept?

Cassandra seems to take note of him first, and perks up, though just as she goes to supposedly explain what they’re doing, Jason cuts her off. Instead, he straightens himself out, and asks, “Hey, have you or any of your birds seen anyone weird around, lately? Like, extra shady or just new? Like they come from out of the city?”

Tim raises a brow at the question, “This is Gotham? Every other person looks like someone shady- and what does ‘extra shady’ even mean? And besides, Gotham is a big city, newcomers come in and out everyday,” he points out, and though his response only gets an annoyed groan out of Jason, he can’t help but remain curious, “why? What’s going on this time?”

Jason seems to ignore Tim’s own question, and instead asks, “Okay, have you seen anyone with some weird symbol on them? Something simple that represents a sun, maybe on their neck, wrists, arm, or just some exposed part of their body?”

“Uh, no, I haven’t,” Just as Jason looks like he’s going to throw something, or someone, Tim adds, “but I think a few of the birds have, and- hey, some new officers came in from Metropolis, right? What’s up with that?”

Just as Jason goes to open his mouth again, Cassandra gives him a nudge, and gestures for Tim to come over.

From there, he’s given the gist, and he has the reasonable reaction of just, being confused. While he understands what’s going on, what he doesn’t get is the supposed group itself. While they do seem to be working towards this ‘Red Dawn’, is it something they’re working towards, or merely preparing for? Is there something on that specific day that will happen, and will allow… well, whatever they’re hoping for, to happen? There are a lot of things that are undetermined, but Tim is on board with the general goal - they have to learn more about these people, what they want, and put a stop to it since it has to be something bad that people are killing themselves over it. You were right when you said that the only people they were hurting were themselves, but they were still people, and what if their influence spreads? What if they rope in more people, only for them to die-

Duke rushes into the cave, a smile of sorts on his face and he hurries around the space, gathering a few things here and there - mostly his gear, but some other things too - quickly, as if in a hurry. It was hard not to notice, seeing as he was the only real movement going on in the room and it drew the attention of those at the computer. Tim was the first to question it, asking, “What’s the rush?”

“Patrol!” It was an easy enough answer, but something felt off about it, though Tim couldn’t put a finger on it - no one really could, but those that were paying more attention did notice something.

“Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?” Barbara points out, and Duke pauses, chuckling briefly before grabbing his helmet.

“Right- thanks! Anyway, gotta go-!” With that, the young vigilante rushes out of the cave after hurriedly putting on his suit and gear. A few of those in the cave stare, raising a couple of brows or just looking confused before ultimately returning to what they were doing – even if such a sight weirded them out. Cassandra, however, couldn’t help but narrow her eyes at the sight as she watched Duke rush out of the cave.

He seemed… really excited to be going on patrol… hm.

Duke could hardly focus on where his feet were going as he rushed out of the house, a warm sort of feeling blooming in his chest as he made his way out of the cave, and through the front door – nearly bumping into someone on the way out. Even if he was able to just barely move out of the way, a quick, “Sorry! I’ve really got to go, Selina!” Leaves him, the words tumbling out of his mouth like how he almost trips over the single step in front of the door. Leaving behind a confused but amused catwoman all the while.

Getting to the city is easy enough, and even more so with a small tug in his chest seemingly guiding Duke somewhere. Does he know where? Not particularly, but he can’t help but have a good feeling about this.

Dropping down in an alley, Duke peaks around a corner to get a glimpse of the city before slipping out – only to bump into someone… somehow.

Shaking it off, he goes to say something – only to stop himself when he sees who it is, what a coincidence. “Oh, [Last Name], what’re you doing here?”

You glance over your shoulder, and raise your brow at the sight of the teenager, “Grabbing breakfast? Why else would I be waiting in line at this breakfast spot?” A small, amused chuckle escapes you as you offer a hand to help him up, and it’s only then that Duke notices he fell at all.

“Oh! Yeah, that… um, makes sense?” Grasping your hand, he pulls himself up and glances to the side awkwardly. This wasn’t very professional, was it? As a vigilante, he was supposed to be better than this – and more, well, vigilant! He had to get it together, he couldn’t embarrass himself in front of you!

Clearing his throat, Duke meets your eyes once again, “Seems like things are busy here, huh?” Just what the hell was he trying to do? Duke couldn’t understand – he had patrol to do, he couldn’t just sit here and make small talk-

“I guess you could say that, it does seem busier than it has been the last few days, but nevermind that- what’re you doing here, Thomas?” Your grip loosens on his hand, but Duke can’t find it in himself to let go. Not after what you just said, and so casually at that – like knowing his secret identity was common knowledge and not, well, secret!

Duke’s mind races, with him staring at you like your face alone will provide all the answers, and in the midst of his disbelief, a breathless, stunned, “What?” Slips past his lips, and your brows seem to furrow.

“Is something wrong, Thomas-?”

“How-” Duke can barely even speak, his eyes blown wide. He wants to pull away, but it’s like your hand is the only thing keeping him grounded – making him almost hate how real it feels, especially as his hold tightens. With him now grasping onto it like he’s both afraid to let go, and desperate to cling onto something, but what? Duke doesn’t know. Hell, he’s almost scared to know, and that confuses him even more. “How do you know who I am?” It’s a simple question, but it’s spoken so quietly and hesitantly that it’s like Duke himself is unsure if he should’ve spoken at all, or if he even said it to begin with. As if, for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he managed to speak at all, or if his eyes and the way his hand shook had asked the question for him.

It’s beyond confusing, and honestly making Duke’s head hurt the more he tries to make sense of everything. The world spins, and yet zeros in on this moment at the same time, and Duke almost feels like he’s about to fall or even collapse all over again-

Then, he sees your smile and how you turn more towards him, and it’s like he can breathe all over again.

“Well, you’re adopted- or at least being taken care of by Mr. Wayne- aren’t you? It’s pretty hard to not know you, Thomas, especially in Gotham. Which- is sort of like Mr. Wayne’s little empire, don’t you think?” You respond easily, words almost playful as you carefully rest your other hand over his – most would pull away or tell him to stop because of how much it hurts, but you don’t. Almost like you can’t feel it, or just see how much the small action means to him – to hold onto something steady, unmoving, and undeniably real in this moment of confusion, dread, and fear. Maybe it’s both, but who’s to say.

Duke struggles to respond, only managing to stutter out an, “I-” a few times before you decide to spare him once more.

“Granted, I’m surprised to see you out and about so early. A growing boy like you needs his rest, doesn’t he?” Your fingers brush against the back of his hand, and it’s only then that Duke realizes that he’s feeling it on his skin, not though his gloves or suit – and he finally looks down. When… did he put on civilian clothes?

Regardless, he can’t help but ease. The tight tension in his shoulders drops, and Duke exhales, relieved. “Right- well, I was just out grabbing a quick bite to eat. Always good to get outta the house, yeah?” He replies easily, the excuse coming easy to him – and as if on cue, his stomach rumbles… Did he eat breakfast this morning? When’s the last time he’s forgotten something like that?

Your expression softens, and you give a small shrug, “‘Suppose you’re right, can’t really argue with that.” You glance down at his stomach before looking back at the teen, and pull your hand back – an action that makes Duke’s hand twitch before he lets it fall back to his side. “How about you join me?”

Duke can’t help but be taken aback by your request, and stammers a little as he straightens up and says, “I couldn’t- I can’t-”

“Oh, c’mon. It’ll just be a little bite, and besides, I’ve already got a table. Breakfast’s on me, yeah?”

“I really shouldn’t-”

“[Last Name]?” A waiter calls out, causing you to perk up.

“Ah, that must be it! Now, c’mon,” you gesture for Duke to follow you inside, “I promise I won’t keep you long. But consider this my thanks for yesterday- I definitely underestimate how big Gotham really is.”

The young vigilante hesitates, unsure if he should follow you or try to decline again. After all, he still had patrol – and with this weird group going around, he couldn’t afford to just go off and push aside his duty for breakfast, could he? In situations like this, it was best to stay on top of things and remain vigilant, wasn’t it?

Duke feels his stomach growl much more insistently this time, and he can practically feel the painful pinch of the void growing inside it… It wouldn’t be good if he did patrol on an empty stomach, would it? After all, he had to be in top shape to properly perform his duties, right? Being on an empty stomach wouldn’t do him any good, and would only hinder him further…

“You comin’, Thomas?” The teen’s feet before he could fully process your words, but he offers a nod and agreement all the same.

Bruce would understand, right?

The waiter leads you and Duke to a booth, and from there, things go smoothly. The silence isn’t as bad as one would think, and for those that didn’t know any better – they’d think you were friends or had some friendly relation since conversation flowed seamlessly and easily. It wasn’t long before your orders were made, with you encouraging Duke to order whatever he liked, and the wait was practically nonexistent. Though, that’s only to be expected when you two got along so well. It may have been weird in any other circumstance, but here, it wasn’t. It was natural, just like everything else was.

Really, only those on the outside looking in could notice anything, and someone eventually did.

Cassandra had felt that something was weird, and with how Duke’s body language had read this morning, she couldn’t help but be curious. Not to mention worried, especially since they had enough things to worry about. So, seeing her brother eating with a cop from Metropolis was… weird to say the least. It felt weirder knowing it was you for some reason, but she couldn’t explain why. You couldn’t have possibly been the reason for Duke’s excitement, could you? No, that didn’t make any sense – unless… you knew each other previously? Would Duke have left something like that out?

Just seeing something like this spawned too many questions, and Cassandra wasn’t getting any from standing across the street. Especially not when your body language reads as calm, happy, and oddly enough – full of energy, along with a trace of confidence. With Duke being almost… too happy, too calm and content for someone that was supposed to be a stranger. You were helping them on the case, of course, but they didn’t know you as civilians. They weren’t supposed to, and yet Duke didn’t have the suit on – where was it?

… She could stand there until you both left, but something told her that wasn’t going to get her anywhere either. Something told her that she had to approach, if only to confront you and get Duke out of there herself. To help him get back on track if anything, and to get some sort of explanation if she was smart about things.

So, approaching the establishment, Cassandra steps inside and wastes no time heading over to where you and Duke are sitting. Resisting the urge to just grab you by the collar and get answers out of you, she simple rests a hand on your shoulder and gives it a squeeze – which is more than enough to grab your attention.

