#also still carrying around his crowbar

[akutahaha]

Werewolf Gordon for da Halloween month

[fractualized]

A while ago I got under someone's skin for referencing Joker's surprising delayed reaction to killing Jason Todd, and since then I've been thinking it's worth digging into as an interesting element of Joker's characterization.

Of course, first thing's first: Jason's murder in Batman (1940) #427, as originally presented in 1988.

Jason has just reconnected with his biological mother, Sheila Haywood, at a famine relief camp in Ethiopia— and he's discovered that Joker is blackmailing her with information about her criminal past. She gets him truckloads of medical supplies to sell on the black market, and Joker restocks the trucks with toxin. While Bruce races to stop a tampered truck, Jason decides to help his mother on his own. When he discloses he's Robin, however, Sheila betrays him to Joker, not only to stay on Joker's good side but because she's actually been embezzling money from the organization she works for this whole time. She's afraid an investigation prompted by Batman and Robin's appearance would expose this fact.

So Sheila stands by as Jason is felled by Joker and his goons, and then the crowbarring starts.

It's bad! When we return later, Jason is presumably dead.

While Joker isn't shocked that he's murdered a child, he does have an unexpected reaction to Sheila's point. He hadn't really been thinking about what he was doing, implying that he hadn't intended to kill Jason. He just got carried away, whoopsie! He didn't do this to get at Batman; he wasn't thinking about Batman at all. Now, however, he's concerned about how Batman will react.

Joker thinks Jason is already dead. The purpose of the bomb is to get rid of the evidence of his involvement, including Sheila. Joker is not broken up about what he did, but he does have a sense that he's gone a step too far and he doesn't want Batman to know about it. At least for now!

In the end, while Jason wakes and he and his mother try to save each other, they're trapped in the warehouse when the bomb goes off. Bruce makes it back only in time to find a dying Sheila, who tells him it was Joker. When Bruce finds Jason, Jason gets no last words. He's already dead, and Bruce is devastated.

A clue from Joker leads Bruce to the United Nations in New York, and there, infamously, Bruce learns that Joker has been made the ambassador from Iran. Joker is now protected from prosecution, and Batman going after him risks an international incident. Bruce still very much wants to, but Superman stops him.

Well, mostly Superman. I recommend reading Batman #429 to see Bruce's full thought process on this. He is furious and constantly thinking about finally ending Joker— but he also questions his mental state. He still wonders if he can hold Joker responsible if he believes Joker is insane. He uses phrases like "what happened to Jason" like it was a natural disaster, not murder. He even confronts Joker to give him one last chance to turn himself in to Arkham Asylum. Bruce is in a kind of denial, still grabbing at how things usually go.

But back to Joker. Evidently, he's no longer worried that Batman will find out he killed Robin. Joker admits to it immediately.

I assume Joker realized there was no point in denying it. Is Batman going to think it's a coincidence that Robin got blown up when Joker was around? Though Bruce does say it's Joker's taunts that 100% confirm for him that the clown was responsible, pointing again to Bruce still grasping for reasons to not break his rule in his grief.

By the end of the issue, Joker has naturally tried to kill the entire United Nations assembly, which instantly made him free game. So Bruce pursues him to a helicopter, and an in-air scuffle ensues in which Bruce explicitly prevents Joker from being killed by friendly fire, evidently so he can decide how Joker will die. Bruce jumps out of the helicopter, abandoning Joker to a fiery crash. However, despite Bruce's (supposed) intentions, Joker's body is nowhere to be found. The clown lives!

So that's it, right? Joker felt some unease about killing Jason initially, but in a short time, he was happy to gloat about it to Batman's face.

But when Joker reappears in Batman #450, in 1990, he is not triumphant. He's holed up in a dilapidated building, where he learns someone is impersonating him.

How often do we see Joker upset by murders? When the story returns to him, we learn more about his mental state.

With all of Joker's cackling glee at the things he's done, coming close to actual death in the helicopter crash has jarred him— and not just the crash, but the murder that led to it. He recoils from the memory of what he did to Jason. It's why he can't see the joke anymore. It's set apart from his previous crimes. It's too far.

Which is not at all to say that Joker is completely broken up about Jason. By the end of #450, he rallies and sets out to go after his copycat and restore his reputation to his liking.

In Batman #451, though, Joker is still plagued by doubts along the way.

Even when he overcomes those doubts, claiming the mantle as the one and only Joker when his copycat dies by falling into acid, Joker challenges Gordon to finally kill him. It's reminiscent of The Killing Joke, the first time Joker went too far. But like TKJ, Gordon and Batman decide to get Joker back to Arkham against their more vengeful instincts.

Joker's also decided Arkham is just what he needs. Outside, he's plagued by the reality of what he's done; in Arkham, he can settle back into his insanity and stop caring about it again.

So after that, Joker has no second thoughts about killing Jason, right? After all, he largely references the murder in callous terms. In-universe this makes sense as Joker revising history in his own head, particularly as more stories portray his effort to be more monster than man. Monsters don't have qualms about murder! But this is comics, so we can also presume that not all Joker writers know or remember #450/451, which I think is a shame. I find stories in which Joker expresses even just a degree of vulnerability to be more interesting than those where he's just mwahaha evil.

I have seen a few other bat stories bring some nuance into Joker's perception of Jason's death, though.

First up is the particularly nuanced "Fool's Errand" in Detective Comics (1937) #726, published in 1998. Bruce visits Joker in Arkham to get information on how to find a kidnapped girl who's running out of time. It just so happens Joker arranged this kidnapping for a particular day.

I strongly recommend this issue for batjokes fans, as it revolves around Joker talking the case through with Batman in his cell to help him figure out more clues to a crime Joker himself planned. Even with Bruce beating Joker up, the conversational tone feels almost friendly. They're just doing their usual thing.

Well, sort of. Bruce has already said he's not in the mood, and he interrupts their conversation to say so again.

Joker could insist that Batman stay and keep playing the game, and needle him for being unwilling to merely talk to Joker to rescue this child. Instead, Joker gives up her location.

And Bruce does come back as predicted.

So that was Joker's nefarious plan. He wanted to restore some hope to Bruce's cynical soul to be sure that his future failures would hurt even more. But it sure seems the middle didn't go the way Joker expected, when he recognized Batman just wasn't going to play the game as usual.

Joker doesn't jump into taunting. He doesn't answer Bruce at first. He's withdrawn and reflective. He's got something else on his mind on this anniversary of the second Robin's death, and he knows that Bruce does, too. Perhaps not forcing Batman to play was a small gesture, acknowledging the difficulty of the day, remembering how things changed. And what does that gesture cost Joker when he still gets the outcome he wants?

Second example is actually also called "Fool's Errand," this one from Robin (1993) #85, published in 2001. This is a fun one in which Joker discusses his interactions and frustrations with the Robins.

But while Joker indicates more than once that he wants to fight Batsy alone, after he talks about killing Jason, this is the next page:

Joker does not then say he was relieved when another Robin showed up, but still. He's acknowledged again that when he murdered Jason, things were not right. As angry as the birdies make him, they're a key component in the game.

Then we come back to "Once More, With Feeling!" in Harley Quinn (2000) #25, from 2002. Harley's been playing double-agent against Batman with Joker, and she and Joker have this exchange.

Joker typically makes light of murdering Robin, but it seems that when he's with just about his only confidante, he lets other feelings about it burst out.

There's also a flashback to DitF in Batman: Gotham Knights #44 in 2003. We get an exchange between Bruce and Joker before Bruce jumps out of the helicopter.

Joker laughs as the helicopter dives, ready to die, but before that, he seems resigned. He doesn't throw in a real dig about murdering Jason, and he doesn't gloat that he's finally gotten Batman to kill him. He acknowledges he crossed a line.

Lastly, there's a 2006 exchange between, well, Joker and Jason himself in "All They Do is Watch Us Kill, Part 2" as part of Under the Red Hood in Batman (1940) #649. Jason has kidnapped Joker as batbait, and when Joker needles him, Jason needles him back.

Joker regularly extolls his own crimes, but suddenly one of his victims mockingly accuses him of putting up a front, of not being as coldhearted and untouchable as he wants to seem. Maybe Joker does doubt what he's doing and retreats under the cover of madness so he doesn't have to think about it— just as he did in Batman #451.

I'm not sure if there are other examples of Joker expressing anything but mocking glee about Jason's death. I do know of times he's shown a sort of fondness for Jason (such as in The Man Who Stopped Laughing #4, Gotham War: Red Hood #2, Suicide Squad: Get Joker #3), but that's not really the same thing. Joker could've seen Red Hood as his and Batman's Frankenstein child without feeling any squeamishness about killing him in the first place.

But if anyone knows of any other moments where Joker does not act like killing Jason is absolutely his most favorite thing he ever did, do share!

[pochipop]

＃HOMICIPHER !! ♡ — DWELLING, ROTTING, SURVIVING (MR CRAWLING X READER).

#. synopsis! — speaking isn't the only way to understand, and he's oh so gentle .

#. characters! — mr crawling .

#. warnings! — canon-typical dark content + setting .

#. word count! — 1.7k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — hi, i posted, please stop bullying me in my inbox :(( - all jokes aside, thank you guys for all the nice messages and compliments! & happy pride to my lgbt followers! funnily enough, don't think i've ever "come out" on this blog, but if it's not obvious, i'm bisexual lol so there's that!

You found yourself pressed against a cold, damp wall in what you could only assume was a room close to the belly of this labyrinth-like building. Breaths came in shallow, frightened gasps as the lights overhead flickered ominously, like they were trying to warn you of impending danger. . . Danger that you felt sting your chest like needles poking through your skin. The oppressive silence surrounding you was broken only by your intakes of air and the soft, almost imperceptible sound of something —or someone— (or maybe a mixture of the two, in this God-forsaken place) nearby.

Squinting into the gloom, a familiar shape emerged from the dark hallway, slipping into the room with you and pausing in the doorway. You felt relief take hold of you.

Mr Crawling. . .

That, of course, likely wasn’t his real name, but you didn’t speak in the language of clicks, noises, and chirp-like sounds that he did, and he didn’t speak with your tongue either. It was for that reason in particular that you’d bludgeoned his head with a crowbar not long ago, to which he sulked in a corner, bleeding and whining, and you were left to feel terrible for hurting the first entity that had tried to go out of his way to show you true empathy in a way you understood.

Apologizing didn’t even begin to feel like enough. Probably because you were at least ninety percent sure he didn’t understand what you were saying anyway. Helping him with the wound perhaps made it slightly better. . . But also not really, because even now as he skims across the ground to where you are, there’s a sense of guilt that weighs heavy on your heart.

Pale, grey-skinned and moving like any non-human mammal of sorts, his face is mostly obscured by the long, stringy black hair that falls in vine-like, clumped strands all the way to the floor from his hunched position. There’s an unsettling, animalistic grace to the way he approaches, but you don’t flinch this time when he puts the flat of his cold palm against the crown of your head, as if trying to soothe your breathing. All of that initial fear has been replaced by a strange comfort of sorts, and you look up at him, thankful for his presence now more than ever.

He tilts his head, as if listening for something, and you watch him warily with the same crowbar clutched in your fist. A part of you felt bad carrying it around like that with his blood still smeared on it, but here, you knew it was foolish to venture around without a weapon of some sort. Not protecting yourself for the sake of his feelings was, unfortunately, not an option as far as you were concerned, but thankfully he didn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter.

“Mr Crawling,” you whisper softly, reaching out to take his hand into your own.

He seemed to really respond to physical touch, and if language was always going to get in the way, you figured it was best to bridge the gap in another manner. This was the next best thing you could think of.

His head raises, and you suppose he’s trying to meet your gaze, though you can’t see his eyes through the mess of his hair.

“I need to understand you,” you say.

Ironically, that’s a bit of a hopeless endeavor in this sort of environment. It’s not like you have all the time in the world to pick up a new, completely unrelated language to yours while fighting for your life. Still. . . Gesturing had been helpful previously, especially for directions. The hooded figure you ran into first was quick to point around, that severed hand that had guided you for a bit was just as poignant in that area, and the silver-haired entity with a blindfold over his eyes had also tried to communicate with you in that sense as well. So why couldn’t you do it vice-versa?

“Me,” you point to yourself, “you,” you point to him.

He stared blankly for a moment, then seemed to come to an understanding. His had retracted from your head to point at himself, then to you, a clicking noise coming from the back of his throat. You smile. It was a small victory amongst a series of devastating losses, but you were keen on taking it and running with it as far as you could stretch it.

