#my duke of gloom :(

[lelio]

So Louis takes up photography and he gives a plethora of reasons as to why he's chosen it as a hobby. But then he's on a date with Armand and he's seeing Lestat there. And so he takes the camera and looks through the lens, just to make sure that Lestat isn't there. Because his mind can betray him but the photos do not, and the photos confirm that there's no one. And that Lestat is just in his head.

So when Louis says 'I walk the night capturing disappointment and regret', he's also in a way talking about himself. Because every time he takes a photo and Lestat isn't there, he's filled with disappointment and regret. He's grieving Lestat and he misses him. He sees him everywhere and it's not real. It's never real even if he wants him to be. And back in the present day he's still grieving Lestat. That's decades worth of grief.

Lestat says that he has a capacity for enduring. But I think that applies to Louis too. All that pain and loss and grief and trauma, and Louis still carries it all. And I think this makes Louis one of the strongest vampire out there because anybody weak would've crumbled from the weight of it all.

[pixiatn]

The idea of Battison having the batkids is so fucking funny to me, just this absolute emo with the energy of a sad wet cat having 10+ rowdy, sassy children? hilarious, show stopping, incredible

[rollerskate2theface]

None of the batkids give a flying fuck about being Bruce’s favorite. They all want to be Dick’s favorite.

Jason: Obviously I’m the favorite he’s known me the longest I’m his little Jaybird

Tim: Does it really count if most of that time was him hating you for replacing him or you were dead?

Tim: Meanwhile he hasn’t even tried to kill me once haH

Damian: Todd and I really set the bar low for you didn’t we?

Damian: Not that it matters anyway, Grayson prefers my company 10 times more than the likes of you, I’m his baby brother tt

Cass: Likes me most

Stephanie: After you wiped the floor with him 2 weeks straight at training, no man’s ego is strong enough to survive that and not hold a grudge, even Dick’s

Cass: >:(

Stephanie: It just makes sense that I’m the favorite having to live with someone bumps them down considerably, less exposure makes the heart grow fonder

Duke: Then that can’t be right because you never seem to leave. I’m the only one not raining down doom and gloom constantly, he must find that refreshing meaning I’M the favorite

——————————————————————————

Dick: What? Oh, Barbara’s my favorite

[ew-selfish-art]

My brain is unwilling to let go of Twin AU prompts. Sorry for the long post lmao.

Jazz and Jason are getting pretty serious in their relationship, and honestly, they’ve both been hesitant to introduce their family members to one another despite constantly talking about them. They’ve been dating since she started her doctoral studies at Gotham U and she’s about to defend her dissertation, so it really is about time. He saved her in her first week as the Red Hood and he immediately felt at home with her (something, something liminal), she runs into him the next day at a coffee shop and thanks him for taking the time to help her. 

Identities are obviously blown. Jason knows that her brother works in ‘politics’ and her younger sister is a travel blogger, and that the three of them don’t talk to her mad scientist parents anymore. Jazz knows that he came back from the dead, his adoptive family had a slew of issues in addition to their hero-complexes and that he would be prepared to kill for any one of his siblings. Their communication skills are top notch. 

But then came the issue of actually meeting the family. Like Jazz knows all of the drama between the siblings but could not pick them out of a line up, or more importantly, know who to talk to if an emergency situation came up. Jason agrees, that yeah, it would probably be for the best if he could at least identify her little brother and sister if they had to like, meet at hospital or something. 

So that was the plan. Invite just siblings over to their shared apartment, no parents and no fuss. (She even called Danny ahead of time to tell him not to portal straight into the apartment, he needed to walk in the door like a normal person. They could share Ghost King secrets later.) 

Tim arrives first, he’d been working a case nearby and Jazz & Jason live pretty close to a nice coffeeshop, so he stopped along the way. He’d done some creeping to figure out that she drinks Chai so he brought one for her. Creepy and yet, endearing. 

Ellie comes in second from the window, launching into a story about how annoying it was to find the place with all the gloom, didn’t this city have any respect for the dead? Tim doesn’t get it but Jason is laughing along so Tim files it away for later. 

Dick comes in with a shit ton of Pizza he panic ordered, a fruit bouquet and two bottles of wine from Bruce’s cellar. Duke came along with him, a large tupperware of Alfred’s cookies. 

