#i just got inspired by the prompt

[hollow-grave-diggs]

This made me think, like, Cranes fear juice is actually really good for ghosts and can be a substitute for ectoplasm in dire times, so when Danny's seriously injured he gets transported to the nearest source of ectoplasm to heal and dropped into a mostly empty warehouse packed with toxin gas and a cackling scarecrow. Danny promptly snatches a shot of toxin and injects himself with a sigh, letting himself knit back together much to cranes shock and the bats horror.

--Word Count -- roughly 1200 words

Panting, Danny staggers another few steps to the open, swirling rift in the center of the base. He knows, somehow, deep inside, that if he can get through the portal he will be safe.

There’s scientists shouting from where they crowd around the door, staying far from him and the toxic green slice in space-time.

His injuries are bad, but he can still move around the incision that traces the length of his torso and the bruises and fractures in his ankles and wrists from his struggles against the restraints. Each step hurts, but he gets a foot in the portal, and then he’s falling through space.

---

When the acid trip of dimensional travel fades, he’s hovering in the rafters of a… warehouse?

He blinks, squinting at the scene playing out below him.

There’s a man in a strange costume cackling like a madman and facing off against a strangely colorful band of people in domino masks. He almost looks like a decrepit scarecrow or something with the way he’s dressed, but the capes aren't any better. There's one man in a black and blue suit holding sticks, a child that couldn't be older than 13 with a sword of all things, and a woman in purple.

There’s a lot of shouting and what has to be an evil monologue from the scarecrow man before the room begins to fill with a green tinted gas. The colorful group of, presumably, heroes all pull on gas masks, but Danny recognizes the gas.

Strangely enough, as it wafts up to him, it smells a lot like ectoplasm. Of course, it’s not as pure as something from the zone, and it has a tangy aftertaste on the back of his tongue, but it feels a lot like a synthetic substitute. It’s good.

He perks up as the ectoplasm floods his system, and he sighs in relief as it acts like a painkiller. It’s not enough to heal him completely, but it dulls the pain in his legs and arms and throat.

The scary man lifts a neon green syringe with another laugh and lunges for one of the heroes. If that syringe is what he thinks it is…

Danny has got to get his hands on that.

A shot of this stuff could go a long way to fixing him up, and with the way he’s dripping viscous green blood from his exposed ribcage, he could really, really use that.

It takes a second of careful breathing and reminding himself he’s had worse to actually start moving. As injured as he is, going intangible is not in the cards. Invisibility is, though, so he just floats down regularly behind the tall madman, who's gone back to monologuing.

His form flickers into visibility again, and he looms over the laughing man. It’s clear the heroes see him, but they don’t do anything, likely out of fear of drawing attention to his sudden appearance behind the villain.

He feels himself being analyzed, likely being determined friend or foe, but doesn't care. He’s only got eyes for the syringe. The villain must trace all the heroes’ gazes to Danny, because he turns around and freezes.

Danny is sure his eyes are glowing with hunger, hair floating around his face like it isn't affected by gravity, and he probably makes for a grisly sight, coated in glowing blood, organs exposed and beating heart pulsing behind his ribs. Still, he takes advantage of the clear fear the scarecrow-like man displays and snatches up the syringe, quickly injecting it into his arm where dozens of needle scars sit.

He nearly melts with the sudden wave of relief that floods his system. The glowing aura around him grows brighter, and Danny looks down to see his skin slowly knitting together, presence growing stronger and more solid.

Still, it wears off too quickly as his body uses it up to heal internal damages. He clears his throat, leans to the side to hack up a chunk of something unpleasant, and tries to speak.

At first, all that comes out is the icy murmur of ghostspeak like the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Everyone winces, and the scarecrow man clamps hands over his ears with a groan. Too close. Danny leans back and tries again.

“So-orry.'' His voice is rough and broken. His throat wasn’t fully healed up yet.

A pause.

“YOu got ANny moRE a’ that StUFF?” His voice comes out like a low hiss, and he tilts his head to the side questioningly, not noticing how some of the colorful capes in the back flinch away at the unnerving motion and crackling sounds his neck makes.

The scarecrow man’s face is obscured, but Danny thinks he must be in shock.

Danny blinks his wide, glowing green eyes again.

Finally, the gears click and whir in the villain’s head and he nods frantically, fishing a case from his pocket and offering it up to Danny.

Danny takes it gratefully and retreats up to the rafters. The ground floor below is still deathly quiet and unmoving, all eyes focused on him. He shifts uncomfortably.

Well now he feels kinda bad…

“You CAan go baCK to FIghtING noww. Doon’t let Me STOp yoU.”

He decides against giving himself a shot and instead lifts the syringe to his mouth, biting down and shattering the glass with his fangs to allow the 'diet ectoplasm' to flow down his throat.

Sure, maybe he ingests some glass shards, but as the ectoplasm heals him, he just turns intangible enough for the glass to pass through. They clink to the ground far below, where he notes that the heroes used the scarecrows' moment of stillness to apprehend the guy.

He doesn't even fight or protest, just lets himself be stiffly led away. If Danny listens extra close, now that his hearing is back and better, he can hear the villain muttering about galaxies and the passage of time.

‘Oh yeah,’

Danny thinks,

‘He did get a full look into my eyes.’

...

The halfa shrugs it off and cracks open another syringe, the thin glass a pleasant texture between his teeth, smiling slightly as his skin forms back fully and his bones snap back into their proper places. He even has the energy to open a small portal to the Ghost Zone to drop off the remaining syringes for later. Very handy!

He hums and turns invisible. Now that he's out of GIW custody, he might as well figure out where he is. This universe is definitely not his, but after his narrow escape, he deserves a vacation.

---

-Meanwhile-

Red Robin stares at the place the figure had disappeared from.

Some kind of Eldritch demon was in Gotham, and it had Scarecrows concentrated toxin. Of all the weeks for Batman to be in space, it had to be this one??

He shakes his head and turns on his heel to follow Dick and Steph back to the Batmobile.

Was this a situation for the JLD?

Another incredulous head shake.

Too many questions, not enough answers. 

# Dcu x Dp 185

Danny lived in a house that had chemicals

Danny has eaten food that had been contaminated with chemicals all his life

So his body is used to it, all of a sudden he is in a new city and has a new family and no longer eating food that is contaminated with chemicals

Danny thought that this was a good thing until he began to have withdrawal symptoms

[ghost-bxrd]

Prompt:

Brucie Wayne gets into a mild accident in public (read-got hit by a car). And Batman would just walk it off (“it’s barely a bruise”), but Brucie obviously… can’t.

So he has to suffer the ordeal of having civilians call paramedics, getting fussed over, and having-

Having his dead son get into the back of the ambulance with him.

Oh- oh no. He must have hit his head worse than he thought. He thought he was past this…

[zazrichor]

a reminder of you (and me)

[starry-bi-sky]

wolfpack. aka: if not friend, then why friend-shaped?

"Hey-- uh, Danny?" There's an almost imperceptible tremor in Tucker's voice.

Danny doesn't look up from what he's doing, his pencil scritching across his notebook as he tries to do another quadratic formula question. "Hm."

"What's -- uh -- what's with the dogs?"

He looks up now, and finally sees where Tucker is -- standing in the doorway of his room with an ashy look on his face and a skewed, nervous smile. He's got a white knuckle grip on the doorknob. Sam is wide-eyed behind him, and using him as a partial meat-shield.