“Okay,” you breathe, talking more to yourself than to him. “Let’s try this then. . .”

Feeling a surge of determination, you touch your stomach and then mime eating.

“Hungry. Eat.”

At this point, you were still too anxious to have an appetite, but you knew you’d need food eventually. You were hoping he’d be able to help you with that somehow. Up until this point, you hadn’t seen any evidence of there being food around here, —no containers, boxes, or wrappings, but he seemed to understand your gestures and mimicked you; sitting back on his knees to rub his stomach through his filthy t-shirt, then nibbling on an imaginary item.

He looks back to you, as if seeking approval. You smile, hoping he understands that to be a sign of good will, then nod your head to drive home the association. Beneath his swath of hair, he smiles too, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the curtain of black strands; dark and thoughtful.

“Good,” you murmur, feeling slightly relieved. 

If nothing else, this was progress. You spend a while longer trying to communicate basic needs and warnings: things like yes, no, stop, come, drinking, sleeping, and a thank you in the way of patting his head. You’re not sure he understood the depth of it by any means, but he did seem to enjoy it. . . Like a puppy. The thought made you smile genuinely and absentmindedly, if only for a moment. The clicks and chirps he makes are mostly lost on you, but the noises are comforting nonetheless. This rudimentary bridge of understanding soothes you just a little, and you find yourself feeling very thankful that he’s here in the first place.

He has your face cupped in his hands now, as if he’s inspecting you. . . Or perhaps admiring? That is, until you feel his body tense and all his little sounds abruptly come to a halt. A small growl reverberates from the back of his throat and his wide smile droops into a frown. Suddenly, he’s roughly dragging you along, tugging urgently on your arms, to which you comply and follow along with him, scooting across the floor until you reach a shadowed alcove. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but he seems to know his way around this place like the back of his cold, grey hand.

He covers your mouth for a moment, then shakes his head. You cover your mouth, take your hand away, then shake your head no, just to ensure to him that you’ve understood. He pats your head then crouches in front of you, using his own body as a makeshift shield for yours. His long, spindly arms cage you against the wall. Fear rises inside you once again, though not because of him and his actions. Rather, the faint, rhythmic thuds of footsteps have begun reverberating through the hall just outside, and you recognize the harrowing pattern they click in.

Mr Scarletella.

You encountered him once before and felt every hair on your body stand on end. The way he moved through the halls with a menacing flow that sounded almost eerily melodic, and the strange, unsettling red glow that seemed to exude off him that nearly drew you in like a moth to a flame. The steps echoed off the walls of the building and your heart began to hammer against your ribs. Mr Crawling moved closer as he came into view through the doorway that lacked any actual door to close, his long, black hair tickling your nose ever so softly. Dressed in scarlet and carrying his ever-present umbrella, you decide quite readily that you’ve seen enough, closing your eyes and focusing on the cool feel of Mr Crawling’s skin, on his musky scent (like mildew and a bit of rot, which isn’t necessarily pleasant, but it’s not like he can really help it down here.)

Though you’re no longer watching, the entity dripping in scarlet moves with an unsettling, almost predatory grace, glancing about the corridors as if he’s searching for something. Or someone.

Once again, Mr Crawling presses closer to you. Now, you’re able to feel the way his body trembles with fear, and you realize that he’s just as terrified as you are, though you can’t tell if that fear is for himself, for you, or for both of you at once. And it’s not like you can ask. Still, you open your eyes just long enough to look up at him, Mr Scarletella in your peripheral as you force a smile and touch the crown of Mr Crawling’s head, offering what little comfort you can. He still quivers, but seems to appreciate the gesture, though he doesn’t risk a happy chirp.

The danger passes as the man in scarlet disappears down the hallway, then turns the corner. You let out a silent sigh of relief and Mr Crawling relaxes after several moments of continued tension, finally going limp and releasing you from against the wall. He slumps onto his knees, which seems to be his most comfortable position, and he looks at you clearly through the darkness. In that moment, it feels like you’ve understood one another perfectly. 

“Thank you,” you whisper sincerely, though you know he can’t really understand you.

You’re just hoping the gratitude comes across somehow, but at the risk that it won’t, you touch your chest over top of where your heart’s still beating like a drum, then touch his chest in the same place. It dawns on you that you don’t feel a heartbeat at all, and you almost pull your hand away. . . But something stops you. Something that says even if you’re right and he’s something less (or more) than human, —it doesn’t matter as much as the kindness he’s shown you. So your hand lingers until you softly pull away.

He grabs your cheeks again and holds them delicately.

[bigfatbimbo]

Scenarios/headcanons about how Brett Hand feels safe with her!

-🌌

Stay With Me, I Don’t Want You to Leave ⭑.ᐟ

a/n — Sometimes I don’t proofread my fics because the thought of reading my own writing back makes me want to die! WHY’S IT ALWAYS SOUND SO BAD??

warnings — Just fluff, like one sex joke, gender neutral reader, hurt/comfort.

summary — Scenarios/headcanons about how Brett Hand feels safe with you

⭑.ᐟ Brett is already desperate for everyone else’s validation, so this would definitely be enhanced with his significant other.

⭑.ᐟ He would live to please you, so you need to be able to keep it real with him. Ground him, while still showing him love.

⭑.ᐟ He has so much crippling self doubt, daily affirmations from you would be very helpful.

⭑.ᐟ Telling him how cute he looks while you straighten his tie in the morning, and at the end of the day always finding something to compliment him about.

“I think you handled that situation earlier really well, by the way,” You looked out the car window. Brett seemed especially anxious, judging from the natural frown on his face and his deadly grip on the steering wheel. “Really?” He asked.

“Yeah, I never know what to do when Reagan looses one of her science-y tools. Girls already uptight, but when she can’t get her work done. Woof—” Your tone was light, he always felt more comfortable that way.

He smiled, looking up, “Yeah, she really hates inconveniences. That’s why I always carry an extra crowbar on my person — it is very uncomfortable under a suit jacket!”

“Well, that’s really considerate, baby.” His grip finally loosened, shoulders resting. “Thanks,” his smile was soft.

⭑.ᐟ You giving your full attention to him any time would also make him feel very safe and loved.

⭑.ᐟ People obviously acknowledge him, but when your attention is payed in full it makes him feel so appreciated. (Also given his childhood).

⭑.ᐟ Having an understanding of his body language is also very important, because if he’s upset chances are we won’t tell because he doesn’t wanna ruin your mood.

⭑.ᐟ So if his acting off, take his hand in yours, caress his knuckles, and subtly ask about what would help.

Ex. “Do you need anything?” “We don’t have to do anything later. I think there’s a Friends marathon on later, how’s that sound?”

Watch him kinda loosen up and look at you with such appreciation. “Yeah, yeah. That sounds good,” he’s almost sigh with relief.

⭑.ᐟ He doesn’t feel like anything is expected of him in your relationship, he can just exist and be himself without having to put on a show.

( I could see him talking to Reagan about you, “They actually like watching old 80s movies with me— Have you ever met anyone willing to sit through a Van Dam movie? I only know two people: me and them! MAN, those movies suck.

“And the sex - its great! For like 15 years, I thought my only kink was fufilling other peoples kinks, turns out there’s SO much more to me, Reagan!” )

⭑.ᐟ Brett really feels seen around you, like you actually make him feel cared about. And that is such a big part in his feeling safe with you.

a/n — btw, Reagan fic coming hopefully tonight. After that I wanna do something with Gigi, peg Brett, and then probably a Stanley Pines fic?

[wilt1ng]

Brahms Heelshire One-Shot: PRICE TO PAY

THIS IS NSFW. 18+ ONLY.

Tw: NSFW, Mature Content, and CNC themes/dubcon

Please don't proceed forward if any of those contents make you uncomfortable.

-

The estate was much larger than you had initially anticipated. Getting inside would be all the more fun seeing as how many doors and windows there were. Having only your backpack you unzipped it to reveal a crowbar, your key to financial freedom. Word had spread a rich family had completely abandoned the estate, drawing in curiosities from thieves and criminals similar to yourself. Well, you were no criminal, merely someone desperate for a cash grab.

The front doors popped open after a few minutes of prying the metal bar between them, first try. You couldn't help but exhale with a smile as you stored the crowbar into the bag.

Too easy.

It was much bigger on the inside than what you previously imagined. As you walked inside you couldn't help but note the condition it was in despite the circumstances. Sure there were cobwebs and the air was stuffy, but it was shocking how intact it was otherwise. Countless of valuable artifacts sat untouched on wooden shelves and you were betting the jewelry box was also full of treasures. Without another second to waste you began bagging some small vases and objects which look to have some value. You left plenty of room within the bag to assure there was space for the real goodies, whether it be pearls or diamonds.

After collecting what you needed you began your journey upstairs. A large family portrait caught your eye. A mother and father sat with their young boy, their smiles seeming fabricated. You gaze at the painting, seeing the faces of the people which you were robbing caused some unease, but you pushed on forward. Making it up the stairs you notice a master bedroom with the door already wide open.

You step inside and begin looking with the bag of stolen junk in hand. After some investigating you finally came across what you were truly after. You opened a small box which sat on the nightstand. It was full of beauties like rubies, pearls, and gold.

"Jackpot."

You whispered to yourself. This was all too easy, and you wondered how it was you were the one who got there first, seeing as the area was notorious for break-ins. Without speculating it a second more, you stuffed the beloved prizes in your backpack, deciding to wear the pearls. The ambiance of the home had shifted seemingly after you had robbed the possessions. Whether it was guilt or paranoia, something just didn't feel right. You stupidly ignored the goosebumps that rose on your skin as you proceeded down the stairs. As you walked past the painting, it carried a heavier weight, as if all the faces were staring at you in anger.

You swung the heavy backpack around both shoulders and quickened your pace to the front door. Your imagination grew wild with thoughts of what you'd do with your new found treasure that you hardly noticed the figure standing in front of the entrance.

Until you did.

You immediately stopped in your tracks and gazed at the man before you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You had been caught.

"H-hello?" You spoke. Your tone was surprisingly kind, but nervous as you hadn't expected this at all.

You immediately drop the bag off your shoulders and set it on the floor in front of you carefully, maintaining your eyes on the shadowy figure. Panic was setting in as you knew you were busted.

"I..." You spoke gently, clearly wanting to explain yourself but what exactly would you say?

"I, uh, I didn't realize anyone still came through here..."

At this point you still couldn't make out any details about the man. It was dark and the only thing illuminating him was the moonlight from behind.

"Do you live here?" You finally asked, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as he still hadn't said a word.

The figure cocked his head and for a split second you could almost make out his face. There was something uncanny about it that made your skin crawl. He wasn't answering you and you assumed for good reason, he must be pissed off you trespassed on his domain. This wasn't good. Nothing about this situation was.

On a whim you decide to rip open your bag and pull out the crowbar in which you had used to break in. You held it towards him with both hands gripping onto it tightly. He didn't like that.

"Move out of the way." You demanded, looking at the man and then the door behind him.

"I don't care about the bag, just let me leave."

Taking a brave step forward your eyebrows furrowed as you caught a better look. His once white shirt was stained in God knows what and his face was horrifically pale, as if he was wearing a mask. The sight was enough for you to gasp, dropping the crowbar as you jumped back.

He stepped forward, reaching his hand out seemingly to touch you despite the distance you made.

Fuck this.

Without another moment of hesitation you turned on your heels and bolted the opposite way. You could hardly tell if he was following behind as your eardrums were bombarded with the sound of your beating heart.

After making it up the stairs you made the mistake of looking over your shoulder, eyes widening.

The man wasted no time wrapping his hand around your throat and thrashing you towards him, as if you were a ragdoll. You could see his "face" in full if you could even call it that. He was wearing a mask, a porcelain one at that. His deranged eyes bore into your own, and they were so dark it was as if he had black eyes.

You wanted to scream badly. But you couldn't. With being petrified and the pressure around your neck, you couldn't squeak if you wanted to. Your eyes could only plead into his own, wide in terror as to what he'd do to you.

When he had decided to loosen his grip, you noticed his fingers clenching around the pearls you selfishly decided to slip on mid-robbery. Although he was mostly expressionless, you could see the fury in his eyes. The deranged man tore the beads from your neck. You watched as they fell onto the wood floor, the sounds of its impact being the loudest thing in the room.

"Bad." The man uttered softly.

His voice was hoarse, as if it was the first time he had spoken aloud in a while.

Your chest was rising up and down rapidly. It felt as if you were a mere rabbit in the midst of a heart attack. You could do nothing but stand in front of your attacker. Your eyes never left his own. His messy hair hid the whites of his eyes, adding further to your anxiety.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." You whispered to him, clenching your eyes shut. You felt as if you couldn't speak any louder.