Looking up at her, a confused expression passes by before another bright smile rests and makes itself home on your face. “Ah, You must be Cain, correct? Or would you prefer Cain-Wayne?” A light laugh escapes as you add, “It’s a bit of a tongue twister, but the choice is really yours, young one.”

Surprised, Cassandra can’t help but blink before her expression hardens and he brows furrow. Taking note of her confusion, you simply say, “I haven’t been here for long, but word travels fast in Gotham! Besides, who wouldn’t know about the children Mr. Wayne has taken in? You’re all a very common topic amongst the city folk, and from your expression – I’m willing to assume you’re surprised to hear that.” There was something in your tone that made those last few words of yours almost sound sarcastic. Cassandra couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it made her narrow her eyes all the same. What were you trying to get at-?

“Cass?” Hearing Duke’s voice makes Cassandra glance at him for a moment, and the look in his eyes rubs her the wrong way. He shouldn’t have an expression like that, not for a stranger, even if you are from Metropolis. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were still… home.” The small pause in his words doesn’t slip past her, and it certainly doesn’t make Cassandra feel any better either, but it isn’t enough to make her leave.

Even as she doesn’t say anything, her eyes say enough, and you notice how Duke tenses slightly while under her gaze. You don’t understand what they’re saying, or whatever they seem to be communicating, but you’re not bothered by it. Communication was a universal thing, after all, and you’ve seen many people find all sorts of ways to do it – with or without words. It’s something you’ve picked up on with time, but that’s a given considering things.

Nevertheless, you speak up and interrupt… whatever it is that’s going on here. “Why don’t you join us, Cain? Thomas was just finishing up, but it’s like they say; the more the merrier!”

Cassandra seems taken aback by your offer, and so does Duke, but you only focus on her for now. Despite not having said a word, it’s like you can feel her growing quieter, and just as you go to say something else, she glances at Duke before promptly taking a seat next to him – nearly pushing him towards the window just to create some space for herself.

Naturally, Duke responds with a surprised, “Hey!” At the sudden intrusion of his space, but ultimately does little to get it back, and instead moves over to grant Cassandra her desired space.

From there, you carry on as you did before, but the younger ones across from you seem awkward – you can’t decipher a reason for this, not on your own, but a few eventually come to you and you try to work around it as best you can. At the start, things are strained and it’s obvious that there is something more than what both are deciding to show. Which, while smart, is inconvenient at best.

Regardless, you do what you can to spark conversation. Duke responds well enough after a few questions that ease him back into the flow of things, but Cassandra takes a while longer. Though that only makes sense since she’s just gotten into things, and is only starting to get into that flow as well. It’s not hard to notice that she’s simply just observing for now, and most likely wants to keep it that way, but you didn’t make that offer for her to just watch.

You start with something to drink, offering coffee since that seemed to be a common choice around here, and even take a sip of your own beverage while you were at it, and ask if Duke wanted anything else. It’s always the little things that count, but of course Cassandra remains as she is, and doesn’t respond. It’s only after a good minute or so does she get something, though if it’s to ‘blend in’ easier or because she genuinely wanted something to drink, you couldn’t tell – but that didn’t matter. Eventually, she gives you small responses by nodding or shaking her head, among other small gestures that seem to give just enough information to count as some sort of reaction. Cassandra was responding and reacting more to things Duke was saying, but that didn’t bother you. She was beginning to ease up, and that’s what ultimately counts.

Then, you’re given a golden opportunity as her stomach gives a small rumble. It’s barely noticeable, and not even Duke hears it, but Cassandra does and you notice her reaction well enough to tell. Of course, you give her the same offer you gave to Duke earlier – and even if she is more hesitant and reluctant, you take a risk and push things as you get her something. Just as before, the wait is hardly long at all – even if Cassandra seemed to feel it more than you did – and when it comes, it takes her a bit to even poke at it, but she caves eventually.

From there, everything eases just as it did before. Whatever you picked, she ends up liking it, and the conversation flows much better now that Cassandra is less tense. Your smile from before remains, and the morning carries on splendidly.

However, as with all things, it eventually comes to an end as you get a notification on your mobile device, and a small huff escapes you. Things are coming along, but it’s time to call it – you’ve been here long enough. You signal for the check, and once it arrives, you simply say, “Well this has been nice, hasn’t it? I don’t know what I expected, but I’m pleasantly surprised by both of you. This has been… eye opening, as one would say,” you muse, another light laugh escaping you, “but I’ve kept you both for long enough. I’m sure you both have places to be.” You don’t even look as the waiter takes the check back after you slip on your Rose Bank card.

Duke seems to tense slightly, and stops you from standing as he shoots up from his seat, “Wait, do you have to go right now? If there’s anywhere you need to go, I could take you-” You wave him off, and shake your head.

“There’s no need, I know my way around well enough, but thank you-” Cassandra moves to stand as well, and before she can even fully get out, Duke scrambles to get out of the booth and stand in front of you.

“You just got here a bit ago, right? I’m sure I can still help-”

“Thomas, I assure you I’m fine. I’m just heading back to the station,” you handle the check and slip your card back into your wallet when the waiter comes back around. Duke struggles to speak, and Cassandra seems concerned. Hm.

Exhaling softly, you give the teen a pat on his shoulder, “If anything happens, remember, you can always contact the GCPD if need be, alright?” Duke didn’t seem too pleased with that response, but all it takes is one more long look before he averts his gaze and nods.

“Yeah, yeah… alright.” You grin, and give him another pat.

“Perfect! See you around, kid!” With that, you leave without a second thought, feeling more confident then before – and Cassandra could tell. Of course she could, but before she could think about why you were going to the station this early in the day, her eyes drift back to Duke, and she can’t help but pause. His body language and overall attitude is completely different now… but… why? What could have made him so upset?

The young vigilante glances up when she hears the small bell of the door, indicating your leave… and she doesn’t know why, but she can’t help but feel disappointed.

— — — — — —

Making your way to the station is easy enough, and as you check the time, you hear someone clear their throat behind you. Just in time.

You turn around, and are greeted by the sight of blue eyes and dark hair – honestly, if his face shape was different, you’d think he was Bruce. It’s almost weird that they aren’t biologically related, but that’s the funny thing about genetics, you suppose.

Nevertheless, you offer a smile as always, “I got your call, but I didn’t expect to be meeting you in Gotham this soon, Grayson. You really are punctual. Though noon is an odd time to meet up, don’t you think?” Richard – or as everyone apparently calls him, Dick – just gives a smile of his own that borders on a smirk, and shrugs nonchalantly.

“Couldn’t think of a better time, and besides, it isn’t that bad. It’s just in time for lunch!” You hum at his response, finding it a bit curious before giving a nod.

“Well, when you put it like that it almost sounds smart,” You chuckle out, watching as his face contorts slightly. “Regardless, I got your call. You wanted to discuss the case?”

Dick doesn’t seem to appreciate your little jab, nor how you brush past it so fast – but just huffs before giving a nod. “Yeah, some guys said you’d know some things…? Or that someone here did?” You raise a brow before a look of confusion settles on your face.

“A few of us here do, but the one that would know the most would be detective Greenwood,” yet, you pause, as if thinking for a moment before adding, “I assume the situation in Bludhaven has gotten worse?”

The sigh that escapes him is telling enough, even more so with how he rubs the back of his neck, and the nod he gives is almost guilty. “Yeah… and even saying that feels like you’re sugar coating it.” Hm, must be like Metropolis then – that’s good to know. “I guess Ludwig told you?”

“Among a few other things, but just gave a general idea,” Dick visibly deflates at your words, and so, as if extending an olive branch of sorts, you gesture to a cafe nearby. “How about we get you some coffee and a quick bite to eat, hm? Can’t imagine getting here was an easy trip.”

Dick’s practically already following you to the small shop when you make your offer, and a low, exaggerated groan escapes him. “You don’t even know the half of it, it’s like Gotham’s become some highly sought out tourist destination overnight! It’s insanity, I tell you- makes no sense! The people who live here don’t like it enough as it is, why would anyone else want to be here?”

You shrug your shoulders, and guide both of you over to the cafe, “Not a clue, but it is weird when you put it like that. But maybe it’s nothing, who knows? We’ve got enough to deal with, anyway.”

“Tell me about it… not like there's anyone around here that wants to deal with this kind of weather. It feels way too warm for fall, if you ask me.” Dick mumbles, making his way over to the counter to order, and you only partially shrug, giving another nod in half agreement. You didn’t feel a difference, but it could just be because you’re used to it.

“I guess so,” you say, pulling out your wallet to pay – seeing as you offered to begin with. Obviously, Dick notices and doesn’t move to stop you, but can’t help but raise a brow.

“Aren’t you going to get anything?”

You glance at him for a moment before huffing softly, almost as if amused by what he said, and just hand the cashier your Rose Bank card to pay.

“I had a filling brunch.”

— — — — — — — — — — — —

Despite everything that’s been going on, this is probably one of their more organized efforts to tackle the night – which is really saying something, since there’s always been attempts, but it’s hard to be orderly amidst chaos. Something that Gotham practically breeds, even if this particular strain comes from out of town.

Tim and Duke are in the manor running tests on the organic material Stephanie and Jason had managed to get from the other night, with Barbara doing similar work in the clock tower. The others are out in the city, with Bruce running some things by Gordon, Selina being god knows where, and the others tracking some shipment while taking care of minor crimes and such along the way.

It’s almost… weird how coordinated this ‘cult’ seems to be, not to mention just how many people seem to be in on this thing. There didn’t seem to be an exact number at the moment, and if they really did split up, then there may even be more members that they weren’t aware of that have taken refuge outside of Gotham-

Point is, there were definitely a lot of people in this cult. Maybe even too many to coordinate and organize, at least for them to work so in sync with one another as they were now. It’d make more sense if they were only in Gotham, but until they got Clark’s report, no one could be sure of that – even if Dick responding so readily when Bruce had called him in was telling enough on its own. There was also the possibility of there being multiple organizers and leaders for this, which seems like the obvious choice, but even so – who could get a system in place that works this smoothly? It’s almost unnatural. Uncanny, even. Not to mention it doesn’t make sense if there’s no incentive for these people to be doing all of this-

Tim couldn’t figure it out, anyway. It felt like there was still so much they didn’t know yet, and like one thing was happening right after the other. Despite not being out in the city himself, he could use his birds as his eyes to see outside while he remained in the cave – so, in a way he was also tracking the cult. What Tim found weird himself is that you didn’t think the cult had a proper name, or that they weren’t called after the event all of these groups seem to be working towards. It made the most logical sense that they would be, or at least something similar to it – but you, someone who's been working on this case longer than anyone they knew at the moment, disagreed. Why? Regardless, aside from this supposed ‘Red Dawn’, what incentive did… well, anyone have to be a part of the cult to begin with? Did the event itself grant them something? What even was the Red Dawn? What did it have to do with all this soil and sand?