Danny looks down to the two giant ghost wolves sprawled next to him lazily. One large green one with his head in Danny's lap, letting him use him as a prop-up for his notebook. Another equally large black one splayed against his hip, sleeping on her side with her head tilted inward to his calf.

Automatically, a grin tilts across Danny's face, and he lifts his notebook up to scratch behind the green one's ears. He opens a lazy eye, one that is bloody red with a ring of yellow around the pupil, before slipping it shut and leaning his head into Danny's touch. "This is Sirius and Procyon," he says, and reaches down to scratch Sirius' belly. "And they're not dogs, they're wolves."

"Great," Tucker says, his voice suddenly much smaller and faint, "Love that distinction."

Sirius makes a great big groan, and Danny's grin widens, his heart swelling with fondness. His hand slips away from her belly, and before he can put his notebook back down, Procyon pushes his head up his lap until his ear is against his stomach, demanding pets now too.

Sam peeks her head up from over Tucker's shoulder, "I think what Tucker's asking here is what are they doing here, Danny."

He shrugs, scratching under Procyon's chin. "They kinda just showed up. I tried sending them back to the Zone, but they keep returning." And they were weirdly intent on just following him around, which is the only reason he gave up on returning them. They weren't causing trouble, and they knew how to hide around the living. Plus, he just loves dogs. "So now I have two wolves living with me."

This, oddly enough, did not do anything to calm Sam and Tucker down. Tucker's mouth purses into a thin line, and he presses the sides of his palms to his lips in prayer. "How have your parents not found out about this?"

Danny wordlessly raises his hand, and his sleeve slides down to reveal a thin chain bracelet hooked around his wrist. He whistles sharply, and both Procyon and Sirius jerk their heads up to look at him, ears pricked up and eyes alert.

Silently, he points to his wrist and rattles it twice, and in unison both wolves stand up and pounce. Instantly, they turn into a respective, opaque black and green mist that swirls around the bracelet and forms into two, flat wolf charms.

Both wolves are posing in the stereotypical wolf howl, with little stars indented on the sides. Procyon's charm has the Canis Minor constellation engraved on it, while Sirius has the Canis Major.

Danny faces Sam and Tucker, and points at his wrist. "Like this."

[veinsfullofstars]

⭐ Protectors of Popstar ⭐

(ID: Kirby series DTIYS piece based on this post by @das-a-kirby-blog. Thoughts in the tags and more detailed description in Alt Text. END ID.)

Started 11/26/24, finished 12/09/24.

[007reid]

coffee caramels. spencer reid

this is my submission for the cm meet cute (or not) challenge by @imagining-in-the-margins ! i did VERY loose research on the stuff spencer sprouts off on because i am not our boy genius so sorry if there are any inaccuracies ':( this is my first time writing for spencer but i literally love it so much and i'd love to write more so plz flood my inbox with requests for him plzzz 😭

pairing: fem!reader x spencer reid

prompt: character sits next to a stranger in the theater, but the two end up bonding when there's a technical glitch.

warnings: slightly grumpy!reader and sunshine!spencer my fav trope <333 confident reader, reader makes the first move, spencer being a bbg and blushing a lot ;)) all the good stuff

word count: 2.7k

you arrived at the theater ten minutes early, bee-lined to the popcorn section and asked for extra butter. you loaded your oily popcorn up with coffee caramels and chocolate-covered coffee beans and bought a large coke. you walked in the theater, confident and fully armed with enough caffeine to hopefully keep you awake during the entire thing. you have tape in your bag to peel your eyes open just in case things go south, but you're confident enough to believe that it won't.

because it can't.

"aelita," your professor had said on friday, "is a russian phenomenon, and it is one of my top favorite films. considering how you are all in a russian literature class, i can make the safe assumption that you are all interested in russian culture."

now, not only were you in a russian literature class as an elective like two-thirds of your class, you were also a russian literature and poetry major. how you ended with that major baffles you and there hasn't been a day where you wanted to choose another major, but there hasn't been a day where you weren't depressed about your poor decision-making either. it's a battle you fight every day.

"aelita was first screened in 1924, and this year, next week, there will be a worldwide re-screening of the film in its originality, no edits, completely authentic, except with added subtitles for those who need it, of course," this was when your professor got very stern. "i want all of you to go and watch it. if you don't want to, fine, but there will be an assessment grade on this movie. this is not optional. i believe that the content of this movie is very true to our..."

at that point you had stopped listening, because you knew what your professor wanted you to do, and you dreaded doing it.

two hours, silent, black and white, russian film with subtitles. and you have to hang onto the movie's every word.

not your ideal saturday night plans, but for your academic career, you were willing to take that leap; looking like a sore loser at the empty theater with black framed glasses on instead of getting fucked up in someone's bathtub. it's fine. the partying was all up to the business majors anyway.

when you walked into the theater, it was, understandably, vacant, save for a couple men and women with graying hair or bald scalps and bad backs. you were clearly not the target audience. none of them had snacks on them either, and you felt awkward being the one responsible for the strong aroma of butter and coffee that stuffed the place the moment you walked in. a gentleman coughed in his hanker-chief and flared his nostrils. you were intimidated already.

you tracked down your seat and decided to not let any of it distract you. you needed a good grade on this assessment. you had already bombed your previous test on the imperial era; you don't need another bad grade stacked on top of it. you're acing this test, no matter what, and you're going to absorb this movie so well that it might as well be your favorite.

as you waited for the film to start, you munched on several of the coffee caramels, the caffeine slow to kick in. you shrugged it off. there's a whole bucket of sugar to fuel you through the film.

in midst of biting into a shelf of a chocolate-covered-coffee-bean, you heard a light thud and a hiss, and the quiet muttering of "i'm good, ow." an old man by the stairs called out;

"you alright, son?"

"yes sir," the man said. despite being alright, he was limping to his seat, and you watched him attentively, for there wasn't much else for you to observe. he limped closer and closer to you by row, ticket in his hand and checking the letters on the rows. he stopped at your row, and then walked crookedly and settled down in the seat right next to you.

you chewed on your popcorn as you directed your attention somewhere else, your determination slightly deflated. the film was late into starting, but you were still going strong.

"oh wow," you heard the man mumbled next to you, and looked over to see what he was talking about, nosy. but he was looking at you.

"what?" you said indignantly, immediately dropping the oily popcorn in your hand and wiping at your mouth, feeling oddly self-conscious. but mostly irritated. you'd say you hid your whiplash pretty well when you saw how pretty the man was when you looked over at him. you were so smooth with it. "chocolate on my face?"

"what? oh, no," the man breathed out a small laugh. he's got a soft, shy voice that got your insides feeling like broken tomato bits.

"then what?" you demanded, but not too authoritatively because you didn't want to chase him away. you kept it cool and in control. totally. it was hard to find eye candy in quantico, and the last place you would expect to find someone so pretty is in the theater for a fucking silent film.

even though it was dark, you could still catch the bright blush that crept up the man's neck, but it might be because he felt hot under all those layers. seriously, he was dressed like your grandpa, sweater vest, tie, collared shirt and all, but it was tied together in some kind of way that made it work, and it was the way the man carried himself that made him look youthful in all those ancient clothing.

"nothing," he ducked his head away, "i was just talking out loud."

you didn't have to be sherlock holmes to know that he was lying. "you liar," you accused, wiping your hand even more aggressively over your face. "i do have something on my face, don't i? just tell me if i do!"