He ignored you. Instead, he pulled you closer, keeping a solid grasp around your neck.

"You'll pay." He spoke, leaning into your ear.

"-for what you took from me."

You released a panicked breath you hadn't realized you were holding. You felt as if the wind was knocked from your lungs. The sides of your throat tightened from choking back tears, and you couldn't stop yourself from trembling.

"I-I don't have money." You began to cry softly.

"I swear I won't return. Please, I'm begging you."

He sighed, cocking his head to the side as you cried for mercy.

He brought his hand to your cheek, wiping a tear away before fixating on your lips. He swiped his thumb across them, seemingly enjoying the sensation of them.

"Kiss." The man uttered to you, almost gently.

You furrowed your brows, unsure if you had heard him correctly.

He grazed your lips once more before finally staring into your blood-shot eyes.

"A price for your freedom." He answered.

"I-I don't understand." You whimpered, feeling emotionally exerted.

He sighed disappointingly, clearly losing patience with you.

"Kiss me." He spoke again, repeating what you feared he had meant.

"Or..."

He laced his fingers into your hair abruptly, pulling it back as to gain better access into your ear.

"I'll have you."

You shuddered against his lips, which brushed against the side of your face before he returned his darkening gaze onto your own.

"I-" You sputtered, unable to even get out a sentence.

He took your hand in his and walked into the darkened living room. You obliged, following him close out of fear, seeing as you had no other choice. The man stopped in front of a tattered couch and turned to look at you, seemingly waiting for you to make your decision.

You were beyond confused and frustrated but were eventually able to put two and two together. You looked at the vintage styled couch, biting your lip in anticipation before returning your gaze to your captor.

Finally, you sat down.

He stepped to stand in front of you. Your face was mere inches from his torso. You noticed the shirt he wore no longer fit him as it exposed his happy trail and a brutal scar near his abdomen. You tilted your head to look at him. His dominating prescense was enough to strike fear in your heart.

"Kiss." He repeated.

Brahms grabbed your wrist and forced your hand onto his stomach, eventually to the hem of his pants.

You ripped your hand back from him instinctively but instantly regretted it. Brahms took you by the throat and bent down eye level. He took your hand once more and held it to an erection beneath his trousers.

"Kiss... there."

Brahms unbuttoned his trousers while maintaining his domineering stare. You felt stuck in place once again, now understanding the consequences of your actions.

Your heart was merely beating out of your chest as he pulled down his boxers, exposing his cock.

Brahms shuddered at the sight of seeing your face so close to his member. He brought his hand to your face and caressed your cheek, gently, before returning his attention to your lips.

"Kiss."

He took hold of your head and adjusted himself close. You mistakenly gasped, and he took advantage. Brahms forced his tip into your mouth, pushing further as you gagged against the intrusion against your throat.

You tried your best to fight him. You attempted to stand, but he pushed you back onto the couch. He forced you to lay down on your back as he crawled on top, just above your chest. This way, you lay immobile against his efforts. His knees sit on either side of your head as he re-adjusted his cock back into your mouth.

Brahms groaned loudly as he tightened his grasp around your hair. He was slow at first, gliding his twitching member deeper into your throat. But soon, the sensation becomes much too intoxicating, and he can feel himself losing restraint.

He grinded himself into you deeply, not taking any account for whether you could breathe or not. With a tear streaked face, you couldn't stop yourself from slobbering everywhere with the force of his cock stretching your throat.

Each of his thrusts felt suffocating as his size was blocking your airways. He'd use your throat or grab at your hair to force every inch inside. He took no shame in face fucking you into oblivion.

It had felt like hours before Brahms came close to finishing. He roughly held your face to his hips as he bucked violently into you, finally cuming down into your throat and mouth. You gagged and choked as he finally removed himself from your mouth.

He stood as you lay messily on the dampened couch. You hadn't bothered to move nor open your eyes as you desperately heaved, catching your breath.

Brahms watched as you lay there, his cock still seemingly hard.

Once you had somewhat recovered, you glanced up at the man that had violated your mouth. He brought his hand to your face, wiping away the semen from your mouth.

~

Some fucking kiss, huh?

Sorry for cutting it short. This was a mere practice to get back into things. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it. ;)

[gaycrittercentral]

YESS WE WOULD LOVE TO SEE THE FANKIDS ‼️

Hhhhdhdgshgd I’m very shy abt them but I’m gonna be brave since a couple of y’all were curious!! :’> here they are!!

There’s four of em and their names are Maisie, Lacey (short for Shoelace), Crowbar and Junior. They were born tiny, hairless and wrinkly and developed the ability to zoom around and track smells before they managed to open their eyes so they start terrorizing Jimmy Two Teeth before they can even see him, they’re like a horrible mix of naked mole rats and piranhas lmaoooo

Also here is the first drawing I ever did of them :’)

When I was designing them I felt like there were already so many fankids out there that are a really perfect fusion of both of Sam and Max’s looks, and I wasn’t crazy about trying to do it myself so I just made an army of little maxlets. The Maxlings, if you will! But I did give them longer tails in later drawings and Crowbar has floppy ears like Sam, so they didn’t completely skip his genes jfkhsgs ^^; I have planned out how they came to be but I’ll probably put that in a different post (maybe I’ll even write a little thing for it teehee that might be fun). But I can describe them a little here!!

Maisie is the oldest (as in the first one to be found, they weren’t really born in the traditional sense so \_:p_/) and she just really loves sharp objects lmao. She is mostly non-verbal, but in kind of a Ferb way where she’ll occasionally throw out a cryptic one-liner and mostly remain silent with kind of an ominous stare. Her sisters and brother are completely unfazed by this and have absolutely no fear of her, but she loves being scary to everyone else. She constantly seems like she’s about to commit an act of incredible violence but she doesn’t like to be caught doing it, so it’s all off-screen. She feels like it’s scarier that way. Max is very proud of her.

Lacey (Shoelace, because she used one as a teething toy as a baby which is baffling because neither of her dads wear shoes where did it come from??) is one of the middle kids. She likes dressing up and bounces around between masc and femme and both and neither. She also likes chatting a mile a minute with Crowbar, and she’s less of a twig than her sisters. Later in life she might try and get a lil buff like Sam. She mostly likes to go along with her sisters’ ideas because her head is pretty empty a lot of the time, and she’s slightly less inclined to jump to violence than they are. But only slightly. She also maybe picks up Sam’s habit of grabbing random items.

Crowbar is the other middle kid and fairly precocious. She’s the first one to unlock language capabilities (I have a comic about that I can post later!), and she loves trying to imitate Sam’s vocabulary. Not that she’s, like, good at it yet, but she’s trying lmao. She’s always very cheerful and bouncy and probably the most likely to cry a little if something goes wrong, but also frequently swings back around to bouncy happy and tends to forget whatever upset her immediately. She swings violently back and forth between having zero thoughts and being head full many thoughts that she has to babble loudly all at once.

And Junior is the youngest, the smallest, the baby of the family. He’s very shy and sensitive, and his sisters are like his own personal bodyguards lmao. He has a lot of sensory issues that his dads make sure to help him with, like getting him soft clothes and a noise cancelling beanie (bc he ears not really suited to headphones) and shooting out overhead lights when they’re too bright for him hdkdhshs. He also likes napping in Sam’s pockets and under his hat and Max loves carrying him around like the baby he is. He’s also a creative little dude and he likes drawing (and also eating the crayons afterward).

All four of them are little goblins who have no concept of morality (like even Junior, he may be skittish but he still condones violence and chaos hdkdhshs) and will eat almost anything. They are truly their fathers’ children shjfjjdgdjshsh, and speaking of which Sam and Max are thrilled to have them around and completely obsessed with them hehe. They pretty much just carry on with their cases like usual except now they have a small pack of land piranhas that they can sic on difficult suspects lmaoooo

And I have some more sketches of them I can post, too!! So I’ll probably bounce back and forth between that and the virtues for a bit hehe :>

[hisuian-history-makers]

Casual Casualty—Indigo Park AU, Part 2.

Two-ish days after thinking up the foundation and first part of the AU, I had a small epiphany.

.

.

.

Ed was dumb for an urban explorer!

We can see from the in-game sprite he is really fit, but the way he handled exploring Indigo Park was weird. One—he wasn’t wearing gloves or any long sleeved clothes which can add some extra protection against debris. Two—he didn’t bring his equipment outside of a camera, flashlight, and presumably a bag to carry stuff.

I’ve done a small dive into how urban explorers operate though DISCLAIMER don’t quote me on the little I scrounged up. Urban explorers never go guns blazing into an abandoned property. Urban exploring is technically trespassing in the eyes of the law meaning they have to be extremely careful demeanor wise.

Most follow the rule of “take only photos, leave only footprints” when it comes to exploring. It’s a death sentence to share the exact location of where they explore cause other people will come to vandalize it. The stereotypical carrying bolt cutters, crowbars, and even a gun could bump them up to serious offenses if/when they are caught. If Ed did a full on exploration, then he’d have things like: a first aid kit, food, water, batteries, extra flashlight, sturdy shoes, etc…

Things that a hiker would carry and which he could technically deflect the true reason he came onto the Indigo Park property.

The more I think about it… the more it sounds like Ed was initially going to scout out the Park. He was going to map if there were any obvious ways to enter, if people came out there often, park his car far enough away from cameras or the general foot traffic so it isn’t noticed. Urban exploring comes with major risks if someone doesn’t pay attention to their surroundings. The rubble falling right after Ed got into the tunnel entrance—is a close call nobody wants to risk!

As for how this relates to Casual Casualty: What if Ed didn’t go into Lloyd’s stage when he saw the full grown lion(?) sleeping on stage?!

You can very easily see mascot Lloyd’s form shifting—breathing—as he sleeps on the stage.

If Ed’s an experienced enough urban explorer, he has probably run into situation where doors are locked. The pad lock keeping him from going further into Jetstream Junction is a simple pad lock on a semi-loose looking chain.

Why I bring up a situation like this is, what if Ed managed to get into Jetstream Junction without having that close shave with Lloyd? He could have found a way to pick the lock, or… managed to squeeze in by taking his bag off. This would decrease the threat level of the mascots to him I imagine though he might still be cautious seeing them. (He also wouldn’t have seen Mascot Mollie “Macie” peering at him from around a corner.) Since y’know, they are living flesh and blood versions of fictional characters. AI Rambley was one thing. But this?

Shocking.

I think the actual shock of seeing another real living Mascot and Mollie’s frankly startling appearance… Would dull his reaction.

Leading to Ed’s very unfortunate death.

———————————————————————

[If you can’t tell I wanted to make Ed seem more… competent? I wanted to make him feel smarter than just the game protagonist heading straight into danger after the near death by Lloyd. Laura won’t have a Critter Cuff.]

Thoughts?

[kaekae-x0x0]

Welcome Home - Phantom of the Opera AU

Part 8/?

MASTERLIST HERE

TW for injury description

You sat down in the back, away from everyone. Sally had told you that Julie’s siblings would dance first. The tears were still running down from your fight with Howdy. You tried your best to wipe them away, but your thoughts kept them flowing.

As the siblings, Bea, Franny, and Jonesy began to dance, something felt off.

Although you were in the back, you could’ve swore you saw Wally’s hair, but it was too messy compared to his normally neat pompadour, so you payed no mind to it.

The trio moved into the next dance, and you could’ve sworn you heard a scream from backstage, but the music was too loud to tell.

You sat through the next two numbers and couldn’t hear or see anything that seemed out of place, but then they moved on to the final number.

As they danced around the stage, the lights began to shatter around them. They all froze in place as the music came to sudden stop.

The railing above them began to rock back and forth, threatening to fall.Franny and Jonesy were able to get off stage, but Bea was frozen in fear. Julie screamed in fear for her to run, but as she leaped to the side of the stage, the railing crashed on her ankle.

The impact caused some bone to shatter, and she needed all the help she could get to lift the railing.

She saw her shin was fine, but her ankle was pretty discontorted. She screamed at the sight.

Barnaby and Eddie carried her to a first aid station, careful to avoid harming her more.

You saw Sally looking around for you in the walkways of the seats, you approached her, hoping she wouldn’t mention your face covered in tear streaks.

“I need you to go backstage to get ready. Bea’s gonna be alright.” She said, that last part seemed more to reassure herself more than anything.

You nodded and followed her backstage. Maybe you would find whoever was behind this.

“I have to go check on something. I’ll be back!” She said before leaving.