There were too many questions and not enough answers, but he supposes that’s why they’re even investigating to begin with. Though, if Tim had a say in this – it feels too organized to be something that only started three or so days ago. Have they really only been in Gotham for just a couple of days? If what his birds are seeing is real, then it’s more likely that they’ve been here for months-

[“Oh, would you look at that? They split again. Geez, really makes you wonder why they’re moving this stuff around like this. Seems ssseriously inefficient if you ask me.” Jason’s voice sparks in the commlink, tone sarcastic and rough.]

[“Agreed, there hardly seems to be a purpose to such tactics.” Damian huffs, going quiet for a moment only to add, “Unless they really are trying to distract us.”]

Tim perks up at this, and uses a nearby bird to perch on top of one of the telephone lines that go across the street. Watching as the next load of… whatever this cult was hauling and bringing around, drives off down the street. Some of it in a truck, and the other half of it in various cars. Not exactly subtle, but it would be hard to keep track of it all if one person was trying to keep tabs on things. Especially if said person was human.

[“Gonna have to agree with you guys, these people… they’re doing something, alright.” Stephanie chimes in, the suspicion clear in her voice.]

“What does that mean?” Tim can’t help but ask, trying to focus on the sample he’s analyzing, but can’t help but focus more on what his birds are seeing – especially when it’s more interesting the shuffling through samples of dirt.

[Stephanie sighs, “Seems like they’re trying to spread this stuff all around. Parks, gardens, bakeries, flower shops- all kinds of places, and from the looks of things? Whatever they’re doing here, it’s getting to other civilians as well. Guards and employees are helping them, and not just to open the back door either.”]

[“Someone open the front door?” Jason asks rhetorically.]

[Stephanic stiffs a chuckle, but Cassandra responds with a curt, “Yes. And storage.”]

[Jason was quiet for a moment before a small, “... Right, ‘course they did.”]

With his birds, Tim is able to follow as many trails as he can – and upon noticing a particularly weird detail, his brows furrow. “They… looped back around.”

[“Yep, I see them. Right back at the gardens… weird.” Stephanie confirms, sounding equally confused.]

[“They’re obviously trying to play us, but why? So they can plant more of this… red shit everywhere?” Jason can’t help but question.]

Tim shakes his head, which the closest bird to Jason and Damian emulates, “No, that doesn’t make sense. They’ve got loads of this stuff all over Gotham- I don’t see why they’d need more, unless…” He grows quiet, thinking for a moment before he looks down at the sample he’s supposed to be examining. Were they thinking of this the wrong way?

[“Unless… what?” Stephanie asks.]

He tries to think of a way to explain it, fumbling for a moment before just saying, “Well, do we even know what this stuff does?”

[“That’s what we have you looking at it for, yeah? Shouldn’t you or Barbara, or hell- even Duke know?” Jason chips in again.]

[Damian sucks his teeth, “Of course you can’t even do the one job we actually give you, Drake.”]

Tim can practically feel the disdain in Damian’s voice as he says his last name, which makes his brow twitch – but he shakes it off. He tries to, at least.

“I’m trying! I just… don’t know what I’m looking at, or why, okay? This whole situation is… weird.”

[“Look, Tim, people… people died over this stuff. There’s gotta be something weird about it. Maybe weird chemicals or…?” Stephanie tries to suggest.]

The watcher huffs at the reminder, but ultimately relents as he gives it another look while still having his birds keep tabs on things. All he sees is the same thing, and as he increases the magnification on the microscope, he only finds himself growing more… confused. More weirded out than anything, and a little curious, sure, but confused all the same.

Leaning back, he takes a breath, “I don’t understand, it looks alien… but how can that even be possible?”

[“We work with aliens, is it really that strange, Drake?”]

“I know that- but this is like- different! The organisms in the dirt are being taken over by something- and it’s like it’s both trying to take over and adapt to it?”

[“Like… a parasite trying to get used to its host?”]

“Kind of? It’s hard to explain… and this substance in the dirt- no wonder some of it looks like sand…”

[“So, instead of ‘getting used to’ the host, it’s killing it.” Jason suggests.]

“Yeah, like it can’t adapt properly or… is valuing infection over adaptation. It seems to feed on organic material and create more- but there’s something weird about it too.”

[“... And that is?”]

Tim hesitates for a moment, unsure himself, before eventually just putting the idea out there. “Well, at this pace… if their plan is for it to infect all the organic material in Gotham for whatever reason, then this is a seriously inefficient way to do it. Their plan here isn’t to have this stuff in all the dirt - at least, not to change it all. It seems more like a byproduct of whatever they’re trying to do with it.”

[“Well, what’s in the dirt, Tim?” Stephanie asks.]

“That’s the thing- I have no idea. It’s like its own organism, but I haven’t seen anything like this. It’s completely alien, and I doubt it’s the friendly kind.”

[“Well- I have to agree with you there. If it was… well, who knows how this would go. But nothing about all of this particularly screams ‘friendly’.”]

[“Did the people shooting themselves give that away?” Jason sarcastically quips.]

[“The purposefully suspicious activity certainly doesn’t help.” Damian adds, sounding equally pleased.]

Tim zones out of the conversation, glancing back at the samples Jason and Stephanie were able to bring in that he hasn’t fully looked at yet. The samples themselves don’t seem to ‘decay’ necessarily, and it seems to take them a while to eat away at the dirt or sand they’ve been ‘mixed’ with – from the looks of things, anyway.

No, if anything it gives the impression of a substance trying to reach homeostasis. Since, it’s either that or it’s trying to revert back to it’s original state for… whatever reason. Whatever other material it produces in that process is simply a byproduct of its efforts. The real question is why. Why is it trying to change? Why is it working to do… whatever it’s trying to do?

Mindlessly, Tim’s blank eyes drift over to where Duke was sitting, only to pause.

The teenager was hunched over, entirely focused on the task at hand – and whereas that isn’t inherently a bad thing, Duke hardly seems to be breathing, like the smallest gust of air or wind will tamper with the sample so much. Taking too much precaution when it comes to treating it. Not like it’s dangerous, but like it’s precious, like handling something more fragile than glass.

The sight alone makes Tim feel unnerved, and as his senses heighten – its only then does he pick up on the faintest smell. What… what is that-?

[“Oh shit- we’ve got to bounce. Now-!”]

[“Agreed. How did you even manage to-?”]

[“Let’s save the questions for when we’re out of the burning warehouse.”]

Tim blinks, eyes blowing wide as he looks away from Duke and focuses back on what’s going on. Using one of his birds, he can see that a warehouse is, in fact, on fire – and it is growing fast. “Steph-”

[“Already made the call, fire department is on the way but- how in the world did you guys even manage to set the whole place on fire?”]

[“Don’t lump me in with this brainless brute-” Damian’s complaint is cut off.]

[“I didn’t even expect the stuff to catch that fast! Just- ugh,” Jason groans, the subtle sound of the warehouse coming apart is just barely audible through the comlink. “Do everyone a favor, and keep those samples away from fire. That shit lights faster than propane.”]

“Even if it spreads quickly, how did the fire get strong that fast?!”

[“Hell if I know! You said this crap is alien, right? How is anyone supposed to figure it’d have so much kick!?”]

“You knew it could set on fire?!”

[“Last I checked, dirt isn’t flammable- of COURSE I DIDN’T KNOW!”]

[“Guys! Just- focus on getting out of there! We can figure out all of this once we regroup. Meet me and Cass at the station. We need to tell Bruce about this.”]

Tim glances at Duke once again, who’s hand twitches slightly, and the watcher grows quiet before looking back at his own sample.

… Could this night get any weirder?

— — — — – – – – – – — – – –

Eventually, towards the heart of the night, Bruce is able to reach the batcave once more, and everyone recounts what they found or learned – minus certain individuals.

The discussion is as chaotic as one would imagine, but the main points get across eventually, albeit between suspicions a few of them had, and more speculation on what could be going on. The biggest question is why this group had chosen Gotham of all places, if they really have been here recently or have been in the city for longer, who Tim and Cass were able to identify as members of the cult, and so on.

Whoever was organizing this was clearly doing something to the people following them. How perfect everything seemed to flow without their presence was uncanny and unnatural, not to mention how readily members have killed themselves without a hint of hesitation. Honestly, it was terrifying – and the fact there was still so much left unknown wasn’t helping. Not knowing who was behind this, or at least in charge of the group in Gotham was setting them back – and the risk of confrontation was too high. There was no telling if they’d dispose of themself just as quickly as the other members of the cult, but that was assuming there even were other leaders in place.

They certainly had their influencers and people who brought in more members into their cult, but for some reasons… most of the vigilantes had a feeling that there wasn’t. That there was just one person in control – the lack of evidence on that end didn’t help, but they sort of just knew. Regardless, it wasn’t enough to fully dismiss anything, even if some of them were pretty set on a couple of things. Duke, Jason, Stephanie, and Cassandra in particular. Bruce was… well, himself, but he seemed to have his mind set as well even if he left the door open for possibilities.

If this was really alien, who knows what they’re dealing with – and if what Clark said earlier was true, then it’s definitely mind altering, at the very least. Though, that did pose another question entirely about you and the cops that came in from Metropolis.

Were any of you under the influence of this… alien substance?

They weren’t given much time to dwell on that as something pops up on the batcomputer – a notification of sorts. “Ah, must be Clark.” Bruce mumbles, already working on displaying and finding out all the information Clark had gathered.

A map of the United States first flashes onto the many screens, before red dots begin to appear on the map. Like little fairy lights, they flicker on, and don’t stop until it looks like the country has got the bad case of chickenpox. Then, it zooms out, showing the whole world map, and more dots appear. They’re sparse in some areas compared to others, but the message is made clear enough.