"you don't have anything on your face!" he said, an indecisive and uncracked smile playing on his lips. you grumbled and turned back to look at the screen, still waiting for the film to start, popping candy in your mouth. in was silent for a merciful while, until the man said, "did you know that dmitri shostakovich conducted the music for this film and during its first showings in leningrad since the film was silent he came personally and played the piano whenever the soundtrack would be playing?"

you hummed. no you did not.

"i was surprised when i saw you, you don't look over sixty at all," the man continued. you didn't know how to take this piece of information as a compliment or an insult. "whenever i come to these things, it's only me who doesn't have grey hair. well, some people dye it, which looks pretty obvious because you can't really hide age, y'know?"

usually you'd be annoyed. very annoyed, in fact, you'd switch seats to be away from the guy. but this one's got a nice voice, and the moment he sat down you caught a scent to him immediately, that old cashmere and cotton scent that comes from old, thrifted clothes that you'll find dug deep somewhere in your grandmother's basement or in vintage stores, and sugar cookies and mint and coffee. it's a good smell, is all. you weren't being creepy about it.

"i'm not over sixty," you assured him. "just scraping twenty-two."

"oh! i'm twenty-two too!" the man said excitedly. he had child's glee to him, which you found more endearing than annoying. you didn't know why. you didn't know why you were still sitting with the man instead of scurrying three rows away like you would have normally the moment any stranger tried to attempt small talk with you.

maybe you were a changed woman.

"how crazy," you mused. you didn't sound half as interested or excited as the man did, but he had most definitely got your undivided attention. you nature tells you to not show it.

"how did you hear about this movie? i tried to get some of my friends to watch it with me, but none of them were too interested...except emily, she's usually more interested because she can speak russian but she got plans this weekend," his face fell into a thoughtful frown at the end, and the clockwork in your brain started to turn at the mention of 'emily.' was that his girlfriend? special lady? you shouldn't be googling, then.

"my professor created an assessment for this movie," at the man's inquiring look, you explained further, "it's for my russian lit class."

his eyes shone like a fucking diamond at that, as if russian lit was the most exciting thing he had ever heard of in his life. you could tell that you were looking at the kind of guy who would decline a party full of seniors to go read a dictionary at home. "is that like an elective you take? 'cause it's a subject that fascinates me a lot, but the demand for it is so slim that--"

he was cut off by the movie finally starting and flickering to life. you turned away immediately, eyes focused and attention zeroed onto the introduction screen. screw the pretty boy for now, you thought, you might as well pack your things and go back to your hometown if you fuck up this movie's assessment. it needed your attention.

black and white and grimy, a pretty font wrote 'aelita, adapted by alexei tolstoy.' but as soon as the film started, the picture quickly collapsed, blurring and then fading into black. with the audience being so small, there wasn't much commotion but whispers of confusion began to arise as the lights began to bleed more yellow, lighting up the theater more. it was as if the movie was over.

"sorry folks," a voice came from the grainy megaphone above all of them. "some trouble with the tape. we are trying our best, but not sure of our luck. all tickets will be refunded if bought online or you bring your ticket to us for a mark so you can present your current ticket right now at the next showing. thanks for your patience."

you looked exaggeratedly around, and the man in the sweater vest next to you looked equally as disappointed.

"my professor is not going to believe me," you muttered under your breath, but the man caught it anyway and chuckled quietly. you looked down at your still full bucket of popcorn and your large coke. you glanced over to the man next to you, not too smart things lottering around in your head. you travel through the subway, and the ride to your street is not until two hours. you weren't going to spend it morosely eating popcorn in the waiting lobby.

"is emily your girlfriend?" you asked suddenly. there was no point in being shy. the man's mouth unhinged from his jaw immediately, and you stared at him. his cheeks quickly stained an innocent pink.

"what?" he squeaked, his voice a higher pitch, caught off-guard. "no! no, she-she's my coworker!" he sounded almost offended.

this took you by surprise. you didn't know people who were close to their coworkers existed. "so you don't have a girlfriend?"

the blush on the man's face kept getting brighter and brighter. you bit your lip to keep from smiling like a fool. with how endeared you were by him, it's strange to think that you don't even know his name yet. it was rare for you to really be so mindful and think such soft things about somebody, especially to a stranger.

you were a changed woman. but maybe it's because of the coffee caramels messing with your head. sugar and caffeine tend to do that.

"no," the man said, then cleared his throat. he was fiddling with his fingers, an obvious stim. "no, i don't have a girlfriend."

"sweet," you grinned, "then no one would mind if i take you on a date, would they?"

he choked and got engulfed in a coughing fit, bending over in his seat. the red of his sweater vest nearly blinded you but you patted his back supportively. when his coughing ceased and he sat back up again, his eyes avoided yours for a while as he fought to keep the redness in his face down before he looked at you again.

"so?" you raised your eyebrow. "the night doesn't wait, pretty boy."

the nickname just slipped out of your mouth, and you cringed at the weight of it. how out of pocket. you were going to go home and contemplate this conversation later. but right now, you were trying to take out probably the sweetest looking boy you've ever seen, and that was a more important matter as of.

"okay," he said, and that was that.

"okay," you repeated. "let's start with finishing this, yeah?" you looked down at your bothersomely big bucket of popcorn. "we can walk to the park and eat it and feed it to the ducks."

"actually, it's not safe for ducks to consume popcorn because it causes digestive issues especially if consumed in large quantities and disrupts their natural diet," the man recited matter-of-factly, blinking at you obliviously as if he just didn't acted like a fucking android. you huffed out a laugh. handsome and smart. pretty much a package deal.

"the popcorn will be just for us then," you promised, standing up. he followed suit, as a lone line of people started to exit the theater. "i hope you aren't a serial killer in disguise," you said jokingly, but not really, because that was a genuine threat. he laughed. it was a sweet, syrupy sound that you could soak up and not get sick of for a long time.

"that's ironic," he mumbled, and it flew past your head, you being too busy maneuvering out of the rows.

"what was that?"

"nothing," he smiled, bright and easy. the initial nervousness was already beginning to melt away. when you were side by side, his hand accidentally brushed yours and when you looked up at him, he was already looking another way, pretending to be distracted by the movie posters but the red in his ears and neck gave it away. you smiled to yourself and grabbed his hand, holding your bucket of popcorn in the other.

"i forgot," you said, suddenly. his head whipped around to face you, but not before lingering his gaze at your intertwined hands. "i didn't get your name."

it was a foolish thing to say, you were holding a man's hand and you were pressed up side-by-side against him and you don't even know his name. he smiled softly, though, like he didn't mind. "i'm spencer reid."

"i'm y/n y/l/n."

"hi y/n," spencer said. you exited the theater and he started slightly swinging your joined hands. you laughed, the popcorn and candy in the bucket rattling and threatening to spill but you didn't care. "i'm a little disappointed," he said, pouting a little bit, bottom lip jutting out. "i was excited for the movie."

you breathed out an incredulous laugh. what a guy.

"i wasn't," you said, honestly. yours and spencer's arms were still swinging, and you resisted the uncharacteristic giggle bubbling at your throat. "rather be doing this instead." unexpected date at the park with a pretty boy in a red sweater vest or a boring silent film? the answer sounded pretty obvious to you.

"hm," spencer hummed, amused. "i guess i can catch the movie some other time."

"you can catch it with me," you blurted, and it sounded too early to say. you haven't had a proper conversation with the guy yet, you didn't know what he does and how he is, you didn't know whether or not he has a cat or a dog or a parrot or a ferret or if his room is kept tidy or messy, and you didn't know how much you were going to like him once the night is over. asking for a second date when the first one hadn't even started felt like too much, but it also felt like the right thing to say.

and if it's right, it's good enough for you.

spencer smiled shyly. when you turned right on the street, he pulled you back by your hand and redirected you left. "let's go the scenic route," he said, casually, and you could tell by the magenta tinge in his cheeks and the way he was firmly looking forward, avoiding your eyes that he wasn't feeling as casual as he sounded.