The door shut behind her. You stared at the mirror in the room.

You saw a figure behind you, yet as you turned around, they were gone.

You had an idea of where they were going. But you also had an idea of who they were.

You rushed to where they were and looked around wildly, trying to see where they may have gone.

Going with your gut, you went to the hallway to your right.

You reached two more hallways, and followed the noise of familiar laughter that echoed through the hallway.

As you stopped to catch your breath, you were met with some kind of dusty basement. You looked around and couldn’t find much except old costumes and props.

Glass shattered behind you, and sure enough.

“Wally?”

He stood straight up, looking directly at you.

“Wally!” You said rushing to his side.

He froze at the sudden action.

“Why are you hugging me after I yelled at you?”

“Because sometimes, some of us need comfort, and to be forgiven for their actions.” You pulled away.

A trapdoor opened from near you two, and Howdy dropped down.

“Darling…?” He said, seeing you two together.

“Howdy… it’s not what it looks like!”

“We have a single disagreement, and you do this?”

“I don’t see him like that! Why are you so… so-“

“Howdy.” Wally interrupted.

Wally began to approach Howdy, and smiled.

“I was hoping I could finally meet you.”

Howdy tensed up.

“Wally! Don’t hurt him!” You begged.

“They love you Howdy. Why would they love a monster like me when they have someone like you?” Wally said, stepping forward.

“But I guess I should give them no choice BUT to make them love a monster.” He whispered to Howdy.

Wally lifted up one of the props, a plastic crowbar, and hit Howdy with it.

Howdy hit his head on the corner of a table with a groan. Wally stepped on his chest, and taunted Howdy with the crowbar.

You leaped in to get Wally off of Howdy.

You and Wally hit a wall, and fell on the ground.

Wally pushed you off, you sat up and saw that his mask had fallen off and landed right next to you.

You looked up at Wally, his whole face revealed…

[ali-borsch]

OC POST

GUESS WHAT IM GONNA TALK ABOUT THESE TWO IDIOTS

im not gonna infodump too much yet if u want u can read if not u can skip that's ok

SO PERSONALITIES

august is a 20 y.o. cat dude. he's a very nice, kind-hearted & gentle person, always caring about everyone around him. he always prioritizes others' needs over his own. august is very protective of his loved ones, especially his lil sis maria, who he's been looking after since childhood

even tho he's a nice guy he can still be tough when needed. he's capable of standing up for himself & his loved ones

august believes that his needs aren't as important as everyone else's. he sacrifices his own time, energy & mental health to meet others' expectations. he's essentially a therapist friend. august doesn't like talking about his problems with others, only doing it rarely with maria or gloria (his other sister)

maria is a 14 y.o. robot girl resembling a dog. she's basically a polar opposite of august. she's a mean & edgy teen who thinks she's cooler than everyone else. she know she's a robot who can't get hurt (or even die) so that makes her think she's automatically better than other people

maria carries around a crowbar for intimidation & "looking badass". even tho she wishes she could fight someone with it, august told her to only use it as a last resort if something happens

maria still has a softer side, even tho she doesn't want to admit it. she likes spending time with her friends & cares deeply about them. she's extremely loyal to her loved ones (especially august) & would do almost anything for them

now the dynamic between these two

august & maria had a pretty rough childhood (which im not explaining here) & had to look after each other all the time, so their bond is very very strong

they do have this type of siblings dynamic where they sometimes bully, insult or piss off each other for fun, but they still deeply love each other & are able to stand up for each other

they have one shared interest in astronomy & they like talking about it with each other. & because of that they wear matching star necklaces

august is super protective towards maria. even tho he knows she can't get hurt (at least she can't feel pain), he's become so emotionally attached to her over the years that he can't bear a thought of something happening to her. maria is his number one priority & he always makes sure to check up on her

maria is very loyal to august as she listens to him the most. she always does anything he tells her to (or at least tries). tho she struggles with meeting august's expectation of being a bit nicer to people. nevertheless, august is maria's everything

also btw these two speak russian as their first language. just thought i'd mention

i think that's everything for now THIS TOOK ME LIKE AN HOUR TO WRITE IM REALLY BAD AT EXPRESSING MY THOUGHTS THROUGH WRITING i hope nothing was confusing here

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Listening

First posted: April 14, 2019

Focuses on: Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson

Tier: Middle of the pack at best

This is my “behind the scenes” series where I indulge myself horribly by annotating my fics. Link to the fic itself above. Thoughts below the cut.

More than once person requested a continuation of Carried for the one-year ficiversary prompt, so after Shoulder to Shoulder I wrote this. Since I already rehashed Janet's funeral from Dick's POV, I figured it was time to take on Bruce, but for what happened after.

Bruce didn’t know what he was doing. On paper, he was trying, just like he had promised Dick. But Dick, ever the optimist, had underestimated just how broken Bruce was. I don’t know how to do this, he admitted to no one, but surely they could tell. 

Bruce is Not Well, y'all. Like bless him outwardly he's all 🗿, but internally? Parental Panic 24/7.

Dick had been too young and traumatized to notice when he had first come to the Manor. Jason—would it always hurt like this, just thinking his name?—Jason had expected everything and nothing of him and so hadn’t been disappointed to receive something in the middle. But what ground Bruce had gained, he had lost in a gleaming swing and a deafening explosion.

I would remove the "gleaming swing" because I'm not sure Bruce would know about the crowbar specifically, and even if he did, I'm not sure he would think of it in those terms. (Also it sounds more like a sword?) I'd want another adjective-noun pairing there for balance, though. Just "deafening explosion" doesn't feel right. The rest of it is nice, though, very true to how Bruce perceives his own efforts and how/why he feels his kids forgave his many mistakes.

Unlike the others, Tim had been unwanted. Bruce could admit that to himself, if to no one else. Tim had been the chirping bird on the windowsill, urging him to meet the dawn when all Bruce wanted to do was never wake up again. Tim had been the buffeting blow of an airbag to the face, the ricochet of a guardrail, the snap of a harness.

Hello, still fairly fresh off It Wasn't Real, howzitgoin. It's awfully fun to take a thing that two characters are each secretly thinking and secretly agree on and show how very far apart they remain on what that thing means. Tim knows Bruce did not want him around at first, and he carries that rejection with him long past when it was valid. Bruce acknowledges Tim wasn't wanted at first but places the onus of that on himself. It has nothing at all to do with Tim, other than the fact that Tim was pushing him to live when he wanted to die.

Tim had saved Bruce’s life, maybe in more ways than he would ever know, but he had not been wanted, only needed. Even once that had changed, Bruce’s behaviors hadn’t, not significantly. For all the deception his life depended on, he wasn’t sure how to fix this disconnect between behavior and emotion.

Ain't that always the way.

There had been no tears, no outbursts, no nightmares like the ones that had rousted Bruce from bed to pace the halls and Dick to cross his path in the glow of the open fridge.

Readers during Shoulder to Shoulder had noted the implication that being at a funeral would affect both Bruce and Dick, as people with past trauma involving death and funerals. Here's the payoff. Tim's mom died and Bruce and Dick are the ones who can't sleep.

He had only crossed paths with Jack Drake once or twice before, despite being neighbors, and remembered little about the man other than a vague sheen of dislike, like a thin film of oil floating above the water of his impression.

I like that line. Sometimes that's just how it is. There's no real mass, no substance to a dislike. A person just leaves a bad aftertaste.

He had reminded Bruce too much of other little boys, too much of himself, too much of Tim himself the first and only time Bruce had raised his voice outside the cowl.

I don't know why I wrote that. My guess is that I figured Bruce couldn't have yelled at Tim too much before this point or he wouldn't have reacted to strongly to Tim's reaction, but wow I really painted myself into a corner there. Bad Mental Health Bruce only yelled at Tim once???

And maybe if Tim had needed him still in the days to follow, that would have made things easier and given Bruce a template to follow. Instead, Tim was fine and Bruce was the one floundering.

me @ me: o o f

“I’m sorry you’re dead. Which is a-a dumb thing to say, I know, but... You were really important to Bruce. Even if no one said so, you can tell, by the way he doesn’t talk about it. And he’s old now. I mean, an adult and everything, but he’s still upset about it. Which is how it should be, right?”

I am perpetually fascinated with Bruce's grief, especially how it might be perceived by and affect those around him. It's often portrayed as this nostalgic, static thing—an unchanging event from his childhood—rather than a real, living, ongoing thing that affects his day to day life. Tim knows better.

“I’m upset you’re dead,” Tim was saying, “because you seem like good people, and because it hurt Bruce when you went away. And I’ve never even met you. So... so shouldn’t I be upset about my mom, too?”

IIRC, that first bit was one of the sentences I was writing toward, one of the reasons I put Tim out here in the snow at all. He needed someone to talk to and no way was he confessing any of this to people who might think less of him.

"But I was surprised, because they said she must’ve been on her way home, and I hadn’t even known she was coming back.”

Another sentence I remember being determined to fit in, since it fit in well with his previous sentiment in Carried.

“Alfred installed these. They’re really buried in Gotham Cemetery, but I wanted a way to talk to them every day, so...”

Oh I fussed so much about figuring out the logistics for the Waynes. You can't just bury people on private property! But I wanted them there! Thinking through why and how there might be a replica of a gravesite on the grounds was a useful exercise, though.

That seemed a long time ago, the days when he felt bursting with things to say. Bruce could still remembering the tight, burning sensation in his chest, like if he didn’t get all the emotions out, he would go to pieces, but it was like remembering something that happened to another person. He still had the emotions, still had the blaze beneath his breastbone, but the words had slipped away entirely.

I was pretty deep into Nature and Nurture by the time I wrote this fic, so clearly Bruce's psyche and communication skills remain Of Interest. I just love the idea of some parts of Bruce being a consistent throughline while others that non-Alfred people might think of as a core piece of his identity are actually a result of trauma.

Bruce pointed to the chipped arm of his mother’s cross. “I did that. I was... I don’t know how old. I don’t even really remember why. I just remember being angry. Angry at them for not being here, angry for leaving me with two hunks of rock that didn’t talk back. Angry at myself for being angry.”

I had to pull these details back up for a later fic and work around them/incorporate them into The Rain Again, when Bruce gets angry again.

The words came slowly, as they always did, but Bruce had learned by now to speak at a measured pace to make them seem as deliberate as they were, if less hard-won.

I was reading some book at the time that uses this framing for a character's speech and I wish I could remember what it was, because it makes sense.

“You were missed,” Bruce finally answered

I loved knowing that that's where this fic was headed, in the end. It made me feel so warm and cozy.

[tinkabelle24]

To Build a Home

Chapter 12: Into The Light

A/N: I'd like to thank the amazing @android-cap-007 for the first of many drawings for this story. Love you, girl! 🥰🫂

TW! Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Death.

Masterlist / Chapter 11

---

(One week earlier...)

Alright, which one was it again? First, second... third? Yes! Thank God...

Val heaved a relieved sigh as she watched the brickwork slide open, revealing one of many secret entrances into the Lair. One would think, given the numerous times she'd already used this entrance, she'd know by heart which pipe to pull. But no. That wasn't how her brain worked.

Donnie was already halfway up the steps by the time she shuffled inside. Her face immediately flushed with embarrassment as she imagined him laughing his ass off at the sight of her fumbling around outside. Had this been the case, he never let it show.

“Oh! Hi, Dudette!” Mikey, who'd been trailing behind his older brother, greeted cheerfully. His baby blues nearly popped out their sockets once they finally laid upon the load she was carrying. “How’d you manage to get all that down here by yourself?”

Finally relinquishing the two heavy insulated shopping bags and backpack into Donnie’s eager hands, Val groaned softly as she stretched out her stiff back and upper limbs; her fingers ached something fierce. “Thank you... It wasn’t too bad; the hardest part’s lifting that heavy-ass manhole cover.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” The purple-banded terrapin eyed her quizzically as he pushed one of the bags into Mikey’s arms. “We would’ve picked you up.”

Val waved him off with a smile. “Don’t stress,” she reassured. “I’m stronger than I look. The crowbar helped, too, heh... Plus, it was meant to be a surprise.”

Sundays were their lazy days, where most of the group congregated in the common area to enjoy either a video game or movie (usually a comedy; a certain someone *cough* Mikey *cough* wasn't fond of horror).

Checco’s was their go-to on these nights. No, scratch that – most nights. Something told Val it was their favourite, so she decided to bring her own this time... among a few other goodies.

“Pizza? Yes!” Mikey did a little dance, holding the three firmly wrapped pies above his head like Rafiki did baby Simba.