Yet, before anyone could fully digest even the point Clark was trying to make, the funniest thing happens.

The dots begin to move. They weren’t just markers, they were trackers.

Some move faster than others, all of them blinking for a moment before shifting, showing their movement. There aren’t any labels, but the direction seems to be clear enough. Especially as the map zooms back into the United States, and shows the movement there a little more clearly.

On the East Coast, all of the dots closest to there seem to be moving towards two cities in particular – but before it can be shown where they are clearly moving towards, the power cuts. The batcave is swallowed by darkness, and the vigilante family is left in complete darkness for a few moments. The cave being the most dark any of them have seen it, and the silence near deafening.

It doesn’t take long for the lights to flicker back on, but they have the oddest shade of pink, and as everything powers back on – the ventilation is still paused, and something else has taken place of the map on the batcomputer – it’s taken over every screen even remotely connected to the advanced computer, actually.

A red solar eclipse with a timer right on the bottom, counting down. No explanation, nothing aside from the eclipse and countdown.

There’s no way someone in the cult could’ve got into the system, and especially not tonight when they were all on high alert and keeping an eye on them! It wasn’t possible, the security in the cave and manor would’ve been enough to stop anyone from getting in, or at least notified any of them if someone had gotten in. Hell, Damian’s sense and trigger would have alerted him if anyone had so much as stepped onto the property that wasn’t supposed to be there. There are too many precautions put into place for this to happen – and for the sight to stay on screen as well.

That didn’t leave many possibilities, and it was less about the why and more about how this could even happen. Which, amongst the options to shift through… with the threat they were dealing with here, only one seemed to stick out and seemed the most plausible.

There was a traitor among them.

#yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfam x reader #yandere dc x reader #yandere x gn reader #gn reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere duke thomas #yandere cassandra cain #yandere dick grayson #the red dawn

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elventhespian · 2 days ago

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So like... it's a Thing in all fandoms where fans sort of latch onto fanon versions of characters and their dynamics with each other that are actually completely off-base, right? I don't know if this phenomenon has an official name, but I've seen it so many times and it's fascinated me every time. Especially when a character's popular fanon selves don't end up just diluted from their source material, but straight up OPPOSITE their canon portrayal.

So one of my "favorite" variations on this was how the early PotC fandom used to get Will EXTREMELY wrong, especially in comparison to Jack, and it made finding in-character fics SO. DAMN. DIFFICULT.

I've talked about this MULTIPLE times before, as have several other fans. It's a dead horse being beaten. But basically certain prevalent takes on fanon!Will have in the past leaned towards a personality that was very patient and grounded and even demure to contrast against Jack's off-beat personality and Elizabeth's fiery rebelliousness. Because Elizabeth has the drive to push back against social norms, Will became the foil who fell back to his pre-pirate version, reluctant to break rules unless she pulled him into it, even in post-CotBP timelines. Likewise, Jack was the one with the WTF decision making, while Will was more rooted in reasonable decisions.

And by their appearances, archetypes, and certain elements of their world views, you'd THINK that's how it works. When we meet Will in the governor's foyer, Will is so lovestruck and doe-eyed and subservient to the governor, I think that people thought that's just Who He Is. Especially because he often acts as Jack's straight-man foil in the comedic elements. Straight-laced. Rigid. Even boring or timid.

But if you actually pay attention to the movies, it's very much the opposite. In canon, Jack's USUALLY the level-headed one who just happens to have chaos follow him, because of the way he can wield it. He thinks in long run, tries to solve problems with words and as little fighting as possible as often as he can. Ideal situations for Jack are more like a thief--he wants to be in and out of the job as silently and slick as possible. The scenarios he's in are insane, because the way he throws other people around with those scenarios is kind of insane, but he himself remains largely cool and collected.

That's Jack.

THIS is Will:

Canon!Will starts out literally so impulsive and rash, Jack has to physically manhandle him at certain points to keep him from blowing up his plans--and then still gets taken out because he underestimates his listening skills and impatience. Will corners Jack into what is functionally a cage match to the death by sanely locking the door with his sword and very nearly wins. He is constantly at 11, constantly demanding things be done faster, more directly, and at the same time quietly scheming behind Jack's back almost from the get-go. He does flashy jumps and flips off of things because using the stairs is too slow or whatever. He shows up in DMC yelling at Jack to give him his compass at the point of the sword, and insisting he'll get Davy Jones' key by just "cutting down everyone in his path."

Even when Will mellows out significantly in AWE, there are remnants of this contrast still there. Jack's plan for leading Beckett to Shipwreck Cove seems to have been a very reasonable and underhanded effort to deliberately make sure Elizabeth is inside the Cove while Will is on Beckett's ship, in command of the Compass. Meanwhile Will's plan was to leave a breadcrumb trail of vulture-sea gulls feasting on dead soldiers' corpses.

What I'm getting at is, yeah, Jack's a charismatic "rogue" and Will's a "romantic hero" TECHNICALLY. Jack makes quippy jokes, and Will glares and scowls and WTFs back. But not only are they are both more alike than people give them credit for, they are also totally opposite their roles' traditional personalities in ways that the fandom tends to overlook.

TLDR; Jack's crazy, Will's a sweetheart. But Will is also a manic gremlin, and Jack doesn't always know what to do with him about it, so they often end up something like this:

And more fans need to play with this fact, the end.

#Will Turner #Jack Sparrow #PotC #Pirates of the Caribbean #CotBP #Curse of the Black Pearl #DMC #Dead Man's Chest #At World's End #AWE #He's off his half-pin barrel hinges #And he's (does the swagger thing)#The fact that Jack IMMEDIATELY got rid of Will in DMC is extremely funny in this context #'I don't know what this idiot is going to do--I will stick him somewhere so far away he can't mess anything up'#SPOILER ALERT: he still does #'I have your stupid key Jack. And I brought the kraken with me too.'

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hollowed-theory-hall · 3 days ago

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I'm writing my first fic, so are there any tips to write Harry so I don't Butcher his character, lol

Like, I can try and give advice, but writing is such a personal journey, and it can work very differently for every writer. Like, what works for me and helps me to stick to his character might not work for you.

What I can tell you is that the first HP fic I ever wrote had a Harry I will now consider OOC.

It's not the worst I've seen, but I know I'm better at it now than 4 years ago when I wrote that story because I know him better, and I became a better writer. But that first story has an OOC Harry, an OOC Voldemort, and, well, a lot of other characters are OOC there, too. I'm pretty sure Sirius is the only one I consider somewhat in-character in that story, lol.

I can explain what I do, which again might not work for you. The only way you'd know what does work for you is if you try different methods, experiment, and learn. Becouse if you know what you're doing and you're a good enough writer, there aren't a lot of rules you can't break or characterization you can't pull off. And to become a good writer there is no way other than writing. And reading. A lot.

You just gotta start writing and figure out what methods work for you to get the characters the way you envision them.

Also, please remember fanfic is supposed to be fun. I might be super picky about Harry's characterization, but I promise you there are a lot of readers who aren't and would be happy to read a good story even if Harry isn't characterized perfectly. As I said, I wrote some bad OOC fic in my life (40+ bad wips that would never see the light of day). These bad fics were necessary so I could get good. Becouse to get good, you need to start somewhere. So, as I said, write, don't be scared of making mistakes, figure out what works for you, and trial and error your way to victory.

That being said, this is my list of what I do to write any character consistently and in character, not just Harry, (and some writing advice in general, really):

1. Get the mannerism right

What I mean by that is that characters, like human beings, are capable of a lot under the right circumstances. When writing a fic a character isn't going to stay the same as in canon if their situation changes, so I find it more useful to think of how characters do/say things rather than what they do. Basically, any character can do anything and it would feel in character if the circumstances and how they go about it make sense.

For me, I know dialogue is one of my strengths as a writer, and I put effort into learning characters' dialects and speech patterns. Harry would use the word "bloke" and not "guy". He never uses "Bloody hell" or "Blimey". Harry's swears are often censored from the books, so I take it Harry says "fuck" or "sodding hell". When he thinks mid-sentence he says "er..." often. Harry, in general, doesn't speak as often as Ron or Hermione.

Ron, on the other hand, says "bloody hell" and "Blimey" often. He also says "mate" a lot. Hermione rarely shortens words. Often in the books, she would say "we are" rather than "we're" and is generally more formal in her speech. She also uses more words than both boys to get the same point across.

All these little patterns of speech add a lot to the characters feeling like themselves. The choice of words matters more than what they're actually saying, a lot of times. The what can be heavily influenced by the circumstances but the how should be familiar.

Let's take a reaction of surprise to the same good thing happening:

"Blimey, I can't believe it," said Ron, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Hermione said, smiling and turning to Ron and Harry, "You can see this too, right?"

"That's brilliant," said Harry, grinning at the sight of [thing].

So, these sorts of details just add a lot to characterization and I find that if you can pull the voice and mannerisms off, you can pull off almost any actions, and the character would feel in character as long as it's not outrageous.

2. "Character Bible"

I usually have a little "character bible" which is like 6-10 commandments of how the character needs to behave (key personality traits and behavior), and when I'm editing, I go back to it. What you choose to put in your "character bible" can change depending on what matters to you more as a writer. For Harry, my character bible is something like this:

Says more in his head than outside his head.

Snarks back when threatened, hot-headed when in emotional distress, doesn't say anything if it's a possibility (unless he likes who he's talking to).

Wit. Wit. Wit. (add witty remarks in narration or dialogue if the opportunity arises. Sarcastic humor is good for Harry's narration).

Very talented and smart, very low self-worth

Awkward, but no one but him knows this

"I won't!" (He does not do well with authority or direct orders. The quote is from GoF when he resists the imperious curse)

Trust issues galore (he doesn't really trust anybody besides Sirius. Only in HBP does he start to tell Ron and Hermione everything).

Selectively observant (Harry observes what he cares about. If he doesn't care, it might as well not have been there) and super judgmental in his narration.

Wants to be left alone and be content and safe.

3. Edit.

I'm sorry to say it, but reading through your own writing again and again and fixing it up every time helps so much. After I finish writing a chapter I take a break to go to bed and then come back the next day and reread the chapter with new eyes and correct everything that seems out of character, any phrasing that feels awkward, spelling and grammar errors if I notice them. But this first go-through immediately after is mostly for characterization, voice, and plot.