"want some of my popcorn?" you offered, feeling the large bucket was burdening you.

"oh, no thanks," spencer said. "i'm sure the pigeons will appreciate it more than me."

"does popcorn ruin their digestive system and disrupt their natural diet, too?"

spencer popped a large grin. it sat beautiful on his pretty face. "you listened," he said happily, and it felt like a large airbag had just inflated in your lungs. "no, i think pigeons are too used to picking our food, especially those in the city," a long pause, and "in fact, pigeons have a stronger digestive system than most birds due to adaptation, but the strongest out of all of them are vultures, whose stomach acid are so strong it doesn't get sick e eating rotten and bacteria-infested meats."

you hummed. you wished you had paid closer attention to what he said, but instead you paid attention to the smooth sound of his voice and how nice it sounded. well. you'll get there one day.

[vivisectedboy]

"Aww, stop shaking. It doesn't hurt that much."

Whumpee doesn't say anything. Only a silent, open-mouthed sob, and his eyes looking up in desperation.

"Okay, fine. I guess can give you something for it." He says, as he searches around for a bottle of unlabeled pills. He shakes a few in his palm, then clamps down on Whumpee's mouth. "Come on. Swallow."

[finemealprompt]

DP x DC Prompt #50

When Danny came to Gotham, he hadn't been planning on being a vigilante, he swears! And, technically, he wasn't a vigilante. He was a villain. Sort of. He was Catwoman's sidekick. Her partner in crime, quite literally.

But hey, it hadn't taken a lot of convincing from Catwoman to start stealing things from a bunch of rich dudes. Danny hates rich fruit loops.

[brekitten]

Bruce doesn't dream.

He never has, really - at least, not that he can remember. He never even had nightmares from the night his parents died. Maybe that's why; maybe he just subconsciously trained himself to not dream after that night, in fear of the nightmares that were sure to come. But the point is that he does not dream.

And yet.

The dream always starts out the same, every night, every time he closes his eyes and slips into the embrace of sleep. He's in a pitch-black room, one so dark that he can't see his hands even when he raises them right in front of his face. He knows, somehow, that he can walk for hours without coming into contact with anything - walls, furniture, anything at all to indicate that he was even in a room. Yet he knows that he is, although he's not sure why, as there really is no reason for him to know that.

The dream changes, after a while of walking. He knows that he won't find anything, no matter how far or how long he walks. This place is empty, desolate even. It fills him with dread every time. The change is never consistent, always bringing him to a different place each night.

(Once, it was a dusty old bedroom, one that made his heart ache, although he didn't know why. He had taken notice of the various space-themed decorations, the model rockets and NASA posters and stars on the ceiling. It was clearly a child's bedroom, but it hadn't been used in a long time. Another time, it was a darkened lab, illuminated only by the strange vials of green liquid lined along the many, many shelves. Bruce had wondered, after he had awoken, if it was Lazarus Water, but that felt wrong. It was something else. Something more. It had made him uneasy, and he got the feeling that something terrible had happened there. He didn't get a chance to investigate the gaping hole in the wall before he had been whisked away to another part of the dream.)

This time, he is in a brightly-lit white lab, and he has to blink stars out of his eyes at the abrupt change in lighting and color. He looks around; it seems like a typical lab, but everything is pure white, except for a green stain on the table. He can feel bile rising in his throat at the sight of the cuffs on the table, and though he still doesn't know what the green substance is, he gets the horrible feeling that it's blood. A lot of it.

He uses what little time he has to investigate the lab. There is an abundance of medical supplies, but many look unused, with the exception of the scalpels. The pit in his stomach continues to grow. Why were there so many? He reaches toward a vial of red liquid, wrong wrong wrong this is wrong, when the dream changes again.

Now he's in what is clearly a cell, except even the cells in Arkham aren't this bare. The only thing it contains is a familiar white-haired teenager, who is chained to the floor with cuffs that glow the same green as the vials of Lazarus Water that he's seen before.

Though Bruce has never learned his name, he has been in every dream, the one constant (besides the empty room, of course) in each one. The kid has never spoken, never done more than watch, but Bruce has always gotten the feeling that he was the reason for these strange dreams.

He knows that he should be more worried. If some kind of meta has managed to get inside his head, there's no telling what could happen. But he can't bring himself to be. Something is wrong, and it's not the teenager.

He can't help but think of his own children.

Something feels . . . off this time. The kid isn't looking up, isn't even moving - he seems limp, almost, as he kneels on the ground, weighed down by the chains keeping him there. Green blood - Bruce knows it's blood now, it has to be - drips from his still figure, pooling on the ground underneath him.

Bruce can't move. He desperately wants to, what could he even do? but it's like he's frozen in place. He can only watch as the teenager slowly, agonizingly, looks up at him, his bright green eyes dull and filled with fear and desperation and hope and -

Bruce wakes.

[sysig]

Growing closer than expected (Patreon)

[mionkings]

The Deep Lands 🏕

Amity Park is strange; even without the ghosts' destruction, the ectoplasm is enough to change and make things strange. The residents just as eccentric and weird. But they can be friendly when they want!

However, the national parks near or in Amity Park are terrifying.

People disappear mysteriously to never be seen again without explanation or are found eventually either dead or alive in the most unexpected places ands strange circumstances.

Those that do come back, become different. There is no true explanation.

Amity Parkers or Ghosts take notice that there is just something— ancient and primal deep in the mountains, where stone and trees older than humanity bleed with energy of even the most deepest parts of the Infinite Realms. It is enough to ward ghosts to indulge in their obsessions away from nature and into Amity Park, something familiar.

Has the land changed with them? Or has it always been there, untouched until now?

For when Phantom flies by the large vaste land, he takes caution. Entering in with the respect one would have towards a home, or rather a haunt.

It calls to him.

[ashiristic]

SNIPPET 16:

Warning;: Mentions of blood

The hero and villain challenge each other on who'll last longer in a kiss. Chaos ensues.

It was just a kiss, the hero's final thought before the villain's lips met his. Soft and intoxicating like poisoned red wine. This kiss wasn't filled with passion and hunger but was a fight for dignity and pride.

The hero's eyes remained open, occasionally biting and chewing on the villain's lips, just as his nemesis did. Their hands roamed each other's bodies, searching for something to hold onto in this battle. The hero's fist harshly gripped the villain's hair, pulling it downward, drowning in his nemesis' low grunts.

He always told himself the villain was ethereal beyond recognition. A siren luring him to the sea, making him lose control like a sculptor molding him anew. But he'd never admit it.

They eventually fell onto the mattress, staining the white sheets with congealed blood from their previous battle. Before all of this began, the villain struggled, breathing heavily as his chest lifted up and down. He wished to see the villain's debauched state, but he couldn't lose. Not yet.

It seemed the villain had a different idea. He hissed, feeling the villain's nails dig deeper into his wrist, drawing blood. The hero attempted to pull away, but the villain chased him, biting his reddened lips severely.

"Fuck," the hero muttered under his breath, catching a smirk from the villain.

The villain parted away from the hero, a string of saliva connecting them. He wiped his lips with his white long-sleeves, lolling his head a little on his shoulder. His bangs fell in place to cover his eyes, yet his debauched lips still displayed that irritating smirk.