“Supreme... pepperoni... and my personal favourite – margherita. I sincerely hope you guys like garlic, because the last one’s got a shit-tonne of it.” Val then reached into one of the bags, retrieving a foil-wrapped baguette. “I also made garlic bread - cheesy garlic bread.”

At that, Mikey swooned. “I love you!”

A giggle escaped the brunette’s lips as she playfully rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to the second bag. “For you.” She handed Donnie a container of double chocolate chip muffins. “Payment for the courgettes. Don’t worry, I didn’t put any in there.”

“Perfect, thank you- ah-ah! Get your mitts off it.” He swatted Mikey’s hand away.

“Aw, what?! No fair!”

“Worry not, my friend.” Val nudged the youngest brother as she produced a larger container of what looked to be chocolate pudding.

By that point, she'd finally spotted Raph across the common area, exiting the weights room. His hands were clean but his arms and thighs were peppered with chalk smears, presumably from using the deadlift bar. Had she blinked, she would've missed the wince as he rolled his shoulders; favouring the recently healed one.

She frowned.

He'd been overdoing it, again.

“Oh, hey!” Raph exclaimed, gaze finally falling on her. “You’re early. I was gonna text after my shower to see if you were ready. I’d hug ya, but...” He gestured to himself as he approached.

“Yeah, I’ll pass.” Val agreed; she'd rather not get sweat and chalk all over her favourite outfit.

With a sheepish smile, she raised her container to his eye level; Mikey, still holding the pizzas, eagerly presented them as well. “I brought goodies... I made your avocado mousse for dessert – that okay?” In her excitement – organising and preparing this spread - she totally forgot to ask the chef’s permission to recreate his recipe.

Bad Valerie - that’s poor recipe sharing etiquette!

Noticing her apprehension, a mischievous smirk crept across Raph’s scarred features. “Ahh, so that’s why ya wanted the recipe.”

“Yeah, heh...” She tittered, avoiding eye contact. “You never got to try it properly, so... a-and I wanted it to be a surprise-”

“-Val.” The terrapin chuckled, expression softening. “Relax - it’s fine. I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

“Wait...” Mikey pointed to the mousse container, eyeing his older brother suspiciously. “Isn’t that the same stuff you spent all afternoon preparing, just to toss in the trash?”

“Sounds about right.” The brunette quipped with renewed confidence; Raph sent her a dead-panned look.

The orange-banded terrapin tutted at him, shaking his head. “Sacrilege.”

“Hey, where’s Leo?” Val quickly changed the subject, just as Raph opened his mouth to protest. Leo was usually the first to greet her whenever she visited. Then again, he wasn't expecting her until later.

“He finished his Kata just before you arrived.” Donnie answered. “He’s in the shower.”

“Ah.”

“Speakin’ of showers...” Raph turned in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Multiplied by forty-five...”

The red-banded terrapin paused to side-eye Val, who was grinning slyly at him from behind her lashes. Her eyes bugged out when he suddenly snapped toward her, arms outstretched. “I’ll take that hug now-”

“Don’t you dare!” She immediately fled round the dining table, desperate to put some distance between herself and the incoming terrapin. “Get away! Stop! Raph, no... I mean it- ah!”

Donnie and Mikey leapt back, cackling as their brother proceeded chasing the squealing woman around the kitchen. He cornered her almost immediately, leaning into her palm pressed against his plastron.

“I’m dead serious.” Val warned, playfully staring him down. “Come any closer and I’ll smack you.”

“Please do.” The group turned toward the common area to find Leo, finally making an appearance. He nodded to the brunette politely as he approached. “Hey. Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you came in... what’s all this?”

Val returned the gesture. “Hey. It's all good," she reassured, eyeing Raph warily as he slunk away. “I brought dinner, and dessert.”

“Oh... thank you. You didn’t need to do that-”

“I wanted to.” She insisted gently.

They shared a brief smile, before Mikey piped up with a “Let’s get this show on the road!”, pulling out several pizza trays and firing up the oven. Raph left for his shower, while the rest of the group finished organising dinner.

---

“Aw, c’mon! I thought you liked zombies.”

“Watching them – sure. Fighting them – fff- hell no. No way.”

“Hell?” Raph folded his muscular arms as he relaxed in his chair, brow ridge quirked in amusement. “Val, I’ve heard ya say worse shit than that-”

“Raph.” Leo hissed. Had Val not been paying attention, she would've missed the leader’s subtle eye gesture in her direction, then the near inaudible “not in front of the lady”. She smiled into her wine glass as she took another sip, flattered by the chivalrousness.

Raph side-eyed his brother, before letting out a short snort.

Val narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you trying to say, Raph?” She questioned, feigning offence. “Am I not a lady?”

The terrapin’s hands immediately shot up in defence. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to – I saw it on your face.”

“I’m just tryna figure out how you can say – Leo, cover ya ears - ‘fuck’ - the second most vulgar curse word in the English language - and not get into trouble; while I say ‘shit’ and get my head bitten off for it.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” the brunette smirked.

Raph laughed incredulously. “Red hot, you are-”

“-Guys, can you not?” Donnie interrupted, staring pointedly at the pair. “Some of us wanna enjoy their dessert in peace.”

“Right. Sorry...”

“Suck-up.”

"Stop...!” Val mouthed, struggling to keep the ear-to-ear grin off her face.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys...” Mikey finally sat back, petting his distended ‘belly’. “...But those pizzas, and this mousse – mwah! Chef’s kiss! Speaking of chefs...” He gently nudged the brunette’s leg with his. “You should be one – you're really good.”

“Thanks...” She blushed, shifting awkwardly in her chair. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think I’d enjoy cooking as a career – it's my hobby.”

“What would you do instead, then?” An intrigued Leo leaned forward slightly.

“I’ve actually been looking at EMT courses.”

“Emergency Medical Technician?” Donnie clarified, scraping the very last of the mousse from his bowl then spooning it into his mouth.

“Sorry. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Like a paramedic?” Raph asked.

“Sort of. Paramedics get more training. The EMT program is nowhere near as long and I can branch out later if I want to... only problem is I need a high school diploma or GED to be considered – I have exactly neither, heh...”

“Did you not finish school?” Mikey frowned at his brothers, who all shared knowing looks.

“No, I didn’t...” A sudden buzzing sound momentarily drew the brunette’s attention to her purse at her feet; inside, the screen of her first phone illuminated with a recent text message.

[I don’t like this...]

Molly.

---

“What’s his surname?”

Val looked up from the inch-long piece of varnish she just peeled from her well-worn timber tabletop. “Sorry, what?”

Molly looked over her phone at her, brows raised. “Raph, obviously.” She sarcastically replied. “Unless you have another boyfriend I don’t know about.”

“I told you - he’s not my boyfriend.” Val groaned. “He’s just a guy I served at work who said I looked pretty.”

“Do you have his number?” Molly enquired, with an expectant look. “I’m trying to find his social media profile.”

“He doesn’t have social media.”

“How do you know? Have you tried looking for him?”

“Yes - he doesn’t have one.”

“Not even Facebook?”

“No - not even Facebook.”

“What weirdo isn’t on any form of social media?”

“You’re being very judgemental right now, Mol.” Val meant it as a joke, but she couldn't help the frustration in her tone. “Just cos he doesn’t have social media, doesn’t mean he’s weird; it just means he doesn’t have social media.”

“I’m just curious as to who this guy is, and why you’ve been hiding him from me – your best friend, supposedly...”

Val stifled an eye roll at that last part. Drama llama...

Molly leant on her folded arms atop Val’s dining table, staring her dead in the eyes.

“Seriously, though – what's going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ cos that’s bullshit. You’ve been seeing him. Wanna know how I know? Your face – yeah, just like that. I haven’t seen you smile this much, or look this good, in... well, ever. Whatever’s going on for you right now – it's good. I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want me to be a part of that... I mean, I know next to nothing about this guy. Fuck, I don’t even know what he looks like! Please, please, please, Val. I’m begging you, for God's sake – let me in!”

“Trust me, Mol, I’d tell you everything if I could, but I can’t... I-I made a promise.”

Molly frowned. “Why is he making you keep him a secret? That doesn’t seem fair, to me.”

Cos he’s a six-foot talking turtle man...

“His job is... high-risk.” It wasn't a lie but it wasn't the whole truth, either.

“What does that mean, exactly? Is he like a mafia boss, or something?”

Val had to bite back what would've been an inappropriately placed laugh. “No,” she replied, clearing her throat. “He’s uh... he’s a special kind of cop; one who’s gotta deal with some pretty nasty people. I really can’t say anything more than that. I’m sorry...”

Molly compressed her lips and sighed. “Fine. Okay...” She murmured, nodding slowly.

Val lowered her gaze, the familiar feeling of guilt settling in the pit of her stomach. She could tell her friend was becoming frustrated, but what could she do? Not much, unless she wanted to betray her other friends’ trust.

After a moment or two of silence, the raven-haired woman reached across the table to squeeze Val’s hand. “But I’m gonna be keeping an eye on you. I’m glad you’re happier but, Val, I’m seeing some red flags. For your sake, this secret-keeping nonsense better be temporary.”

I doubt it very much, but I hope so, too...

---

“Val?”

Raph's voice snapped her out of her reverie. “Hm...? I’m sorry – what?”

“Do ya need to get that?” Raph asked, nodding to her phone.

Val shook her head. “No - it can wait.”

“Ya sure?”

“Yes, Raph.” She reassured, chuckling softly. “It’s fine. Really.”

The terrapin frowned, unconvinced, but didn't press further.

“Right. Well...” Leo slowly rose to his feet, setting his empty glass inside his bowl. “Let’s get these dishes done, so we can settle in for the night- not you.” He gently pushed a stunned Val back into her chair by her shoulder, then took her dishes from her. “Those who cook don’t have to wash up – you should know that by now.”

“Why dontcha go pick a game for us to play?” Raph suggested, noticing her restless thumb-twiddling; he knew she hated being idle.

The brunette nodded stiffly as she slid out of her chair. “Okay, sure.”

“What about-”

“No, we’re not playing COD zombies - forget it.”

“We’ve got a Wii?” Mikey offered as he watched the sink fill with hot, soapy water. “We could play Wii Sports?”

“Sounds like fun!” Raph rubbed his hands together, flashing Val a wicked smile. “Feel like boxin’?”

“Don’t fall for it, Val,” Donnie warned, side-eyeing the red-banded terrapin. “He’s an absolute menace.”

“Is that a compliment or insult?”

“You’re a sore winner.”

“Sounds like somethin' a loser would say-”

“I’ll play.” Val giggled at Donnie's 'see what I mean?' look. “So long as you agree to face me at bowling – that's my turf.”

“You're goin' down,” Raph growled playfully.

The brunette smugly chuckled. “We’ll see.”

“Leo’s good at bowling, too.” Donnie offered, nudging the terrapin in question. “Seven strikes in a single round was his best, if I’m remembering correctly. It was a while ago.”

“Impressive.” Val turned to Leo with a hopeful smile. “Does that mean you’ll be joining us tonight? I’ll make sure to go easy on you.”

Leo cracked a smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. “Not tonight, sorry...” Watching her face fall, he quickly followed with a “Next time, I promise.”

“Okay, then.” The brunette nodded, smile returning. “I’m holding you to that.”

---

Val's blood ran cold when she finally caught his shadowy figure descending on her in her periphery. She risked a glance to his balled fists. He looked unarmed. Luckily for her, she was not.

Steeling herself, the brunette whipped around to face him, brandishing her pocketknife. "Not one more fucking step, asshole!" Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that it effectively drowned out her scream.

Buddy's eyes widened as he skidded to a stop, an arm's length away. Once he registered the threat, his dark gaze finally returned to hers. "I oughta cut out that filthy tongue of yours-"

"Fuck you!" Val shot back defiantly. She retreated slowly to put some distance between them, not daring to break eye contact. He stepped forward and she jabbed the blade in his direction. "I said BACK OFF!"

"My money," Buddy snarled, watching the weapon like a hawk. "I want it back."

"I don't have your money-"

"Bullshit!"

The abrupt screeching of tyres rang through the dark and otherwise empty street. Panic momentarily taking over, she turned to find her cab leaving - without her.

With his victim distracted, Buddy lunged forward and snatched her knife hand, attempting to disarm her. Tightening her grip on her keys, the brunette proceeded slashing wildly in his direction; praying to hit something important. Apparently, she had, as the next thing to come out of his mouth was a blood-curdling scream.