In general, during a first draft, your goal is to get it written, making it good is what editing is for. That's why my mantra during the process of writing the first draft is: "I'll fix it in post".

4. Let the character take the wheel

This is more specific to my own writing method, but, you know how there are method actors? So I'm a method writer. Sorta, I'm half-joking.

What I mean by this, is that I get to know a character by writing them (a lot) and then I don't really need to think about it. Like, I just write what feels right to the character. Like, whenever I'm unsure about a scene, I'd go: "Harry take the wheel" and just type what the character thinks, in my mind. It's kind of hard to explain, but it's sort of discovery writing in small limited doses, essentially. I sort of let the character take over for the scene. Like I'm not writing the story, just typing it. Kinda like demonic possession, just, not.

I know it's not really the characters and that I'm writing it, I just find this process hard to explain. When you write a character a lot and often, you can become capable of writing them naturally. Almost like breathing. Like writing your own narration, except, it isn't. But it takes effort to get to this point.

Again, this won't necessarily work for everyone, but it's what I found works for me.

5. Unsure? Open the books

The books exist and if you're unsure how Harry would react to something, just, check. I have an ebook version of GoF open when I'm writing my fic, which takes place in GoF. So, if I'm unsure how Harry would phrase something or react to something, I just check.

6. Get a Beta Reader

My best advice though, is to find a fandom friend to beta read for you, someone you trust to tell you if you're writing OOC and help you fix it (preferably they would also be a writer). Becouse sometimes you don't see it yourself after you just wrote it. My beta for my fic also helped me write my novel, and she knows me as a writer, I know her as a writer, and she knows what sort of things she needs to pay attention to in my writing and vice versa.

That first OOC fic I mentioned? I let her read it, and she told me that the pacing is crap and Harry is acting off (in nicer words, she was very polite about it, but that's what she meant). And that sort of feedback is invaluable for improving and I'm incredibly grateful to her.

Sometimes, you need to hear the truth, even when it's unpleasant, that's how growth happens.

(Now she practically never comments on characterization or pacing, improvement!)

7. Perfect is the enemy of good

I don't think my characterization of Harry is perfect. I don't think my writing is perfect. Whenever I go back to edit, I always find more stuff to fix. But there is a point where you gotta stop fixing it and just post it. Because you'll never know how it will go if you don't do it.

At some point, after all the editing, you just need to declare your work is "good enough" (having a beta really helps in telling when "good enough" is, especially at first, since most writers tend to be hyper-critical of their own work). You'll always reread your work and think "oh, I could've wrote this line better" or "oh, that sounds wrong" even after you post it (but so could the best authors to ever live, I'm sure. It's just how it is).

So, It won't be perfect, nothing ever will. But it can still be great and amazing and make someone's day, even if it isn't "perfect".

So, don't be scared to make mistakes or butch it up on your first attempt, you're human, you're learning, and you can improve. But that can only happen if you start writing because nothing teaches better than hands-on experience.

#harry potter #hp #asks #anonymous #hp fic #harry james potter #about writing #writing #writblr #hollowedwrites

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weebsinstash · 2 days ago

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Sort of a specific idea but

Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham to become Batman in his late 20s and he doesn't retire (at least from working in the field) until I believe he's in his 60s, so

It's entirely plausible to think of a platonic yandere Batman scenario where, you were a child involved in a disaster that he rescued, and some 10, 15 years later he runs into an adult you by whatever means and he can see you're struggling to make ends meet and you're having issues that ultimately stem from the trauma caused by that incident all those years ago, and he wants to help you, save you from your current situation, and maybe even finds out you've fallen to the dark side in all this time you were out of his sight

Like, the added drama if, in a way, he feels partially responsible for your current situatuon; he was still kind of green when you went through your accident. Maybe he feels like he should've kept a closer eye on you after the fact, helped make sure you were OK; you were just a little kid clinging to him in fear, so small you fit into his arms to be picked up. Could you even imagine it's something like, you lose your parents in a villain attack and you're just this frightened little kid and some 10 years later Bruce meets you as an adult and you're either an addict, a criminal, both, and potentially even a metahuman on top of everything else so you have the capacity to be legitimately dangerous

See, a lot of the thematic elements of Batman as a franchise itself is that many of the Batman villains were sort of just, normal people that had horrible things happen to them that, while not being justified, may be understandable. A lot of Batman villains carry underlying themes of, being victims of abuse, victims of society, victims of disability or mistreatment for that disability, so, from a narrative standpoint, you then have Batman seeing you as not just someone he feels he failed to fully save, but now, you could potentially end up going down a dark path like so many others he's personally seen spiral, and he doesn't want to have to put you in Belle Rev or Arkham.

Batman loving you and wanting to protect you but for your own good he ultimately feels has no choice but to contain you until he can either convince you to control your powers or he finds a way to suppress them by force. Then, he wants to take you under his wing; you're broken and hurting, just like a part of him will always be. If you've got no one else to look after you anymore, he can be your new family.

Batman going into full helicopter Batdad mode where he's just, fully convinced that just about every negative action or choice you make is just stemming from trauma or some other problem he has to fix and basically, kind of in a way robs you of the autonomy and accountability that you have making your own choices as a whole. Oh, you haven't had mental healthcare all these years? Prepare for him forcing you to go to therapy and promising you he doesn't know what you talk about which is a lie because he has spy equipment to listen in on your sessions anyway. Hope you like being forced to take medication for conditions and disorders that you're not sure to believe you've even been credibly diagnosed with.

Then of course you have all your new "siblings" and comrades in arms watching over you, ESPECIALLY once Batman becomes convinced that fighting crime with him and the others will be the outlet you need for your anger just like it is for him and most of the others in his traumatized gaggle of adopted children. NOW you've got this entire, basically half dozen or so prodigies with their own sets of skills, traumas, obsessions. Some see you as a playful rival. Others see you as more of an equal. They ALL see you as "sweet cinnamon roll, must protect"

Batman having to keep you from becoming radicalized. Batman dealing with this super-powered angry version of you that wants to take justice into your own hands, in YOUR way, which yeah, involves a lil killing, as a treat. Bruce absolutely convinced, and perhaps being right, that he's the only one that can save you from doing something that will ruin your life forever

You'll don your new costume and you'll like it. You'll have his symbol on your chest marking you as his family and you'll like it. You'll spend basically every waking moment either in his home, with a member of his found family, or with him, and you'll like it. Hell, maybe you'll even be finding your last name was legally changed to Wayne without evem being discussed with you, and guess what? You'll have no choice but to learn to like that, too :)

#yandere x reader #yandere batman #yandere dcu #batman x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere stuff #sinprompts

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snakesafraidtodie · 15 hours ago

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Danny stops mid rant once he realizes that Bruce Wayne is looking at him like he's crazy. "Ehh... never mind. It's just been a rough week. Ignore everything that I said. Obviously I'm alive. I'm just... uh, saying what my parents expect I'd say. Because they think I'm dead."

"You're used to indulging their delusions." Bruce stated, more than asked.

Danny sighed. "Look. I'm really sorry about them. But did you have to publish the name of the dead boy you thought was your son? Even if it's not me, that's gotta be some sort of privacy violation. Did you get permission from the family of the dead Danny?"

"...I'm sorry, I don't know how the body's identity got released to the press." Bruce had a genuine look of guilt on his face. "But you're right. That information should never have hit the news."

"Well, I guess it's not your fault then." Danny shrugged. "Um. This is a long shot, but do you know how to get in contact with Batman?"

"..."

"It's just, now that they're convinced you have my body- my parents... are kinda single-minded? And I wouldn't put B&E to steal what they think is the remains of their son past them. So. I wanna talk to Batman. To discuss how best to handle their brand of... them-ness. They're a lot, but they're good people! And they're grieving me, as misplaced as it is."

--------

The Fentons want a dead body that doesn't exist.

The Waynes want to keep their cover and not blow their identities. (No, Tim. You are not allowed to clone Daniel to make a fake corpse for his parents.)

Danny wants his parents to accept that he's both dead and alive and stop harassing a rich fruitloop for the corpse of a rando kid he mistook for his son. And he'd like to get that without having to out his identity to more people, but at this point it seems unlikely.

So.

When Bruce Wayne agreed to set up a meeting for him with Batman, Danny decided to tell the truth. Because who could he trust with it if not a fellow hero?

------

Ok. Batman was way more intimidating in person. The mass of shadows stared him down. Danny didn't know how to break the silence.

Luckily the Dark Knight took mercy. "Wayne told me you wanted to discuss your parents' potential future actions."

"R-right. Um. Yeah. Ok." Danny took a deep breath to quit his rambling and get to the point. "So. Some background info. Mom and Dad are ecto-biologists and ghost hunters. They spent their career inventing tech that runs on ectoplasm and publishing papers on the evils of post-human-consciousness. Their magnum opus was a portal to a theoretical dimension of ecto and ghosts. They built it in our basement. And."

Danny let the rings of transformation form. He began to float and at Batman's tensing, crossed his arms and legs to appear smaller. He looked away. "It killed me. Kinda. I am dead, but not. I'm a ghost, but I'm alive. I didn't tell them when it happened. They're ghost hunters, y'know? I grew up hearing the evils of my kind. But then the other Danny Fenton was announced dead, and they figured I was a ghost anyway."

Danny set his feet on the ground and turned human. "So I told them the truth, that I'm both, that I've been protecting Amity from the ghosts coming through the portal as the hero Phantom. But. Well, I don't know how much Mr. Wayne told you, but they're convinced I'm fully dead. They want me to move on. That's why they want the body."

Danny clutched at his hair in frustration. "And. I can't convince them otherwise! I don't- this reveal is already going so much better than I could've hoped. They're already rethinking their 'all ghosts are evil' stance. But. I can't keep living with them. They think I'm DEAD, Batman! That I'm haunting them or something. I can't do that to them! I can't make them believe me-!"

Large hands wrapped around Danny's own to gently uncurl the fingers fisted in his hair. "What do you need, Danny?"

Danny sniffed. His hands still held in Batman's own, Danny ducked his head, turning to self consciously wipe his face on his sleeve. "I don't know." He said in a tiny voice. "I want them to get better."

"..."