"Funny," the villain said, taking advantage of the hero's trance state, pushing him away. "Can you even win against me—"

"You're the one who pulled away," the hero suddenly said, huffing a breath, trying to steady his rapid pulse.

The villain paused for a second, blinking his eyes. After a long ponder, he suddenly blushed, a profound crimson color dancing on his cheeks. His grip loosened on the hero's wrist, but an odd smile crept on his face, followed by a chuckle. He was certainly amused. On what? Then, he raised both of his hands in defeat.

"Right, I did," the villain stood up, walking towards the small white lamp in the corner of the room. He grabbed a candy randomly placed on the table, twisting it between his fingers. "And I admit defeat."

Odd. One word to describe it. He knew the villain was a person who would never admit defeat and would try to find a loophole. But today, he didn't do that. The hero wrapped his hand on his wounded lips, trying to wrap his head around the villain's action. Maybe he looked like a monstrous, sexually frustrated guy after he pulled away from him. That must be it (it's not).

"All of a sudden?" the hero leaned against the headboard, running his hand through his sweaty hair. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't confused. So, he asked, "Why?"

The villain halted before the open window. He bathed in silence, turning his head a little to the hero. "Why? What stupid question is that?"

And he continued unbuttoning his shirt with no care regarding the well-being of the person behind him. The sun had already set, but the warm light engraved on the dawn remained, embroidering the villain's skin with gold. Mesmerizing and otherworldly. That is what he is.

"Can't I be curious?"

"You wouldn't like it. You would be embarrassed if I told you," the villain shrugged, shaking his head a little.

The hero rolled his eyes, darting his gaze on the bookshelves, crossing his arms. He sat still for a few minutes, but his impatience lingered as he tapped his fingers against the side of the wooden cabinet beside the bed. And don't add the drowning sense of not knowing what to say to the villain once he finally breaks the silence. He should think of one now, for emergencies.

"It is because I pity you," the villain suddenly said, and smirked, before placing the candy on his tongue, savoring the sweetness. "You are such a bad kisser."

The audacity.

"Ten out of ten. Bravo joke."

"Oh, thank you," he placed his finger on his lips, laughing to himself. It was red with a fine line of deep rose on the middle of his bottom lip.

The hero watched the villain caressing his own lips before he froze and stopped, slapping his cheeks a little. What was wrong with him? And the villain veered towards the hero, fixing the collar of his shirt.

The villain grinned, "I have to go now—"

"We should do this again," he interrupted, blankly staring at the villain as he spoke. "You liked it, didn't you?"

The hero would lie to himself if he said that he didn't love it. Plus he was willing to sacrifice a few of his dignity to admit it. But the villain only smiled, his eyes not revealing anything on what he was thinking. The hero's heart plummeted in his chest, its hope bursting out of his chest cavity as he covered it with a smile.

"If you say so,"

Then he left. And the hero never felt happier.

[new-revenant]

During patrol Nightwing found a handmade doll that resembled his hero persona, this wouldn't be so weird if it weren't for the fact that he finds dolls resembling the other members of the batfam's hero personas scattered in odd spots throughout Gotham and Bludhaven. The weirdest thing happens when one night he finds a doll of someone he doesn't recognize. It's a pale teen with white hair and bright green button eyes wearing what looks like a black and white hazmat suit. Nightwing picks it up and the doll immediately bursts into Lazarus green flames. Nightwing finally decided to tell the fam about the dolls not knowing that Phantom, who was sealed in a sarcophagus by treacherous observents several years prior, was now awake. The problem is that the sarcophagus is in the batcave as a trophy, needless to say everyone was surprised when the lid suddenly blew off and out stepped a teenager. Danny is a mix of anger and confusion because this definitely isn't Amity Park

You know. This is almost the exact plot of another, non-dp-related-AU I’ve seen. It’s @/ovegakart doll AU, it’s an AU of Linked Universe, which is itself a LoZ AU where a bunch of Links have come together across time because reasons I won’t get into. In the second ever LoZ game, Adventure of Link, there are these dolls that are scattered across the map. They give you an extra life. So, in ovegakart’s AU, the Link from the first game and AoL(it the same link)finds dolls of himself and the other Links while in his own time. Then, in a well, he finds a doll of a Link none of them have ever seen before. He picks it up and it bursts into flames. I checked, that’s what happened, here is a link to the page. Oh, and Nightwing not telling his family about the dolls until he gets Danny’s? The same thing happened in this AU, where AoL Link doesn’t tell the other Links about the dolls until he comes across the mysterious Link doll. That mystery Link is the First Hero btw, he’s from the Skyward Sword manga.

I would’ve liked it if you, I dunno, credited the idea? Or at least make it not so obvious by changing the doll into something else? Or make it so that Nightwing only finds a Danny doll? Maybe have it melt into ectoplasm even? I have a couple posts already about how I’m a LU fan on here, and if you’ve seen that before, then did you think I didn’t follow ovegakart, one of the biggest LU/LoZ creators? Listen, I’m not mad at you, I’m just confused at your thought process here. This AU idea wasn’t made for dpxdc, it doesn’t even make much sense for it. Yeah yeah, people can do whatever they want, whatever, but at least credit it my god. Or change it up to suit dpxdc more, or both.

How many other people have just taken AU ideas from others and pawned it off as their own, thinking that no one would find out since they’re from another fandom? It makes me feel gross. Please, just credit the idea. If I just posted this with some writing adding onto this, not knowing about this idea coming from another fandom and another person. I think I might need to close my asks for a bit, I don’t feel great, sorry.

[randomfoggytiger]

Prompt: "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you"

"The Magician at Nine"

Fictober Special

*-*-*-*-*

They were ridiculous, made up in splotchy dollar store paint and feathers. Every other block Scully slid her ruined fingers through the weepy black patches around his eyes; every other block he halted under her ministrations, grinned, and traded their pirate and buccaneer hats back and forth.

"We should have waited for tomorrow," he teased, batting away a feather leaning, catching, itching, under his nose, "our getup would have been half off."

"Mm. But then it wouldn't be Halloween." This was important to her, inexplicably important. She'd abandoned her report, clicked her heels to Mulder's room, and whisked him away to town-- to a small party store she's seen, driving from the morgue. They'd barely scrambled together a costume, let alone two, when the spooks and ghouls and fairies swarmed down the streets in a rush.

Mulder paused, abandoned a half-formed thought. Instead, he watched her sweep a black smudge on his cheek, eye her thumb, and rub the excess away on her palm. "Scully...."

"What, Mulder?" The pirate hat was swallowing her head, was likely tickling her partner in the face with its obnoxious, uncontrollable feather. If only the paint would rub away--

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

She froze, contemplating, as three little pumpkins and their parents floated by with glowing green lanterns. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mulder's skin awash in that sickly illumination, as pale and sweaty as Death. Then it was gone. "How do you see me?"

He shrugged. "I... think you were born to be black and white."

He was not, she knew, referring to her fatal collapse, to Fellig's burning hand and madness. "Like the silver screen?"

"Yeah." It was a flippant dodge. But Mulder changed his mind, again: reaching up, he danced a finger clockwise in his ruined paint job; and, reaching down, he drew this finger across her cheek in a slash. "Like... that."

Scully knew he was speaking to her, writing a labyrinthine answer in his strange, tender artwork. But how to decipher it.... She watched his eyes shift with his mood, watched as second guesses began to replace his former whimsy.