Val didn't hang around to assess the resulting damage. She yanked herself and her knife free and booked it down the street, hiking her pencil skirt to her thighs to lengthen her stride; purse flailing behind her. She found herself momentarily matching the speed of her would-have-been getaway car, before the (understandably) terrified driver stomped on the gas and careened down a side street.

Val had no clue where she was running to, just away. She couldn't risk going home. Should he follow her, he'd then not only know where she worked but where she lived.

The thudding of Buddy's dress shoes against the pavement grew louder as he rapidly gained on her. She felt his hand brush her upper back, and a terrified yelp forced its way out.

Desperate to escape his clutches, Val practically dove into the nearest alleyway; unfortunately, clipping her right arm and losing her keys in the process. They clattered to the ground as he finally reached her, grasping the back of her neck and slamming her into a brick wall.

Val gasped for air, but the impact had forced it all out of her lungs. She coughed and a searing pain shot through her chest, causing her to whimper. A warm sensation bloomed at her brow-line, trickling down her temple and chin before dripping steadily onto the collar of her blouse.

Why oh why did you not call for help? Because you're a fucking idiot, that's why.

With one hand fixing her head in place, Buddy reached for her knife hand with the other, all the while applying an immense amount of pressure on her back with his short but stocky frame; erect manhood pressing into her backside through his slacks. What little oxygen leftover was promptly expelled. She was officially suffocating.

"I'll take that." He attempted prying her fingers from the hilt; Val responded by further tightening her grip, to the point where her knuckles fully discoloured.

This pissed him off.

Gripping her closed fist, Buddy proceeded grinding it up and down against the brickwork. The brunette bit back a scream as she felt the skin of her knuckles being torn away. She fought to distract herself from the pain with levelled breaths; determined not to let him take her last mode of defence.

"Let go, fuck ya!" After not receiving the desired outcome for several long and torturous moments, Buddy finally relented. He released her neck to resume prying her fingers away - with both hands.

Her head now free, Val proceeded thrusting it back with as much force as she could muster, clocking Buddy in the face.

She heard a stomach-turning crunch and he staggered back, finally allowing her starved lungs to reinflate. Whipping around, she found him clutching his nose, blood dripping from his hands.

If looks could kill, she would be dead already.

Val lunged forward, striking him in the groin with her shin, causing him to yell out and hunch over in pain. Something inside her snapped. Years' worth of repressed anger and resentment had finally boiled over into her conscious mind, forming a singular uncontrollable emotion - rage.

Snatching a portion of sandy blonde hair close to his scalp, Val held his head firmly whilst she kneed his face, before yanking him up and backward so he fell against the wall.

The brunette felt a desperate urge to hurt him again; to make him suffer, as she suffered. She imagined digging her nails into the cuts on his face, gauging his eyes out, castrating him then finally kicking his head in. Somehow, she managed to restrain herself.

"Get up and I'll fucking end you!" She screeched down at him, flourishing her pocketknife; the hilt bloodied and sticky from the gaping wounds on her hand.

Val suddenly froze, sensing a second presence with them. Stealing a glance further down the alley, she immediately recognised his unique silhouette - Leo.

The terrapin abruptly whipped out a palm-sized, four-pointed object from one of the pouches on his utility belt, launching it in their direction. She watched, transfixed, as it spun wildly through the air, blew past her face then, to her horror, buried itself in Buddy's temple.

He'd crept up on her; nearly succeeding in using her own hand to plunge her knife into her body.

Val made the horrifying mistake of looking into his eyes as life promptly left him, before dropping to the ground. At least she had the presence of mind to extract herself from his grasp, so he couldn't drag her down with him.

A hand touched her arm, and she damn near jumped out of her skin. "Hey, hey- it's me - you're safe, now." Leo soothed. "I'm gonna take this knife from you, okay? I'm putting it right here."

After helping her locate the nearest wall to lean on, the terrapin proceeded carefully inspecting her injuries. "This’ll need to be glued," he informed her, referring to her split brow. "And this..." He cupped her mangled hand. "...God, Val - what happened?"

"He's d-dead..." Val murmured, staring at the lifeless body lying face-down on the pavement, blood pooling around his head. She felt a hundred miles away, trapped before a screen playing an endless loop of him dying in front of her. She couldn't help fixating on his eyes; how one moment, they were full of hatred, then the next - nothing...

"I know," Leo replied gently. "I'm sorry you had to see that..."

Finally returning to earth, Val turned to the terrapin in a panic. "I'm sorry..." She fervently shook her head, eyes brimming with tears. Had she just done the smart thing and called for help, this whole situation could've been avoided. Her attacker could've been dealt with in a non-lethal way, and Leo wouldn't have his blood on his hands. "I'm so, so, so s-sorry...!"

"Hey, no. Absolutely not." Grasping her shoulder, Leo stared her straight in the eyes. "None of this is your fault, you hear me? None of it."

"You don't understand-"

"-Val," the terrapin pleaded. "I promise I'll hear you out on everything you need to say but, right now, I need to get you home so we can treat these. So, I need you to breathe. In through your nose... out through your mouth - that's it. Good. Okay... can you walk?"

---

Turning Point (ONE-SHOT)

Masterlist / Chapter 13

@happymoonangel @miss-andromeda

[toxictoad]

OC Smash or Pass

<3<3<3 @toads-treasures for tagging me

I have so many ocs lmao but I'm just gonna use my favorite Durge

Deimos

-6'0"

-He/him

-Half-Elf (Bhaalspawn) Paladin

-25 y/o

Pros:

Very considerate of other people. He can usually tell when someone's uncomfortable and never wants to make that happen

Super observant. New shoes or new haircut? You're getting complimented. Are you upset? He's there if you wanna talk but no pressure

Really fucking strong. He doesn't flaunt it but if you ask he will carry you around

Great at compartmentalizing (This is also a con sometimes lol). Doesn't let outside stuff bother him when he's with his SO

Selfless (This includes in bed 😏)

Cons:

Has mormon levels of guilt about doing anything that he enjoys. Will have a small to medium level crisis about eating a pastry

Very open to suggestion. He's not naive exactly, but he tends not to question people when they tell him things. He would fall for a pyramid scheme

The compartmentalizing thing. Things that happen at home are home things and things that happen at work are work things. Doesn't really get it when someone is upset across multiple areas of life. If you had a bad day at work you will need to explain to him why you're upset outside of work and it will take longer than you think

Will never admit that something is wrong. Talking about your feelings is great. Talking about his feelings is going to require a truth serum and maybe a crowbar

Also, y'know... He's the child of the god of murder and is constantly fighting the urge to murder/maim/do other violent and fucked up things. He probably won't do anything, but still

Tagging @feedthepheasants and @honeybee-bard but no pressure!

[star-going-supernova]

This isn’t really a prompt, just a thought i needed to share, but i wouldn’t be mad if you take it as one 🤭

After reading “The Most Dangerous Prey” and recovering from the mental damage that the scene where Gregory fought Freddy to protect those two brothers caused upon me (because of my deep attachment to Gregory and his papa bear, it was PAIN to see Gregory just tear Freddy apart without any regard), I, of course, needed to hurt myself even more and thought about, what if the night where Gregory protects all those kids happens AFTER his dreadful night?

Like, Gregory’s night goes as is in the games. In the end, they don’t really manage to completely fight off the virus. They do survive, and fix the animatronics back to normal, but there’s something still lurking around. Oh, well, Freddy ‘adopts’ Gregory and he stays at the pizzaplex. The animatronics apologize to and forgive Gregory and they all try to figure out what really is going on at the Plex, but they can’t figure out what, because nothing has happened for weeks.

Then something horrible happens. One night, several kids end up trapped in the pizzaplex. The animatronics get infected once again, even through all of Gregory’s efforts to keep them safe, and this time including Freddy. Now Gregory tries to protect all of those kids to his best ability, as did his dad to him all those months ago.

So after that, imagine “The Most Dangerous Game” and “The Most Dangerous Prey” happening with this backstory. How it must’ve affected Gregory deeply, damaging his only father-figure like that. He knows that’s what Freddy in his right mind would have wanted, for Gregory to prioritize the safety of other children rather than the robot’s own self-being, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Badly.

OW that hurts

It's interesting to think about how Gregory's actions would change in that case.

Gregory probably would have gone for a camera or Fazer Blaster before a crowbar, which could be its own source of angst if he doesn't have anything more substantial to defend himself and his charges with.

He's probably also feeling absolutely wretched that they weren't able to prevent this despite knowing about the virus. I imagine that's an aspect of guilt that he'd carry for a long time afterwards.

[turnupswritessometimes]

Geppetto's Boy - Lies of P - Ch4

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54517777/chapters/138571591

Summary: A collection of oneshots set throughout the game, mostly exploring P and Gepetto’s relationship. (But exploring P’s relationships with most of Hotel Krat too.)

First | Previous | Next

Chapter Four

P came to his senses in an abandoned house – though almost all houses in Krat were empty now. He was stood upright. For a moment, he wondered if he had gone into a frenzy; he felt a surge of fear. That was new. Then he realised that one arm was above his head –when he tried to move it, he found it bound in place, tied to something above him. That was holding him upright, and in place.

His left arm was gone.

His legion arm had been detached. It wasn't there. He couldn’t move it. His springs judder, skipping a beat. That was what was threatening to unbalance him; the emptiness where his left arm should be.

He fought to breathe, to keep his springs moving normally, and look around. This was an upstairs room. Light came from the below the small window to his left. It was the yellow glow of a streetlamp; it was night beyond. There was also Gemini's glow, from the table to his right. A table pressed up against the wall. His belts and bags were laid out there too – though he wouldn’t be able to reach them even if they were still on his waist.

He looked up to find that his right arm was tied to a roof rafter; one of the few left covering the attic. He followed the line of cable with his eyes. It led to his legion arm. His legion arm, wedged sturdily between the rafters. The one Geppetto had left for him, with the wire launcher.

He'd been trapped with his own arm.

For the first time, he wondered why his father hadn't given him two normal arms, instead of substituting one as a weapon. Was it necessary to give him another weapon, when he’d already been made to be so proficient at fighting.

P took another breath. He needed to remember what happened.

He had been in the Malum district, gathering ergo – wishing to find more survivors who weren't monsters – had knelt down to examine a locket left in a pile of oil. There'd been a sharp pain on the back of head. He'd fallen; landing heavily on the cobbles. Had reached for his weapon, lashing out blindly with his legion arm. The pain left stars dancing in his vision; he couldn't see properly; only saw a large, dark figure standing over him. There had been another hit, on his temple.

And then everything had shut down.

It wasn’t like him. He’d been distracted. Too distracted. Had been thinking of the locket, and who it could belong to, and had been ambushed. Now he was here. His attacker hadn't killed him, though he didn’t know who would keep him alive.

P looked at Gemini. He whispered, "Stay quiet."

Gemini pulsed in response. Three long pulses, then a long, short and long pulse. P knew the code, even if he didn’t know how: OK.

That seemed safer. He took another breath, testing the weight of the cord around his wrist. Tightened on his wrist.

He heard footsteps. He listened to them until the door to the abandoned room burst open. It swung back, hinges screaming, a figure silhouetted against the dim yellow light of the room.

A silhouette with rabbit ears.

P stayed still, bracing his feet against the floor.

The figure stepped in. The member of the Black Rabbit Brotherhood with the red scarf. The red scarf, and dozens of weapons; though he carried a simple crowbar now. He stopped, his mask shifting as he looked P up and down.

It made sense. They weren't finished with him, and they were sophisticated enough to want a drawn-out revenge. P was in trouble.

"So you've finished rebooting? Or whatever it is you puppets do?" he asked. He stepped into the room so heavily the floorboards bounced under him. P could feel the impact of every step. "Didn't think puppets slept."

P didn't reply; he didn’t know if they could; if he could. He let his arm take his weight, but the knots didn't loosen. If he pulled hard enough, could he take the beam down with it?

"Do you remember me?" the Black Rabbit asked. He stopped a few feet away.

P stared at the empty eyes of his mask. They glinted in the gaslight. He nodded. He could feel his P-organs working hard.

"Good, good." The Black Rabbit let the crowbar swing at his side. "So, you remember killing my brother."

It didn't sound as much of a question as before. P nodded again, just once. He didn't let himself look at the crowbar. Without his weapon, it seemed like much more of a threat.

"Even better. So, you know what this is about." He smacked the end of the crowbar against the floor and the clang echoed in the empty room. It would break him, and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. "This is about me teaching you what happens when you kill one of us. I was so bloody happy when I saw you bumbling around. Thought it was a golden opportunity."

He wouldn't flinch, P decided. Flinching would make it worse.

The crowbar swung through the air.