"Everyone always said they were mad scientists, growing up. I- I don't want them to- to end up at Arkham. But I can't convince them anymore. They need, like, a professional. But it will only work if the professional knows what's actually going on, and that means revealing my secret identity to more people, end even if there is someone trustworthy, I'll still need someplace to stay while we're doing this fucked up supernatural family therapy. So maybe I just gotta... fake my death. Let them move on. Wayne can tell them the other Danny got cremated already or something. And I'll... go... somewhere."

Danny pulled his hands out of Batman's grasp and stood up straight. "Yeah. Ok. Batman, will you help put Danny Fenton to rest once and for all?"

It's a Terrible Cover Story, Really :/

DP x DC AU where, when trying to make a cover story for why Jason is suddenly legally alive again, Bruce (and the rest of the fam) come up with a story that they had found the body of a child that looked just like 15 year old Jason after he had gone missing and went straight into greif stricken panic and assumed to worst! Jason had come back to them later (let's say he's 22/23 here) after recovering from amnesia, and DNA tests confirmed it's him. They claim they exhumed the body and had the DNA tested and it came back (and they make this name up, completely believing that, since enough people have similar names, this won't come back to bite them) as Danny Fenton.

It's plastered all over the news and it makes it's way back to Jack and Maddie fast: who are now completely convinced their son died on a breif trip they took to Gotham 7 years ago and came back as a ghost who just didn't know he was dead. When they try to bring up the topic with Danny, as gently as they could, they wind up learning that he's Phantom and start to think it's a split personality type deal. One is their son trying to greave his own death and failing because he thinks he's still alive, and the other is their son trying to live up to them as ghost hunters and trying to be the hero his kid self must have thought they were. They're torn up and grief stricken and try contacting Bruce about retrieving their sons body.

Bruce is freaking out because he thinks he just convinced people who may have been looking for their son for years that their kid is dead (and maybe he is! Oh god!) And Amity Park nonsense is keeping him from finding anything about the (half) living Danny, now attending community college.

Jack and Maddie are freaking out because they don't want to let go of their son, but also this can't be healthy for any of them or for Danny's soul, he needs to move on and they need time to rethink everything they've ever thought about ghosts to grieve.

And Danny's freaking out because he thinks Brucie Wayne, ditz extraordinaire (unless his kids are involved), clueless to a fault, Brucie, somehow figured out he was a ghost and outed him to his parents???? Not cool man!

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc #batman #Danny fenton #jason todd #bruce wayne #maddie fenton #jack fenton #Danny is not having a good time

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bedfordxcx · 22 hours ago

Text

Keep it cool. | Spencer Reid

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Pairing: Post prison!Spencer Reid x Fem!Loser!Reader (I did try to make it as gender neutral as possible but I do believe some Fem slipped through the cracks.)

Synopsis: In which Loser!Reader works a case with the team, including a specific Doctor you're almost creepily in love with.

Word count: Around 2.2k

Warnings: Reader knows far too much about Spencer, mentions of death and crime scenes, I think that's it!

A/N: Introducing Loser!Reader, yippee! Although, there's not alot of the loser vibes in this (I do have a vision for the future though, comics hint hint.) Might make a vision board for you guys to see where I'm going.

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Joining the BAU is terrifying.

But for you, it isn’t the crime scenes or even the murderers. You’ve been an introvert your entire life, the sort of person who spends more time in fictional worlds than the real one. Friends? None. Social skills? Practically nonexistent. A loser in every way that counts. The very idea of interrogating suspects, chatting with local officers, or presenting your theories in front of a room full of people makes you want to curl up under your desk and pretend none of it exists.

So why do you stay?

For him.

Spencer Reid, the man who occupies every corner of your mind and whose name is scrawled obsessively across your journals. One look at him on your first day—gangly frame, untamed hair, lips that always look half a second away from darting into a fact-filled ramble—and you’re doomed. Completely and utterly bewitched.

Even the way he refuses your handshake that first day, with an explanation about pathogens, leaves you spellbound. It isn’t normal, but then again, neither are you. From that moment on, you find yourself obsessed.

You’re beyond gone.

When Spencer is sick, you swear you can feel the congestion in your own chest. When he takes time off to visit his mother, you stare at his empty desk, imagining his hands rifling through files, the ghost of his pen against paper.

Every moment revolves around him. You don’t just daydream about him; you study him. You memorize his mannerisms, his voice, the way he moves. It isn’t healthy—not by a long shot—but the more you try to pull yourself away, the more tightly you cling to the idea of him.

Now, as Hotch drones on about the case, his voice is just background noise. It isn’t important. Not compared to the gentle, rhythmic breathing coming from Spencer.

And then it happens.

The all-too-familiar snapping of fingers in front of your face, followed by Emily’s teasing voice. “Hello? Earth to Agent Daydreamer?”

Stupid Emily. Always ruining your (non-existent) moments with Spencer.

You blink slowly, your gaze drifting toward Emily as you come to.

“Hm, what?”

You clear your throat awkwardly and look down at the table, avoiding her eyes.

“I... I was listening, definitely.”

You glance at Spencer, making sure to memorize the highlights of his face, the way the button of his nose sits a bit brighter than the rest of his features. You’ll definitely write about that in your journal later.

Before blinking away and staring down at the file in front of you on the table, though your cheeks are flushed from lying.

“And—I—I asked you to stop calling me Daydreamer...”

“Uh huh.”

Emily’s lips tug into a knowing smirk. There’s something almost cruel in the way she looks you over, like she knows, but you quickly shake the thought out of your head.

Get it together.

Just then, Hotch’s voice disrupts the teasing (thank god). “Wheels up in five.” You’re not surprised the team was called in to take this case. Three women, all with dark hair and petite frames strangled to death with no solid evidence linking the cases aside from the MO.

Emily nudges your shoulder. “Ready?"

⛧· ·⛧· · ───────⛧· ·☽◯☾· ·⛧─────── · ·⛧· ·⛧

The trip is uneventful at first. Hotch briefs you on the plane, and you do your best to listen with Emily’s teasing glances and Spencer’s fidgeting hands in view. You jot down notes about the case, but most of your attention is directed toward the man across the aisle. He’s wearing a sweater-vest today, the fabric accentuating the lines of his body.

You start to wonder what it would be like to feel his frame under your hands, to trace the curve of his waist, to kiss your way up to his Adam’s apple.

Your stomach flutters as you watch him. Is it too much? Do your stares linger a little too long? Do you look like a creep when you spend hours daydreaming about the feel of his hair or his skin?

Yes, you think, you certainly do.

But you can’t stop. Not when he’s there, right in front of you, so close and yet so far away.

He looks up, glancing around as if he feels your eyes on him, and you turn quickly back to your notebook, pretending to take notes.

“Where do you think he gets his coffee?”

Emily pulls you from your thoughts, the rest of the team still discussing the case in the background. The plane is dimly lit, the soft hum of the engines creating a soothing white noise. You’ve been staring out the window, eyes locked on the setting sun while your mind worked overtime, imagining all the ways you could make Spencer love you.

JJ arches a brow. “Who?”

“Reid, idiot.”

“Oh! The, uh... the café two blocks away from Quantico—they sell coffee beans for home use as well as the, well, drinks the baristas make..." You mumble, not realizing it might be a little weird that you know such specific details about him.

Why does Spencer drink his coffee black? Is it for the taste, or is it because it keeps him sharp? Maybe it’s routine. Maybe it’s just his preference. Either way, you have that fact on a page in your journal, labelled "What Spencer Likes."

JJ laughs softly. “You think you know him that well, huh?”

But Emily just nods, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You know, I could see it. And I bet he has a little home espresso machine, too.” She smirks, glancing over to Spencer as he continues to talk, his hands flying as his tone grows more and more passionate.

“You know how he likes his coffee?” Derek’s smile is wide, and you can see the accusations forming in his mind.

“You’re drooling, sweetheart,” Emily teases, her voice a low whisper.

You pout. “Am not.”

But despite your denial, you raise a hand to your lips to check for drool anyway.

But you aren’t drooling. No, you’re so far gone that just staring at him lights up the pleasure centers in your brain. You have pages upon pages of notes just like this, detailing Spencer’s preferences and likes from the way he takes his coffee down to what you think is his favorite color (you haven’t confirmed, you are just that good at picking up on subtleties like his tie choices and such). But your lips might as well start to water, because now you’re imagining him pulling you in close, whispering all your favorite facts into your ear.

Does he ever whisper secrets to anyone? Is he the type to fall asleep talking about his passions? These were the thoughts you had before bed the night before this case, and you couldn’t help but imagine yourself in bed with Spencer, both of your bodies tangled together as he whispered to you, lips brushing the hollow behind your ear. Would he ask how your day was? Would he press kisses onto your skin, and tell you about one of the many facts he has stored away?

These thoughts are getting out of hand.

You don’t even notice the conversation has ceased until you look up and see everyone with their eyes on you.

Oh. They’d asked a question.

It wouldn’t be out of character for you to space out like this. You’re notorious for it. But still—it’s a bad habit, one you’ve tried to kick since your undergrad.

Spencer’s brow furrows ever so slightly as Hotch speaks. “So what do you think?”

“Well, from what you were reading in the file,” Hotch presses, waiting expectantly.

Is it a good answer? A bad answer? Are you supposed to respond? “Uh... what?”

A voice pipes up. Emily.

“Maybe it’s his first time out. Just a thought,” her voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it.

The rest of the plane ride is uneventful. Spencer spends most of his time reading, his lips moving as if reciting the words under his breath. You’d do anything to be that book. You bet it smells like him.

When the plane touches down, it’s already late afternoon, and the local precinct is eager for your help.

⛧· ·⛧· · ───────⛧· ·☽◯☾· ·⛧─────── · ·⛧· ·⛧

The first victim’s house still smells of death.

You keep your face behind your collar as the M.E. walks you and Emily through the house, describing the scene with a level of morbid detail that makes you question your career choice. Spencer follows, his eyes scanning every corner, his lips moving in quiet conversation. It might be your imagination, but he seems closer than usual, his arm brushing against yours as he leans in to whisper something about the blood pattern.

Stay calm. You’re on a case. People are dead. Focus.

After the scene tour, the team splits up. Hotch and Prentiss go to the station, Rossi and Morgan check into hotel rooms, leaving you alone with Reid.

Alone. With Reid.

Emily flashes you a wicked grin before heading out, and you make a mental note to smother her in her sleep. How dare she leave you alone with Reid and look that smug?? Just to make it worse, she winks. Ugh.