"I always had a soft spot for Maureen O'Hara." Lifting the pirate hat up and off, she nudged at his arm. Trade you.

"Myrna Loye?" Transaction completed, they walked slowly onward. "Rita Hayworth?"

"That wasn't her natural hair color, Mulder."

He raised his eyebrows, smiling in a truly superior way; and she shoved his shoulder, shaking loose a squeaky laugh. Nearly laughing herself, in turn. "Shut up, Mulder."

He did not, in fact, shut up. But he did surprise her: his soiled fingers disappeared into a coat pocket and returned topside, pinching a tiny white handkerchief between them-- which he handed over, comically, like a peace flag.

"For me?" Of course it was for her. "Where'd that come from?"

"Didn't I tell you, Scully?" They both tried to dust each other off, swipes turning into smudged and faded smears as the night darkened around them. "I was actually a magician."

Hm, she thought, busying herself with her work. You are.

*-*-*-*-*

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober24.

[starry-bi-sky]

i need to get this out of my head before i continue clone^2 but danny being the first batkid. Like, standard procedure stuff: his parents and sister die, danny ends up with Vlad Masters. He drags him along to stereotypical galas and stuff; Danny is not having a good time.

He ends up going to one of the Wayne Galas being hosted ever since elusive Bruce Wayne has returned to Gotham. Vlad is crowing about having this opportunity as he's been wanting to sink his claws into the company for a long while now. Danny is too busy grieving to care what he wants.

And like most Galas, once Vlad is done showing him off to the other socialites and the like, he disappears. Off to a dark corner, or to one of the many balconies; doesn't matter. There he runs into said star of the show, Bruce who is still young, has been Batman for at least a year at this point, but still getting used to all these damn people and socializing. He's stepped off to hide for a few minutes before stepping back into the shark tank.

And he runs into a kid with circles under his eyes and a dull gleam in them. Familiar, like looking into a mirror.

Danny tries to excuse himself, he hasn't stopped crying since his parents died and it's been months. He rubs his eyes and stands up, and stumbles over a half-hearted apology to Mister Wayne. Some of Vlad's etiquette lessons kicking in.

Bruce is awkward, but he softens. "That's alright, lad," he says, pulling up some of that Brucie Wayne confidence, "I was just coming out here to get some fresh air."

There's a little pressing; Bruce asks who he's here with, Danny says, voice quiet and grief-stricken, that he's with his godfather Vlad Masters. Bruce asks him if he knows where he is, and Danny tells him he does. Bruce offers to leave, Danny tells him to do whatever he wants.

It ends with Bruce staying, standing off to the side with Danny in silence. Neither of them say a word, and Danny eventually leaves first in that same silence.

Bruce looks into Vlad Masters after everything is over, his interest piqued. He finds news about him taking in Danny Fenton: he looks into Danny Fenton. He finds news articles about his parents' deaths, their occupations, everything he can get his hands on.

At the next gala, he sees Danny again. And he looks the same as ever: quiet like a ghost, just as pale, and full of grief. Bruce sits in silence with him again for nearly ten minutes before he strikes a conversation.

"Do you like to do anything?"

Nothing. Just silence.

Bruce isn't quite sure what to do: comfort is not his forte, and Danny doesn't know him. He's smart enough to know that. So he starts talking about other things; anything he can think of that Brucie Wayne might say, that also wasn't inappropriate for a kid to hear.

Danny says nothing the entire time, and is again the first to leave.

Bruce watches from a distance as he intercts with Vlad Masters; how Vlad Masters interacts with him. He doesn't like what he sees: Vlad Masters keeps a hand on Danny's shoulder like one would hold onto the collar of a dog. He parades him around like a trophy he won.

And there are moments, when someone gets too close or when someone tries to shake Danny's hand, of deep possessiveness that flints over Vlad Masters' eyes. Like a dragon guarding a horde.

He plays the act of doting godfather well: but Bruce knows a liar when he sees one. Like recognizes like.

Danny is dull-eyed and blank faced the entire time; he looks miserable.

So Bruce tries to host more parties; if only so that he can talk to Danny alone. Vlad seems all too happy to attend, toting Danny along like a ribbon, and on the dot every hour, Danny slips away to somewhere to hide. Bruce appears twenty minutes later.

"I was looking into your godfather's company," he says one night, trying to think of more things to say. Some nights all they do is sit in silence. "Some of my shareholders were thinking of partnering up--"

"Don't."

He stops. Danny hardly says a word to him, he doesn't even look at him -- he's sitting on the ground, his head in his knees. Like he's trying to hide from the world. But he's looking, blue eyes piercing up at Bruce.

Bruce tilts his head, practiced puppy-like. "Pardon?"

"Don't." Danny says, strongly. "Don't make any deals with Vlad."

It's the most words Danny's spoken to him, and there's a look in his eyes like a candle finding its spark. Something hard. Bruce presses further, "And why is that?"

The spark flutters, and flushes out. Danny blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and slumps back into himself. "Just don't."

Bruce stares at him, thoughtful, before looking away. "Alright. I won't."

And they fall back into silence.

Danny, when he leaves, turns to look at Bruce, "I mean it." He says; soft like he's telling a secret, "Don't make any deals with him. Don't be alone with him. Don't work with him."

He's scampered away before Bruce can question him further.

(He never planned on working with Vlad Masters and his company; he's done his research. He's seen the misfortune. But nothing ever leads back to him. There's no evidence of anything. But Danny knows something.)

At their next meeting, Danny starts the conversation. It's new, and it's welcomed. He says, cutting through their five minute quiet, that he likes stars. And he doesn't like that he can't see them in Gotham.

Bruce hums in interest, and Danny continues talking. It's as if floodgates had been opened, and as Bruce takes a sip of his wine, it tastes like victory.

("Tucker told me once--") ("Tucker?") ("Oh-- uh, one of my best friends. He's a tech geek. We haven't talked in a while.")

(Danny shut down in his grief -- his friends are worried, but can't reach him. When he goes back to the manor with Vlad, he fishes out his phone and sends them a message.)

(They are ecstatic to hear from him.)

It all culminates until one day, when Danny is leaving to go back inside, that Bruce speaks up. "You know," He says, leaning against the railing. "The manor has many rooms; plenty of space for a guest."

The implication there, hidden between the lines. And Danny is smart, he looks at Bruce with a sharp glean in his eyes, and he nods. "Good to know."

The next time they see each other, Danny has something in his hands. "Can you hold onto something for me?" He asks.

When Bruce agrees, Danny places a pearl into his palm. or, at least, it's something that looks like a pearl. Because it's cold to the touch; sinking into Bruce's white silk gloves with ease and shimmering like an opal. It moves a little as it settles into his hand, and the moves like its full of liquid.

Bruce has never seen anything like it before, but he does know this; it's not human. "What is it?" He asks, and Danny looks uncomfortable.

"I can't tell you that." He says, shifting on his foot like he's scared of someone seeing it. "But please be careful with it. Treat it like it's extremely fragile."

When Bruce gets home, he puts it in an empty ring box and hides the box in the cave. He tries researching into what it is. he can't find anything concrete.

Everything comes to a head one day when Danny appears at the manor's doorstep one evening, soaking wet in the rain, and bleeding from the side.

[lanternlightss]

Yaaay writing requests ^^. Do you think we could get the old mondstadt gang (everyone lives) reacting to venti after ascending do godhood? 👀. I think it'd be interesting >.<

As beings of Anemo, there is little reason for wind wisps to partake in the act of breathing. Why would they, those made of that same air as the one whirling around them, need to? This remains true for Venti, even after they had taken a form alike to Cecil’s own.