It struck his stomach. He felt the pain shoot through him, felt his arm twitch as it tried to shield him, and the wire tightened on his wrist. Hopefully it wasn't noticeable.

"This - this - is about me destroying you, for what you did.” The Black Rabbit spat. “I'm not just gunna batter you into spare parts. I wanna take my time. I'm gunna dismantle you piece by piece, all methodical like. Think I'll start by taking your feet, then your legs."

His voice had risen to a shout.

"If you do that," P said. "I'll hang unevenly and will be harder to hit."

With only one arm, he'd swing wildly at one hit, and would hang lopsided. He focused on that, on the practicality, rather than the reality of the threat. He didn’t want to hang here as a battering ram, without his legs; didn’t want to be like the puppet at the hotel they used for training; a useless, helpless thing.

"The hell did you say?" the Black Rabbit closed the distance between them, his leather and metal mask so close P could smell it. He pressed the end of the crowbar against P's stomach, enough to knock him off balance. Then paused.

His spare hand took hold of P's chin. "Shit. Look at you. That old geezer put the work into your face, huh?"

P stayed silent, again; his springs whirring. He let his face relax, as the Black Rabbit tilted it from one side to the other, staring at him. The gloved fingers pressed into his skin so firmly it hurt.

"Made you a real pretty boy, didn't he?" And when P stayed silent, released him so forcefully that his head jerked back. "Eh?"

P met those empty eyes. "I didn't want to kill him.”

The crowbar jabbed his stomach again. "What?"

"Your brother. I didn't want to kill him."

"You're telling me you waltzed into our territory for a friendly chat?"

"You attacked me first."

A sharp laugh came from behind the mask. The Black Rabbit stepped back, his voice pitching again, rising to a shout.

"So, that makes it okay? To pound him to death?"

He hadn’t meant to go that far; hadn’t wanted to go that far. P didn’t look away from the rabbit mask. "You wanted to kill me too."

"But you’re a puppet." He took a fistful of P's shirt and waistcoat in his fist, shaking him. He dug his boot heels into the floorboards to keep his footing. "You're just a puppet, and you killed him!"

P could say he was sorry. The Black Rabbit wouldn't believe him, and it would be a lie; he didn’t like killing a human, but he wasn’t sorry for it. There seemed little point in telling a lie if it wasn't believed.

Instead, he said, "Yes."

"You bastard!"

The blow came to his cheek. With a fist, not the crowbar. P couldn't stop his head from snapping round with the movement. He stared down at the floor, pain blossoming across his face. The string tethered him in place.

Another hit came. The Black Rabbit had dropped the crowbar; he'd used his other fist instead. P's head snapped the other way.

He fought to breathe.

The Black Rabbit continued hitting him. Alternating either side of his face and he couldn't stop himself from going with the blows. It was an effort to keep his footing – to keep from swinging on the end of the string. He missed his legion arm more severely than before.

"Shit!" The Black Rabbit shouted. "Shit, you don't even bruise. Look at you – I can't make you pay – there's no mark! You’re perfect!"

P took a sharp hit on the chin. His head jerked to the ceiling again, where his arm hung. Its fingers reached towards him. It wasn't quite true. The blows had done something. There was a trickle of oil coming from his nose. He felt it drip down his lips. It was hot, and his face stung.

"Why'd he give you a face like that? Hey? Why'd he—" The Black Rabbit suddenly stopped, winded. He stepped back, breathing heavily behind the mask.

P felt oil drip from his face, onto the floorboards. His face hurt, distantly, but he knew it wouldn’t be bruised. Wouldn’t be swelling.

"I didn't want to kill him," he repeated. "I don't want to kill things."

He didn't know if that was a lie or not. Fighting made him feel alive; made him feel like he was serving his purpose; but he didn’t enjoy it. Not killing humans.

The Black Rabbit laughed again. Harder, and more harshly. "Yeah, well, none of us wanted to, did we? None of us wanted the world to go to shit like it has."

That was partly a lie, too, P thought. The Black Rabbit Brotherhood had thrived off the chaos; they had made money off the chaos; he'd seen their ledger. They ruled the whole Malum district, and they enjoyed throwing their power over people.

"But you – you're a puppet." The Black Rabbit knelt, to pick up the crowbar from the floor. It bumped against the table, as he did, and one of P's belts slithered to the floor. He watched it – there was a throwing cell attached to it. The impact didn't break it. It rolled across the floorboard, toward him.

"You're a puppet, and you can't want anything. You're just Geppetto's little tool. His little weapon to pummel anyone he doesn't like."

P looked up. His hair hung in front of his face, sticking to the oil.

"No," he said, and wanted it to be true. He wanted to be more than that. He was a puppet, but he had wants.

It only got him another laugh. The yellow light glinted off his rabbit mask; off the crowbar, as he hefted it onto his shoulder.

"I know one of the first things I take out of you is gunna be your voice box."

P reached out with his boot, just a little. The cell rolled closer to him.

"But, hey, maybe I'll keep you intact enough to use you as a toy,” the Black Rabbit laughed. “Given how much work Geppetto put into your face."

P didn't let his gaze waver. That was important. It was important that the Black Rabbit watched his face, and not his shoes. He brought the throwing cell closer to himself, catching his breath. The pain in his face was dull and constant.

The Black Rabbit still stared.

P kicked the throwing cell. He used the side of his foot, kicking it upwards as much as out. It flew across the room, and he turned his face away, closing his eyes against the blast.

It knocked the Black Rabbit back. He shouted, stumbled, and swore, bouncing off the rickety floorboards.

P yanked his arm down with all his strength. It didn't pull down the beam, but it did snap the wire. He was free. He fell to his knees – tried to catch himself on his left arm, out of instinct – and hit the floor, too. His cheek and side smarted.

The Black Rabbit charged at him. P shifted, onto his back, and kicked upwards. His blow landed; the Black Rabbit fell back, and gave P the moments he needed to get to his feet. He lurched, like he was on a ship, towards the table. He snatched Gemini’s lantern, and swung it as the Black Rabbit came forwards again.

It hit him on the temple, and sent him back to the floor. It was apparently one time too many for the old wood. P felt the boards buckle, and saw them beginning to strain.

As the Black Rabbit put his hand down to steady himself, it went straight through the wood.

It was all coming away. He was going to fall.

P could let him. It would be better for him; it might even eliminate another one of the Black Rabbits.

He lunged; caught hold of the Black Rabbits other arm. P tugged him backwards, even as he kicked out. Each kick made the gap even wider, sending boards to the floors below. P retreated to the stairwell, with the gaping hole in front of him, edged with splintered wood. The Black Rabbit still shouted and swore, with every gasp. Terrified. He was terrified.

P could see why.

They were on the top floor. There were three floors below them, and the floorboards below were just as worn. If he'd fallen, he could easily have broken through all of them. Would have been seriously injured, if not dead.

The Black Rabbit strained to look round at P, even as he stumbled backwards, leaning against the banister to keep his balance. It felt impossible, without his legion arm. He half-fell down the stairs, clutching Gemini, who chirped and flashed wildly.

"You saved me," the Black Rabbit said.

P reached the first landing. He gave a single nod.

And then he ran. He fled the house.

It was difficult, without his arm, and he crashed into the walls several times to keep from falling flat on his face. Pain smarted his side as he smashed into them, fighting to keep running. Without his belt, he had to carry Gemini in his remaining hand.

And it was only when he was halfway down the street, he realised he was not being followed. He ducked into an alleyway, pressing himself against the bricks and sliding into the darkness.  He fumbled with Gemini, pressing him against his chest, and dimming his light.

"You didn't have to help him, pal," Gemini murmured.

P didn't reply. He was still catching his breath. It felt as though all of his springs were malfunctioning, as though sparks were dancing over his skin. His face still hurt, though the flow of oil had slowed to a trickle.

"And you didn't have to use me as a weapon, either," Gemini continued.

P tried to smile, at that. He closed his eyes.

"Thank you."

He counted to one hundred. When there was no sign of the Black Rabbit pursuing him, he thought it was safe to head back to the hotel.

He was more thankful than ever to have both feet, and his voice, intact.

*

P knelt in front of the Stargazer, his elbow resting on it, and felt completely drained. He was safe, at the hotel. When he’d burst through the doors, lying again, he’d only gotten as far as the Stargazer. Then he’d sunk down in front of it. The hotel was safe. He was safe, and that made him feel unbelievably tired.

Sophia found him first. She'd seen him in several worse for wear states; damaged or injured from various battles. He didn't think she'd seen him without his arm, though, and that made him feel more vulnerable, this time.

"Oh, my clever one." She sat on the rim of the Stargazer. "Are you alright?"

P made a sound, closing his eyes. He wasn't hurt that badly – he had been hurt much worse. But it had rattled him; that he’d been caught; that the Black Rabbit had gotten the better of him; that he had been trapped. Helpless. The threats still loomed over him. Losing an arm was bad enough; losing his voice would be even worse.

Sophia's fingers brushed through his hair. P half-opened his eyes, looking up at her. Then he realised what this feeling was; a new feeling.

"I've never been scared like that before," he murmured.  Though he only realised how scared he had been, now that he was safe. He was terrified.

Sophia's face softened. She brushed his hair back again. And again. He made another soft sound, understanding how Spring must feel when she was stroked. It eased his whirring gears.

Sophia gently lifted his head into her lap.

"You're very brave," she told him. He took a handful of her skirt, aware that he was probably smearing oil over the white fabric, but he needed to hold onto something. "You've always been very brave. That means you've never had the chance to feel afraid."

He didn't like being afraid. It was the worst thing he’d felt. He closed his eyes, and pressed closer to her, revelling in the feeling of her warm fingers against his hair.

P let his eyes close again, listening to the sounds of his springs relax. His heart stopped racing so fast. The feeling of fear washed away, like waves on the shore.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he heard distant voices. It was Vegnini, he thought, and he sounded worried. Eugenie too. Both calling for him. But he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He wanted to stay here, in this warmth, with Sophia.

He felt a hand shake his shoulder, and didn't respond. Buried his face in his arm more firmly, letting the shouts of alarm wash over him. He was tired.

There was more shouting. Geppetto's voice now, though it sounded like he was underwater.

P felt hands, again; firm hands, shifting him. He was being lifted. Not like a child. He was so heavy that two people were carrying him, one held his legs, the other had a grip around his chest. His head flopped back against someone's chest. When he cracked his eyes open, he could see it was Geppetto. His father. His father had found him.

Where was Sophia?

He turned his head, but couldn’t see her at the Stargazer. He let his eyes fall closed again, his hand searching for Gemini. He managed to brush the top of the lantern, before he felt himself go completely limp.

*

P was lying down. He woke, looking up at the familiar, ornate ceiling of his father’s rooms. He lay on something soft, not sat in the usual chair. A seat that reclined, so he was halfway sat. It felt strange, not to have his feet on the floor; not to have his hands on the arms of a chair. It made him feel like he was adrift at sea.

He turned his head. This was Geppetto's rooms, and Geppetto sat at his desk. Slumped over his desk, his head in his hands. Worried. His father was worried about him. It made his chest feel warm, as warm as when Sophia brushed his hair from his face.

"Hey pal," Gemini chirped. He'd been removed again, and set near his hip on the white sheets. "You okay?"

"I'm alright," though his words were slurred.

Gemini chirped again, and he saw the silhouette inside pressed against the glass.

His words made Geppetto start. For a moment, he looked wild-eyed, before he took in P, lying there.

"My son." He stood, making his way to P immediately. "No, don't sit up. Not yet."

So P lay back. His father brushed his hair back, leaning over to take his face in his hands.

"My precious boy," he said, and P felt another rush of warmth, his springs stirring. He was safe. He put a hand on Geppetto's wrist, and that's when he realised – he had his left arm back. A different legion arm, but that didn’t matter – it was back. "Tell me what happened?"

P did, haltingly. He didn't want to admit it; that he hadn’t been good enough. He left out saving the Black Rabbit, though he wasn’t sure why, just that his father wouldn’t want to hear that part. Would his father have wanted him to kill him, too? As he explained, his father drew his shirt open with gentle, practised hands, and opened his chest plate. He peered inside, reaching for his tools.

"It sounds like quite an ordeal," his father said. He nudged P back to lay down, and he didn’t resist. "Your system suffered a lot of stress. It's why you collapsed downstairs. Your system needed to reconfigure itself."

Perhaps that was true, though it felt to P more that he was exhausted. That was impossible, of course – he couldn't be exhausted. Puppets couldn’t feel tired, surely.

He listened to Geppetto adjusting his mechanisms, and felt his springs relax. Felt them click and reset and the pain dulled away.