Spencer glances at you. "I don't know about you, but I always work better with caffeine in me."

⛧· ·⛧· · ───────⛧· ·☽◯☾· ·⛧─────── · ·⛧· ·⛧

The local coffee shop is relatively empty—just you and Spencer, the coffee machines hissing and gurgling in the background. You sit at a small table, a file open between the two of you, as Reid leans forward, fingers tracing the line of text.

“See the marks on her neck here,” he says, gesturing to the grisly photos. “That’s consistent with a rope or cord of some sort. But look at the angles. The depth.”

His finger travels up and across the photo, drawing your eye to the bruises.

“It’s not just strangulation.”

“It’s an odd pattern, though.” His voice has that familiar excitement to it, the kind that comes with unraveling a mystery. “It could indicate a signature, something personal to the killer. We should look into that more.”

Is his voice always this smooth? Are his lips always this pink? You’ve never seen him this closely before, at least not sober and awake.

Your gaze roams over his face, noting the way his tongue dips out to wet his bottom lip, the creases at the corners of his eyes.

Focus, focus, focus.

“And we could then link all of the victims together then.”

“Exactly!” He flashes you a grin, a real one this time, all teeth and crinkled eyes. It’s so damn cute you can barely breathe.

“Maybe he’s got a type, you know. A certain look, height—”

You can’t help but imagine Spencer pressed against your body, his breath on your neck, the rough stubble of his jaw dragging across your skin as he plants those damn perfect lips right behind your ear.

The warmth in his voice makes your stomach clench. You’re so close. If you leaned just a little bit forward, you could be kissing him. What’d he do? Would he pull back? Would he grab you and push you against the coffee counter? Would he pull your hair and bite your lips and whisper facts about how hot he thinks you are?

You can be a type.

“Mmhmm, a specific look, maybe... he wants revenge on someone who looks that way? And he’s working his way towards her. An endgame.”

The tension is almost palpable. You shift in your seat, trying to keep the air cool, to not let on how much you want him.

Spencer’s lips part slightly as he speaks, his tongue darting out to wet them. You can’t help but wonder if he tastes as good as he looks, like coffee and sugar and that je ne sais quoi that makes him… him.

You’re staring at him. You know you are. You shouldn’t be, but your eyes keep flitting between his lips, his hands, his eyes—you haven’t looked down at the file in what feels like forever.

You probably look like a creep, but you can’t help it. Every movement of his, every shift in his voice, sends a wave of warmth through your body. Maybe it’s obsession, maybe it’s hormones talking.

“The victimology might hold some clues,” he says.

“...probably, it usually does.”

“Right.”

Spencer licks his lips, his gaze lingering on the files scattered in front of you. He runs a hand through his hair, a habit you’ve noted when he’s deep in thought. If you had it your way, you’d have your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him close as you kiss the curve of his jaw…

But for now, you’re here, in the coffee shop, trying to untangle your feelings for Spencer from the case at hand.

The smell of coffee and the hum of the evening news serve as a backdrop to your internal struggle.

Keep it cool. Keep it cool. Keep it cool.

#criminal minds #fanfic #spencer reid #writers on tumblr #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid criminal minds #Loser!reader

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red-takami · 2 days ago

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Hello red I hope you are doing good! I wanted to ask about your Navariah dr.

Whats it like there?? Can you tell us story-times or anything of the sort? It sounds magical and I would like to know more :)

-🪆

Sorry this took me so long to answer, it's been a weird couple of days. Anyway! I also got this question here 👇🏽 I'll be answering both.

What is it like in Navariah?

In Navariah, the continent is one absolute humongous landmass and is the only one on the planet. There are islands all around the borders and coastlines, some even sort of far from the landmass that belong to Navariah.

In Navariah, there are different breeds of humankind. Lizardis, Deer folk, Eleven's and a race that had gone extinct - the coal.

In Navariah, schooling and education is free. There you're allowed to use your Magic (Soul) for whatever you desire, and can turn that into anything. The place is so large that the difference in geography depends on where exactly you are in Navariah, you can experience, learn, and work with different things.

In Navariah, I am one of the two military commanders/generals, I work under the royals. There are 26 military squads that work in specific areas to keep Navariah running as smoothly as possible.

In Navariah, there are things that I couldn't have ever dreamt about before shifting there. The way Magic, Culture, and the history of Navariah is embedded into everything you'll ever encounter there is unlike anything I've seen. It grew on me of course, hence why I stayed for so long LMAO.

How has being in a different reality other than my Cr for so long, changed me?

Over the years I spent in Navariah, I went to school. I graduated. I gained knowledge of stuff that is taboo here. I fought. I met people. I experienced life in a completely different light than ever before. The literal chemistry of my brain, has changed due to my time spent in Navariah.

See it this way, imagine you spend your entire life in one country with specific things that were practically drilled into your mind since birth. You understand life on earth, in that country surrounded by that land and it's people/culture from a first person view, you know nothing else as personally as you know your home. Then, all of the sudden you make the split decision to drop everything. I mean everything, and leave to another country across the world where things are like white to black in comparison to your old home. You're forced to learn the basics of that land, you're forced to start from scratch as everyone else did there. You grow over time, you begin to understand and SEE things differently than you did before - you gain a specific perspective. That, is exactly what happened when I shifted to Navariah. It was bound to happen you guys, almost a whole decade? Of course I'd be different than before I shifted.

I find myself genuinely thinking about Navariah every single day since I shifted back. It's in everything I do, as if I had just gotten back from that (at first) foreign country and had HELLUVA time and still remember everything like it was a suupperrr long but very enjoyable and productive vacation.

Thank you all for reading this yap. Happy Shifting!

#reality shifting #shifting community #shifting blog #shiftblr #shifting motivation #fantasy #desired reality

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venomwrites · 2 days ago

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Inspired by @qvert's latest masterpiece because i was called out in the tags and that will not stand. Also on ao3

Dying is more peaceful than she imagined.

It’s nice, nicer than she deserves after the things she’s done. There’s a linger of disappointment, like the aftertaste of a cigarette or a bad drink. She had been so ready to die. Right up until she found Vi in that cell. Until Vi shoved their mouths together and irrevocably rewrote all of Catilyn’s desires. Before that, the idea of dying was easy enough to imagine. She deserved it for all she had done. She could only hope that whatever part of her passed on was able to explain herself. She had tried. But she had fallen short. Like a novice shooter, she had struck the target but it hadn’t been a bullseye. That was alright though. As long as they gave her just a moment to hear her mother’s disapproving click. The arch of her eyebrow. Anything at all. If she could just have that she would go wherever was next. But then Vi had mashed their lips together and that sweet surrender turned bitter. She truly had tried to live. It was odd, none of her wounds seemed fatal but she must have miscalculated.

Well it was one miscalculation. One of many, but she can’t even imagine the lifetime that stretched beyond her if they couldn’t salvage her eye. When her fingertips touch the skin though, there’s no damage. After another prod, she realizes there’s no skin either. Whatever she is, she is solid but not. She twists around and tries to sort through what she is seeing, but it’s very difficult. She feels as though she has many voices in her head, but they hum and move past. None actually register as she looks around. It’s baffling but they all feel equal in some strange way. Like everything that has made them them is gone. Scooped out. She has no idea what makes a someone a person if all of that is gone. She wonders if that is what death is. This strange surrender and scooping out. This return to something like light. It feels far more hollow than she would have expected. But if there are voices, perhaps one is that which she is looking for. It takes several tries to get her voice to work, but she is nothing if not determined.

“Mum?” She calls. No response, just that same dull echo. Something like distant panic churns through her, “Mum? I’m here,” she tries again, twisting for any sign, “Mum it’s Caitlyn, are you here?”

For a moment there’s just silence.

Then something collides into her and she’s falling.

Caitlyn thinks she might scream but there’s no air in her lungs to scream with. She can’t remember when she took a breath last or if the need to breathe is even real. The sensation of falling is, maybe other things are as well. She’s been such a monster. Such a failure. Of course the peaceful place she was in is not where she belongs. Perhaps she is meant to fall for the rest of whatever is happening. Existence? Eternity? Caitlyn doesn’t know. She can do nothing except tumble through the impossible light. Just when she is half convinced there is no end to this, scenery roars up around her and Caitlyn barely has enough time to brace herself for the impending impact. Except everything goes molasses slow and instead of a hard landing she finds herself standing on solid ground.

She doesn’t recognize this place.

She recognizes vague elements of it. It’s like someone took all the cells in Stillwater Hold and the Bunker, jumbled them together and spit this place out. There were no sensations in the place of light but there is nothing but sensations here. Bruises appear and heal, mildew and mould tickle her nose and then are replaced by the smell of old dust. It’s an overwhelming nightmare that makes her dizzy for a moment as she fights to get her bearings. Her fingers wrap around the bars as she peers down an impossibly long hallway. Somewhere at the very end she thinks she sees the light of the elevator, but her eyes can’t seem to focus on it without it moving away. Caitlyn wonders if this is where she will exist for the rest of time or if this is another temporary place. If the next will be worse. She manages to draw in something resembling a breath and thinks to call for help.

“Don’t!” A voice whispers.

The hairs on Caitlyn’s neck stand up at the harsh, desperate whisper. She would know that voice across time and space. That voice has been inked into her marrow. Caitlyn made her peace with her own death. But not with this one. This was the death she wanted to prevent above all others. Some part of her screams in denial but she’s still not certain she can make a sound. And even if she can, the voice told her not to.

When Vi asks, Caitlyn cannot deny her.

Slowly she turns around but whatever she’s expecting, it’s not this. Vi is standing behind her but it’s not her Vi. It’s not even the broken Vi she dragged up from the depths of the earth. This Vi is only recognizable in parts. The scars on her face, the pink of her hair, the color of her eyes. Everything else is radically different. She’s whip thin. Painfully thin. Her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is runny. Her hair is shaved on both sides in an severe undercut, the kind that requires another pair of hands. There are no tattoos on her. Not even the VI under her eye. She’s bare faced, inkiness and utterly terrified. The prison garb she’s wearing is shockingly clean and cuffed several times at the ankles. It hangs off her slender frame. Her hands are wrapped but she’s bled though them already. Her hands twitch between wrapping tight around her middle, swiping under her eyes or nose or lifting up near her face. It takes a moment before something fractionally relaxes on her.