If. If only Venti did not take a liking to breathing, pretending—for a moment—that they have lungs to use, the subtle up and down of their chest, at first a conscious choice that you could see being made, moving towards one they do without thought. Something human. Something mortal. It makes them happy, to be able to mimic such abilities, such mundanity.

This is, to say, that he is impressed they have learned how to do it whilst they sleep (their wings twitching intermittently); as he feels the occasional soft breaths (he counts—a full minute of complete stillness, followed by a shuttering, jagged exhale, repeat) being blown across the hand that they rest beside, having used his left arm and waist as a pillow during the night.

He does not mind, not at all. Had sat up to place his right hand atop their head once he was not blinking sleep from his eyes, playing with the strands.

Briefly, he entertains the thought of humming them a lullaby, or perhaps, a tune to celebrate this moment, that they are all here, together, still. He dismisses it the moment he begins to toss the idea around, knowing that those same people included in that “they are all here, together, still” in the room with him (Amos, in her own makeshift bed beside him—Cecil “borrowed” the one he is using, truth be told, he should be in the room one down—with Valentina besides her sat in a chair, and Felix standing at the entrance) would kick a fit if he even dared to strain his voice further (orders from the healers.) How elated he had been when they told him he could still talk, simply had to be quiet, low.

“…how asleep, are they?”

Aha, speaking of his dear companions.

Cecil inclines his head towards Felix, though his eyes never stray from Venti. “I do not believe they will be waking up, for a long while.” (Thank the winds for that, they deserve it—he had heard that whilst he and Amos’ injuries were being attended to, the rest of them had been running themselves particularly ragged dealing with the everything.)

He hears Felix sigh heavily in response, and the shifting of fabric. Shoulders, presumably, fell? He brings his eyes up to scrutinize—the man looks one awful sway away from collapsing.

“Good, that means we can have this discussion in peace.”

That … particular phrasing does not inspire a good feeling. He forces himself not to show outward unease at the words, instead, curling the hand in Venti’s hair to touch at their forehead, and lightly gripping what he can of the sheets with the other.

“Are you sure we should be having any discussion? Both you and Valentina should get rest, too—you look a dead man walking, Felix.”

And—there, Felix’s relaxed shoulders seem to tense, his jaw clamping and working in a gritted motion subtly. Cecil is waved off, both in tone and by the fluttering of his hand, “I will rest easier after this.”

He chances a glance over, to where Valentina has scooted to the very edge of her seat, clutching at her knees in a white-knuckled grip, with furrowed brows. Amos, meanwhile, is propped against pillows, slightly slouching, her bangs and unbraided strands casting a shadow over her eyes, as she burns her gaze into Felix.

The first to speak of them is Valentina, leaning forwards: “Which discussion have we not already taken care of?”

Felix does not look away from Venti, but a grimace overtakes his face, angling his head in a way to hide himself behind both his hair and the large fur of his cape. He seems rather… uncomfortable, now—his crossed arms pulling further into his chest, one hand flexing. It continues to stay this way, even when gesturing to where Cecil’s wisp cuddles against him, and speaking the words, “What do we do about them?”

Her eyes harden, back straightening in an instant. “What is it that you mean.”

(Cecil is quick, to check on Amos. Her bangs have now completely covered her eyes, and he cannot truly gauge a reaction. He worries the sheets between his fingers.)

That discomfort shines, in the floundering of Felix’s limbs—his arms flinging outwards, his hand waving about as he grasps for words. “The whole point of this was that we did not want a God to rule over us, the way they had! And then, whatever it is of that…. those heavens, has decided we were wrong in that thinking, that they sent us another God to deal with, not a moment’s peace from the previous? Are we to never escape from the divine?”

Valentina stands, her mouth twisted into a tight-lipped frown, both her fists raised to her sides and clenching. She is stopped from going farther by Amos raising an arm in front of her.

A brief spark of irritation whisks throughout Cecil’s chest, and he wishes Felix had chosen a better moment to do this—Amos, as well, is not supposed to talk above a quiet voice, or for long periods of time. “I fear we would have encountered divinity whether we wanted to or not—tell me, why is it that many had told us of a frozen land, yet when the storm vanished, the snow was fading?” Her arm shakes imperceptibly, “Had it not been for … what decision it was, that transpired before we succeeded, we would have come to face the God responsible for declaring the war.”

(That is, to say nothing of their neighboring nation and Boreas’ wolves….)

She turns, and, he notes, that for the first time since Venti’s presence had made itself known (when they had near silently glided into the room, the door creaking shut just so, with Anemo slowly dissipating from their form, and playfully tousled Cecil’s bangs in a light breeze) Amos looks directly at the God, who has huddled closer—they seem to be trying to lay themselves over all of him—whilst the conversation had gone on.

Her eyes seem to soften, staring a few seconds longer, then dropping her attention to the end of the bed. She turns away, her arm falling to her lap, hands lacing together and nails gently clinking against each other.

“Perhaps we should count ourselves fortunate, that of all beings to ascend, it was the Elf.”

Felix scowls and presses his back against the wall, the sound of his cape sliding across it echoing, nearly drowning out the even quieter grumblings of his, “Fortunate is not the word I would use.”

How terrible for him, that for as far as he is from Cecil, his words still ring clear—words that cause that spark of irritation to flare into a burst of small flames, flames that have to be forcefully smothered out. Over the little time that the bard has not been able to walk the grassy lands, has he forgotten? Nothing, not a single noise, escapes from those who always listen, who keep their ears pinned to the striking chords of the winds.

His eyes narrow, bordering on a glare. And this is not quite shaping to be a “discussion”; would it be a proper one, they would actually be going somewhere, and not talking in practically circles.

“Why unfortunate?” Felix’s head snaps to him, and Cecil (pushes the flames) risks skimming his hand to where Venti’s right ear is, holding his palm there (a useless gesture, really, yet he does it anyhow). “You would not start anything if there was no value to be had of it—so, please, what is it you wish to truly say?”

The man opens his mouth, pauses. Cecil continues to stare, lowering his chin, his brows drawing together, upward, and the edges of his mouth threatening to fall.

Boots scuff against the floor, when Felix titters side to side, considering. A breath rushes out of him, harsh. Then, as if it were a leaf fallen onto still waters and sending ripples across the surface, he utters: “If they turn against us—what are we to do?”

Try as he might not to (flames slipping between the gaps of his fingers), Cecil lurches forward, and halts himself rather awkwardly halfway through it hearing Venti make an indescribable noise. He looks to them, seeing them curl inward, their brows knitted, wings dazedly moving to shield their body. A wince pulls at him, as he adjusts back to where he was (almost to, he should say—positioning himself to hide them from Felix’s view, his torso bent over them), and the hand covering their ear runs to their hair, massaging; they start to relax from it, wings spreading, and nestling their face into his waist.

(A splendid sight, yet… a bitter feeling forms, coating his mouth.)

Scratching at where two strands—resembling the ones they had as a wisp—sprout, he presses, a hiss to it, “Turn against us..?”

He holds his hands in the air, by his chest. “I know. I know, I have seen them.”

If the emotion of “incredulous” could be humanized, Cecil would be the perfect role, right then. Has he? Has he??

Admittedly, for most of the time he has been awake, he can count on one hand and two extra fingers how much he was fully lucid during it. When the pain constricting in his chest was not clouding his vision, when there was no fog laid over his mind, his surroundings dizzy, his limbs feeling inexplicably heavy. Shoving this all aside, however—during those lucid moments, and finding Venti waiting for him, their entire demeanor brightening at their locking of eyes; he noticed how terror and apprehension threaded through their being.