"I've always stressed that you need to be careful, and this is why," Geppetto murmured, as he worked. "I'm surprised he managed to ambush you."

"I was too," he said to the ceiling.

He heard his father make a soft sound, that could have been a chuckle. He closed P's chest again, and his palm lingered over his heart.

"There.” His grey eyes were bright, in the electric lights of the hotel. “As good as new."

P was allowed to sit up, then. He put a hand to his face, and felt that it had been cleaned of oil. He did feel better – much better, but less because of the repairs. He felt better because he was at the hotel, and there were people who cared about him. His father took his shoulders, to help steady him. It was overwhelming, then – he took fistfuls of his father's jacket, pulling him closer – pressing his forehead into his shoulder. It wasn't a hug, not really.

Geppetto didn't push him away. He made a sound of surprise, and for a moment, didn’t move. Then, his arms rested on P's back. He held him lightly, as though he was something that would break.

“Never worry me like that again, son.” He felt Geppetto’s voice rumble in his chest.

“I’m sorry.” Surely, it was his fault, wasn’t it? If he had been more alert, he wouldn’t have been taken. He closed his eyes. “I won’t.”

And he meant it. He wouldn’t let it happen again. For his father. And for himself – he never wanted to be that scared again.

"Well, you're safe and sound now," Geppetto said. His glasses flashed, as he smiled. "You're back home, son."

He was safe, with his father. He stayed still – wanted to stay like this for longer – but was gently peeled away. His hair was brushed back from his face and tucked behind his ear.

"So, your legion arm was lost?"

"I will search for it." He wanted to venture back to the house, anyway, to see if his belts or supplies were still there.

He only chanced a glance at Geppetto's face, but his expression was unreadable.

"No," he said, and his voice was soft. "No, I can build a new model for you. It's not important. What's important is that you're here. In one piece."

Geppetto’s hand pressed against his chest again, for a moment. P felt that rush of warmth again; that rush of care. He nodded.

And smiled at his father.

[winterpinetrees]

The Carnival (Gap Years Part 8)

June 17th 2019

Union County, OR

Once again mustering the strength to post oc stuff on the cringe oc site. This doesn’t get easier. The events of this part were inspired (years ago) by a Mark Rober video where he recruits a friend that is also a professional baseball pitcher to help him win carnival games.

…………………

There’s an old cliche about how war is 99% boredom and 1% terror. This isn’t war. This is the survivor of a coup and his three teenage allies driving across the country on a circuitous path going nowhere. It’s still boring though.

When Brian and his friends began driving after their first fight, he’d hardly expected to survive until morning. Now, the sword slash across his chest has healed and they still haven’t seen an elf other than Marin. He knows he should be happy about this, but the anticipation is killing him. Brian has always been good under pressure, and he has a lot of awards to prove it. He’s never been good at the waiting though. At some point, that one percent of terror will come back and they will need to fight for their lives. It could be any moment now. Yesterday, Clay and Sierra went off to investigate a town and only Sierra came back. They spent four hours panicking before finally remembering to call Clay on the same satellite phone that they’d all mocked him for carrying. Without it, he probably never would have come back at all. It’s a horrible reminder of the stakes after a week of nothing. Brian feels like he’s going to explode.

They’re driving through northern Oregon. They could have been all the way across the continent by now if they’d wanted to be. However, with nowhere specific to go, they’ve instead chosen to take a winding path up and down California, stopping literally anywhere that catches their attention (They did eventually make it to Redwoods National Park). Today, Brian is taking all of them to a fair. He’s justified it by saying that crowds are safe, but he really just needs to throw something. Also, Marin is really getting on his nerves. Elves always act superior in the movies, but it’s different to spend a week in a car with a ‘teenager’ who clearly thinks that the three of them are moderately better than dogs. It’s not that this sort of talk is new to him. His father is the California governor and solidly on the liberal side of things, but the Whitakers have been in politics since before the Civil War. They all have opinions about his bisexuality and about Sierra’s first-generation mother and certainly about Clay’s habit of running off to the bad parts of town. He’s really sick of it.

Specifically, Marin keeps talking about how elves are just more evolved than humans. Brian’s a humanities kid, but he knows that isn’t how it works. Evolution doesn’t make better animals over time, it just makes things that survive. Marin may have magic and live for a while, but he isn’t any better than Brian just because his bones are hollow like a bird. That’s the other half of the reason for dragging him to a fair. It’s stupid, but Brian wants to challenge him to games until he beats him at something. Maybe it’s foolish and this graceful magic prince will win everything, but Brian is a varsity baseball player with a stack of wrestling metals and a black belt. He killed a nobleman (noblelf?) with a crowbar. He’s confident that he can pick Marin up and throw him. Unfortunately, that’s not a common carnival game.

Marin also keeps dancing around the idea that humanity would all be better off under elven rule anyway, which is just, not something Brian is willing to discuss.

He puts the car into park and they all step outside. He can tell from the fact that the parking lot is just dead grass that it will all be dissassembled by the end of the summer. Clay kicks his door shut with his foot. His sunburns are pretty bad, and he’s not in any shape to carry the sci-fi rifle he loves so much. It would be too conspicuous anyway. Instead, Brian takes a pistol with emerald detailing from Marin’s bag. He doesn’t have all of the right qualifications to concealed carry in Oregon, but the group agreed that Marin should just brainwash anyone that gets suspicious. Hopefully they won’t need to. Sierra takes her magic measuring device and Marin swings his bigger-on-the-inside messenger bag over one shoulder. They’re just four teens going to a carnival. No one will notice the magic, or the weaponry, or the huge amount of cash that they’re carrying because Clay pointed out that someone (elves or their parents) could track their credit card information. They’re three billionaire’s kids and a prince. Things were never going to be any more normal than this.

………………

“I went to something like this with my mother once. It was in the early 60s. Georgia, maybe?” Marin says casually as they walk towards the ticket stand.

“Really? Your mother? I’m surprised that the Apex had time to kill around us simple humans” Clay replies.

He ignores the insult. “Well, my mother was an exception. She didn’t have enough magic, so they sent her away for a while when she was a kid. She spent a lot of time along the Gulf Coast, in both worlds,” He pauses. ”I think she was happiest here. Here meaning the human world, not here”.

Brian has a thought, tries to ignore it, and then decides to follow it anyway. “Wait, when was your mother young?”

“This was the early 1700s”.

Marin is a prince of the elves. You can tell from his pointed ears and silent footsteps and the way that his eyes shine in the dark. However, from a distance, he looks like any Black teenager. His mother almost certainly had the same features. There’s got to be a story here, but Brian isn’t comfortable asking. They buy tickets and stand in the grass.

“Marin, I challenge you to a duel”.

“What in Lazarus’s name is that supposed to mean,” the elf replies.

“It means that we are going to go around this place and try a bunch of tests of skill until I beat you at something”.

“This is about how I said humans are less evolved, isn’t it?”

Brian smiles. “Also I really need to throw something”.

They shake hands. Marin doesn’t have a very strong handshake, which Brian decides actually makes sense, because strong handshakes are probably not an elf thing.

Clay offers to be the referee. “We already know this, but Marin, all of these are rigged”.

He nods, but doesn’t turn his eyes away from Brian. “Where I come from, the challenger sets the terms of the duel”.

“Wait, you have an actual dueling code?” It isn’t that surprising, to be honest.

“Several. Where should we begin?”.

Brian looks around. Should he start with a game he’s sure to win by physical strength alone? Or is that just playing into elven logic? Maybe he should choose one of those nearly impossible throwing games, but maybe there’s some sort of elf baseball and Marin has played that too. Maybe he’s just not good enough. That’s always how it always goes with his older brothers, and Marin is eighty-six. Brian might be in over his head. They walk to the milk-bottle toss. Brian hands over a ticket in exchange for a baseball and turns back to his opponent. The bottles are metal and bottom weighted, and the staff certainly won’t give an athletic eighteen year old one of the stacks that are rigged in favor of the player.

It won’t matter. Brian’s the starting shortstop on his team. He can throw a ball. He tosses the ball in the air, catches it again, and throws it with perfect form at the stacked bottles. It hits the center of the base and the whole thing collapses. Brian takes a stuffed elephant for the trouble. He’ll give it to some other kid. There’s no room in the car.

Marin looks around at the many-colored decorations of the stand and hands the staff member a ticket. The elf mimics his action, throwing the ball into the air and catching it as well. He throws, and the ball strikes almost the exact same place as Brian’s. The top bottle falls, the other two wobble, and Marin does not win a prize. He shrugs and moves to tie back his locs.

“You are just proving my point. That wasn’t about accuracy. That was a strength game”.

“Brian has one point, Marin has none” Clay winks. “Don’t kill each other”.

……

They keep walking. Both boys beat the basket toss, Marin wins a cute pink wolf at darts, and both of them, against their better judgment, try and fail the stupid little game where you throw the rings over bottles. They play against each other, against little kids, and against the rigged games themselves. After over an hour, the group pauses for a moment by a shooting game and Clay mutters something under his breath before grabbing a bb gun with his burned hands and getting shockingly close to a win.

“Brian, you still have that pistol?” Sierra laughs.

“Very funny. At least I didn’t get knocked over by recoil last week,” Clay replies.

Brian, Clay, and Sierra give all of their prizes to other kids (Well, Sierra keeps one), but Marin keeps slipping his into his messenger bag. He’s won a wolf, a snake, and a fox. Eventually they all come to the two games that aren’t even competitions. With his strength, Brian will win the hammer-swinging strongman game. Marin will win the ladder climb with his perfect balance. There’s nothing to do but play it out.

Brian not only gets a higher score than Marin, but actually beats the strength game. (It’s all about leverage, he’s done this before). He’s going to lose overall though. They’re tied now, and Brian doesn’t have a chance at the ladder climb. He’s not even the most coordinated human of the group. The older man running the game glares at Marin when he approaches. Brian chooses to think that it’s because he can tell that the elf is going to win, instead of something far less palatable. And Marin does! The disguised tightrope that sends Brian flailing to the inflatable floor after three steps hardly shakes when Marin climbs it, and he claims an orangey-brown cat half his size.

Brian shrugs. He’s lost by a point. “I think that’s everything! Good game, man! Or elf? How does that work?”

Marin doesn’t react. The prince of the elves just looks into the cheap plastic eyes of this big cat, unblinking.

“Marin, are you okay? You won! I was being sort of mean earlier”.

The elf looks back at Brian. His bright hazel eyes are very wide. Is he about to cry? He blinks and composes himself. It’s gone.

“Thank you. I needed this”.

Marin does not elaborate on what he needed.

It’s only a few hours later, as Marin leaves a message in an elven language using Sierra’s phone, that Brian realizes the cat has fangs. It’s not just some oversized ginger cat, it's a saber-toothed tiger, a smilodon. Wasn’t that the symbol of Marin’s house? Genus Sondaica, represented by a sabertooth in emerald green?

He brings this up to Clay and Sierra. What were the symbols of the other elven families?

“His betrothed is a fox, I think. That might have been a metaphor though. Smart women are foxes a lot,” Sierra explains.

Clay adds something. “I remember a snake. We had to explain your dumb joke afterwards”.

Brian remembers that too, now that it’s been mentioned again. “Marin chose those animals as prizes. A wolf, a snake, a fox, and a sabertooth. He didn’t give them away”.

“You think they’re gifts for other elves?”

Sierra looks back at him, “I mean, is anyone else even left?

Brian watches Marin out of the corner of his eye, “Coups are never easy. There’s got to be someone”.

“The question is whether we’ll be alive to meet them”.

………

Next time, Ishtar and her High Council start to figure out what in the worlds is going on. I was going to include a scene of the council here, but this is long already.

[nightlilly0110]

I have a question.

So in Persona 5, when the kids each awaken to their Persona, they get their outfit, yeah? But they also get a melee weapon and a gun.

And I know it’s game mechanics - the first answer to why things work the way they do is usually game mechanics - but like. Are those things real? Like yeah the guns are toy guns (at least the ones from Iwai are) and Akechi’s stuff looks to have been definitely bought at a toy store. But like. Joker’s knife that he has when he first awakens his Persona. Ryuji’s crowbar. Makoto’s brass knuckles. Ann’s whip. Are they cognitive and are a part of the costume? Or is it real and like a gift from whatever allows them to awaken their Personas in the first place (I’m not too familiar with the lore for all the games)?

I guess what I’m asking is do these things still exist after the Metaverse disappears? Is Joker still carrying around that knife by the time March rolls around (if you haven’t sold it by then)?