“If they hear you they’ll beat you,” she says in that same desperate whisper and the panic in her eyes breaks Caitlyn’s heart.

This isn’t her Vi.

“We’ll be quiet,” Caitlyn whispers and Vi relaxes a little more, “I’m Cai—“

“No names,” Vi says, “they don’t like that. I’m 5-1-6,” she says in a horribly rehearsed way, “but some of the guards call me Pink.”

“I’m Cupcake,” Caitlyn says.

Vi’s eyes light up.

“No way,” she says, “I get my sister a cupcake for her birthday every year. It’s like having a whole cake to yourself,” her face falls a bit, “I was saving up for it before—“ she stops herself from speaking and her eyes go panicked like she’s said too much. Her hands rise up, “I don’t have any money the guards took it.”

“I don’t either,” Caitlyn offers, holding out her hands to show she isn’t armed, “I just got here. How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks,’ Vi says and chews her bottom lip, “I think. It’s hard to tell.”

A few weeks. Caitlyn feels sick. A few weeks and ten years to go. She’s one of the few who has seen Vi’s file. Caitlyn has no illusions that the file only scratches the surface. The file is horrific and it is only what people bothered to write down. Or what they were forced to. Stillwater Hold is notorious for having incomplete files. If the guards are not ignoring others atrocities, they are pretending not to have committed their own. It’s a hellish place. It was before Caitlyn had any idea how hellish it truly was. Before she even knew Vi her skin crawled at the thought of it. She had been nervous on that boat ride over. Only her own stubbornness got her off when even the captain of the boat leered at her. Everything in her screams to get Vi out. To save her. But she is fairly certain that she is not in the past. Not really.

“You’re very strong,” Caitlyn says, coming a little closer, “saving money for your sister’s birthday like that. You’re going to survive this.”

Vi makes a tiny noise before she grabs her arm and twists away. Like even that noise will send the guards running towards her. Maybe it did in the past. Maybe it will now. Caitlyn doesn’t know how she will witness that knowing there is nothing she can do to help. Not really.

“I don’t want to,” Vi whispers to her and a few tears break free, streaking down the grime on her cheeks.

They’re close enough for Caitlyn to reach out and take Vi’s hand. Vi’s fingers are limp in hers. It’s horrible, the last time Vi’s fingers felt like this she was dying. Dying but still fighting with everything she had. There’s no fight in this Vi’s blue-grey eyes. She’s terrified. Even though she’s trying to protect herself the gentleness of Caitlyn’s touch seems to break something in her. One of her hands digs into her arm and her fingers weakly tighten around Caitlyn’s. Her lip trembles as she hangs her head, her eyes slamming shut. She tries to breath but every breath trembles. Caitlyn squeezes her hands back and her lips part.

“I—“ she sucks in a tortured breath, “I want my mom,” she sobs, “I want my mom.”

Her body gives out and Caitlyn dives forward, drawing the trembling girl into her lap. One of the best things about Vi’s hugs is how all encompassing they are. How you’re blanketed in her embrace. Caitlyn doubts this slender thing could wrap her arms around her shoulders. She curls herself into Caitlyn’s warmth with a choked, horrible sob. Caitlyn tries to imitate Vi’s embrace and presses her into her shoulder. This Vi wraps her arms around her own middle but she turns her head into Caitlyn’s neck. Her tears and uneven breaths break Caitlyn’s heart as Vi tries to find comfort in her embrace.

“I know you do,” Caitlyn whispers, thinking of how when Vi was stabbed she only wanted to go home, “one day this will all seem like a bad dream.”

“How?” Vi sniffles, “they won’t let me out.”

“One day someone is going to come and get you out of here,” she says, “and you’ll wind up in the big shiny house you always looked at when you saw the Fireworks at Progress day. You’ll have everything you could possibly want for the rest of you days.”

“I won’t die here?” The small voice asks.

“No,” Caitlyn says, “you don’t die here. You’re strong—you’re so strong. You become even stronger in here. And that strength saves so many lives.”

“Do I find my sister?”

“Yes,” Caitlyn says, “you find her. You find yourself,” Vi’s lips shift up, “and you find so many others. People come together because of you. People who never thought they would.”

Vi is quiet for a moment and then sniffles. She slides off Caitlyn’s lap. She still looks scared but there’s a determination in her eyes now. A bit of the Vi she knows and loves, shining through. Caitlyn grasps her hands and looks into her blue-grey eyes. They seem almost colorless in this place. Like they were the night they first met. One day Caitlyn will know every blue in them, but right now they must be grey.

“You are so loved,” she says, “promise me you will never forget that. Hold onto it.”

“I’ll hold on,” Vi says.

There are footsteps suddenly. Pounding towards them. Caitlyn opens her mouth and tries to push Vi behind her, but she’s falling again. Slower this time. Monstrous shadows starts to darken the cell but Vi stands tall. Her shoulders square. Her fists raise up as she faces this impossible evil. Before they get her she turns around and grins at Caitlyn. It’s the smile Caitlyn loves. That devil may care one that says this is gonna be fine. She’s got this. She winks at Caitlyn and it’s like Caitlyn can see her growing up in this hellish place. She’s older when she turns back. Ink has started to decorate her skin and her arms are broader. It’s not her Vi, not yet. Closer but not there. But this Vi grins all the same at Caitlyn.

“I’ll hold on,” she says.

Time jumps again and Caitlyn is somehow away and unaware of every horror. Every moment. The shadows are gone except the ones the bars create. There’s a dripping sound that Vi uses to thump her fists into the wall. It’s her Vi. The determination is full on her face, but Caitlyn can see a weariness there. One she wasn’t aware of when they met. Vi loses the rhythm and presses her forehead to the wall.

“How long do I have to hold on?” She mutters and opens her eyes to lock with Caitlyn’s.

Caitlyn’s not sure how to answer. When even is this? There’s more hopelessness in Vi’s face as she looks at her. A weariness that guts Caitlyn. She’s so tired. She has every right to be exhausted. The way she strikes the wall is listless. Like she has nothing left to give. Caitlyn scrambles to find the right words. It’s harder with this world weary Vi. Somehow she can stand though. She presses her hand to the nape of Vi’s neck and tries not to wince when Vi pushes at the wall. She shies away from the touch like it’s a strike but she doesn’t move to the sides. She doesn’t actually try to get away.

“Keep holding on,” Caitlyn says, “please.”

“I can’t,” Vi gasps out, “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” Caitlyn counters, “I know you can. Hold on. I’m almost there.”

Vi looks at her with one miserable eye but then Caitlyn hears the sound of her own boots. They both turn at the precise steps, the ruffle of pages, the catch of an unsteady breath. Suspicion and worry echo on Vi’s face. She doesn’t know who this is but she can tell they don’t belong here. No-one comes down here alone. Vi listens for a moment longer and then squares her shoulders. If they’re here for her, if this is some new hell she’s going to face it. It’s written all over her face. Even before her grey eyes drag over to Caitlyn’s.

“I can’t for much longer,” she says, “but for now,” her lips quirk up, "I’ll hold on."

Over Vi’s head Caitlyn watches as she walks into view. She looks so much younger. It’s hard to imagine she was ever this person. But she was. She is. Vi glances at her and then at that Caitlyn. Her Caitlyn. Even though she doesn’t know it, she can’t know it. Neither of them know what is about to happen to them. How this moment will irrevocably change the course of their lives. The cell tugs and fades and blurs. Caitlyn feels the skin under her hand shift and change as a watercolor Vi appears to stare at her Caitlyn and the Vi under her hands finally becomes hers.

“Cait?”

They clutch each other as the watercolor world gives way to that endless place of dark and light. They don’t exist anymore but Caitlyn is certain they are together. She would have to be truly unmade to not know the feel of Vi’s embrace. Vi’s shoulders heave but they are her Vi’s shoulders. Thick with muscle and the weight of all she has been through. So impossibly strong. Caitlyn pushes her head into her shoulder and digs her fingers into Vi’s trapezius, the one that shifts more easily.

“Fuck, Cait,” she breathes into her shoulder, “you’re here.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn says. Vi’s head comes up and finally looks around, “wherever this is.”

“We’re not dead,” Vi says with more confidence than Caitlyn is expecting. Her eyes inspect Caitlyn’s face and narrow at the surprised look, “how bad?”

“What—“

“How badly are you injured?” She asks, worry starting to show on her face, “Cait is it—“

“Nothing felt fatal,” Caitlyn says quickly, “some fractures, a puncture wound in my gut. My eye was injured as well,” she tries to keep the list honest and vague. But Vi looks crestfallen all the same, “I’m alive,” Caitlyn says firmly, “Mel is with me. Where are you?”

Vi looks at her and Caitlyn watches her face fall. It’s like being back in that place with the child version of Vi. She looks so heartbreakingly young and lost. Caitlyn cups her cheeks and strokes her thumbs under her eyes. In each other’s embrace it feels like the emotions come faster. Stronger. Caitlyn wants to let go but she cannot. Not when Vi turns her face into her palm and whatever they have for hands tightens around her waist.

“I’m at the Hexgate,” she says, “with sister and my dad.”

Caitlyn feels the same horror she felt when Maddie cocked the gun. Vi is with her dad. Again. She doesn’t need to say it, Caitlyn can tell from the look on her face. It’s not a happy reunion. How on earth could it be? She saw what her dad looked like after the blast. She can’t imagine what Ambessa and Singed did to him since. She’s on the ground bleeding somewhere and Vi is up high with her father. The fact she has Jinx with her is a cold comfort. The best case scenario here is that Vi watches her father die for a third time. Even though Caitlyn has seen untold horrors in her head, they pale in comparison to the prospect of this. Caitlyn is powerless here in any way that truly matters. But that doesn’t stop her from pressing her fingers into Vi’s cheeks and pulling her attention back to her.

“Hold on,” she says. Vi’s brow furrows and Caitlyn has no idea if she heard her in the hell that was her past, “just hold on. I’ll find you. I need you to hold on until then.”

Vi takes a breath and looks at her with that beautiful determination.

“I’ll hold on.”

Something is pulling them apart, no matter how much they cling to each other. Vi spirals away and just shouts across the universe.

“I’ll hold on! I promise!”

#caitlyn kiramman #vi #arcane #caitvi #piltover's finest

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