He does not think they have a capacity to harm—not for those they love, not for those they have a branch of trust to—by the fact that they cannot bring themself to hold his wrist in a firm grip without panicking of potentially “breaking him.”

(Or that they, wind now trapped in a bottle, a shell for them to be tied to, try next to everything to compact themselves to the size they once were. From curling into a ball on the wooden chair, from using their wings to hide themself away, from bowing and crumbling in the cradle of his palms.

How they are bigger and powerful, certainly, yet the world around them still remains so much more than they are.)

Felix slumps. “It would only be as a precaution. We should be prepared—”

There is a clanging of armor, signaling Valentina’s steps inching towards Felix. When she speaks, her voice is stern, tinged slightly by bafflement.

“No, you are aware, just as I, to what they are capable of! They are listening to the people, and doing what they can for them!” Her hand clenches, metal shuddering. “And even… they have been this way, they stopped at nothing to keep my clan safe, out in the frozen barrens. We should have seen a sign by now if they were to change, the winds are simple creatures. There is no reason for this precaution!”

“Are we to lay all our trust in what was? Their knowledge is more! They are not such a simple creature! They know intimately the hopes and dreams of mere humans—what that does. They have become privy to how far mortality can go, to how much a human can take before their life is snuffed from them, and now they have the ability to do something about it.”

He sweeps a hand, jerkily, to the two in bed, during the last words.

Cecil bristles. Their injuries are not to be used for matters like this. No one should have expected that death would not be nipping at their heels during the revolt, that they would not have to grab on to the world of living and dig. A retort readies on his lips, lips pulled back, only to—still.

(Oh. There is no air being blown across.

Oh.)

Valentina side-steps to the other side of Amos’ bed, hackles fully raised, a righteous glare upon her face. “You truly know nothing of the wind, then, if you believe they would willingly go back to those restraining—!”

“Enough.”

They both startle. Cape, whipping. Armor, clanking.

“Enough,” Amos repeats, the words sounding as though they were scraped from her throat. “The both of you… shall we have someone watch over, when you are outside here? You have swung knives.”

In unison, their shoulders hunch. She draws a soft breath, half-watching Valentina stride over to grab the canteen of water from the side table, offering it to her—while Felix seems to attempt to meld into his cape. She takes it into a tight grip, the tips of her fingers trembling, but does not bring it to her lips. Opting to swish the water inside, instead.

“A godhood is delicate,” taps at the canteen, the sound reverberating, “Especially one at … at the very beginning, of their divinity. A sign of change would not be in mortal lifetimes—it drips, one by one, slow.”

She turns to face them, once more. Trailing from where Venti’s wings flutter, the sleeves of their robe half splayed over the bed, to where Cecil is furled around them, a few pieces of hair strands falling over his eyes as he bows further at her stare. Eyes meet, hers, tinged in an old pain and weighted by exhaustion; his, bordering on guarded, cracked with pleading.

Underlying all of that is an understanding.

(You can never quite understand a God’s thinking, will only get to see the glimpses of what layers that sit just underneath the surface, a scratch of it, but love—

A God’s love, their eyes and arms locked around you, is something all encompassing.)

“We should continue to offer them the kindness they gave us.” Another tap, another tink. “Whatever path they follow down, whatever they choose to do, hundreds or thousands of years after this—at the least, they will remember having us by their side. Should they give an inkling, now, however—”

“All these what-ifs,” Cecil murmurs bitterly, withholding a sneer. “Could we, say, let them take their own steps first? They hardly have a proper footing!”

The puff of air that escapes her is almost amused. Her gaze drifts downwards, where the water of the canteen sloshes as it is tipped to her mouth. She sets it gently into her lap, after, a chorus of clinking coming from the repetitive thumping of her fingers.

“Of course.” She hands the canteen to Valentina, and the trembling of her limbs seems to have worsened. The blunt ends of her nails press into the palm of her hands, briefly, and she goes to pull the bed’s cover up to her chest, hiding her arms by tucking it over her fists. Then, “I have not seen you receive any medical care, these past days. Have you been shirking?”

Venti’s wings puff, a minute flinch going throughout their body. He pets at their hair, twirling it between the gaps of fingers—he had been checked on the day before his wisp had visited, and watched as they checked Amos’ health, too, quietly asking if the soreness had lessened, after the healer left, and her reply of rolling her shoulders and commenting that it does not feel like she is being crushed.

“Hee, I was hoping you would not catch that…” He nuzzles into their head. Backs a bit away, nary an inch or so, and brings his hand to their jaw, stroking his thumb along their cheeks. Venti tenses, brows scrunching. He continues, mock whispering, “Psst, Miss Amos revealed one of my secrets, can you believe…? Quite mean of her, hmpf! You would be my knight and defend my honor, would you not, Venti? My dearest?”

There is a pause, where he can see them debate with whether they should “awaken” or not. He waits, humming lowly—and is rewarded when two glittering green-blue teal jewels blink up at him.

“Knight..?”

“Yes! I shall gather you a shield, so that we can deflect her peddling—”

“My deepest apologies for not wishing your wounds to infect.”

Cecil leans to stick his tongue at her (she wrinkles her nose in jest), feeling more than seeing Venti sit taller, their hands moving to grasp at his wrist. A perturbed expression greets him when he turns back to them, searching him for anything critical. His heart squeezes, flips, squeezes.

He reaches out to brush his hand against a braid, tracing the poof part that is held together by a band. Hopes that the twinkling in his stare is enough to convey Do not worry, a “go along.” The ruffled feathers of their wings start to smooth out, fluttering about, as they squint at him—message received. “How many missed?”

“Only one session, I promise. My bandages… may need replacing, a little,” ducks his head, bonking against their forehead, and offers up a gentle, crooked smile. “Walk me back?”

They graze their own hand over his, holding it loosely. Nods, and lets go, standing from the chair, using their foot to push it away farther. Cecil shakes off his arm as he yanks the cover down to the end of the bed, throwing his legs over the side, the soles of his feet hitting the floor. Venti holds their hand out for him to take, pulling him up (though, he notes, they keep their fingers intertwined tightly with his.)

“You will be going?” Felix questions, uncrossing his arms.

“Mmm. I believe Amos has had enough of my shenanigans.” He waves his hand, stepping in front of Venti, having them still out of Felix’s view.

“… if you need any he—”

“Fret not, I have the most wonderful guiding wind!” He leans into Venti, as subtly he can, beaming. They are besides the man, now, and he tugs them closer to the doorway. “We should be on our way now, might be able to catch a healer along our journey.”

He waves to Amos and Valentina, receiving waves back (though, on Valentina’s part, seem slightly reluctant to see the both of them go.) They both skirt around the doorway and down the hall, where Cecil exhales, his shoulders sagging.

If they wish to still discuss such a topic, fine, if that is what will bring them ease in this environment. Everyone is on edge and wary, equally they are relieved and excited. He has seen how some shuffle around the new God, confused how to interact with the wisp. But if they wish to do it while the person they discuss is there, unaware, they are welcome to be his guest to explain to Venti why that topic involved which of the best ways to stab them in the back was—especially when there are more important issues that should be focused on! That warrior, in particular….

Urgh.

He squeezes Venti’s hand, placing his head upon their shoulder.

“My darling knight, I love you no matter what.”

…they squeeze his hand, ears flicking, and wings puffing once more.