Then Steph, Babs and Cass show up, immediately treating Jazz like family while also being hella suspicious about the whole thing. She notices them looking at her hands and Jazz explains that no, they weren’t doing this because Jason proposed. Steph and Cass are annoyed at Jason but tell Jazz she could do better if she wanted. Babs is happy they aren’t rushing into anything (she’s the only one besides Tim that knows how long they’ve been dating- this is just to throw out a red herring for the others)

Everyone is getting along and having a great time, Ellie being a natural entertainer along side Dick, everyone trying to tell embarrassing stories about Jason. Loud noises are coming from the hallway when they realize that neither Damian nor Danny had arrived. 

Rushing out the door, the boys are alternating putting each other into choke holds and arguing about not being clones. Danny keeps phasing out of Damian’s grip and Damian keeps pulling out more knives. The hallway looks like it had been blown up and the two are continuing to yell at one another about going to a family dinner. Jason and Jazz just stare at them from the doorway, and wouldn’t you know it, they look like fucking twins. 

Jazz grabs Danny, Jason grabs Damian, and everyone is fucking confused. Both sides of the family can confirm growing up with the twins, that neither are a clone. Ellie helpfully supplies that she’s the clone and that opens a whole other bag of chaos. 

Eventually they get everyone to sit down for dinner and the night gets weirder from there. 

[ikoarts]

Book #25 - Story 2: Bulldog

"The tunnel was curved and pitch-dark, Falcon felt stifled, he wanted to get out.

Presently, the light grew, two ribbons of track appeared ahead in the gloom."

-

I'm proud to finally share my entry for the Railway Series Collab 2024, from Duke the Lost Engine! It was so much fun to participate, please remember to check out the video when it premieres later today, as well as everyone else's entries!!

[cloudninetonine]

Hey so as you guys know I've been playing Tears

So I finally decided to write something for it!

WARNING TO EVERYONE, MAJOR TEARS OF THE KINGDOMS SPOILERS DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED!!!

“I need to reach my friend!”

The world that was once Wild’s Hyrule had changed- drastically. Not anymore did the guardians lay dormant, nor did the Sheikah towers stand tall- the Divine Beasts had been laid to rest and while the lands stayed the same, the skies seemed to become home to more than the native Islander hawk.

Changed for better or for worse, you didn’t quite know. The growling patches of gloom circling chasms to a world beneath the surface wasn’t really all that fun to you- nor were the claws of concentrated evil that crept up from nowhere to try and snatch you without a second thought. But to see how Hyrule seemed to prosper with more life. The settlement by the castle was bigger now, a fort that stood proud to the floating pinnacle that was Hyrule castle and with more warriors seasoned to fight for the place that was their home.

Purah was amazed to see you again and you didn’t know how to feel about being smaller than her now.

Felt wrong in the more comedic sense.

All across the land you had come to find new people, make new friends! Tulin had grown so much! As had Riju! Sidon’s finacée, Yona her name, was a beautiful and cute manta ray! (Never in your life had you been jealous about both partners of a relationship that badly) Paya was now chief! Yunobo had a beard! And you had met the most amazing Rito reporter named Penn! A man who had named your new best friend in these trying times.

And trying times they were- you had no idea how you were keeping up with Wild. A little older now, an inch or two taller with a stronger build and more of an mature edge to him- well, that’s what you thought when you first woke up here in Lookout Landing, a teary eyed Wild looking down at you before he near crushed you underneath his weight, Flora just as teared and happily embracing you once you were finally stood.

You had no idea what happened, not how you got here nor where the rest of the Chain were- but you were glad you at least had the Champion by your side.

Sometimes.

This time was one of those times you were ready to toss him.

“If you connect that fucking rocket to that baby’s backpack I will shove a bomb flower down your throat.” Rauru’s hand was glowing with power, frozen along with the Zonai rocket it was lifting as you stood just a few paces away. “I mean it, Link, if you send them flying we’re duking it out.”

You looked so intimidating with the Glide suit, you just knew it. (Oh internal dialogue, how sarcastic you could be)

The korok shook, little sniffles catching your ears as they gazed at the device just inches away from being glued to the material of their rucksack before sighing in relief as the rocket was dropped with a heavy thud just beside them, Wild turning with an ‘oh-so-innocent’ smile. 

“They need to reach their friend-” He pointed a thumb behind him, “A few hills over- I was just helping.”

You frowned “I don’t know what happened while you were away but you’ve become more sadistic.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never do.” Both sharing a look, you shook your head. “Hand them over to me, I’ll get them to their buddy.”

Wild’s hand fell to his hip, watching you waddle over excitedly as he side stepped, your hands out in a grabby motion as the small forest child threw their little stubby hands up with an excited “Guide!” that made your heart soar as you hauled them into the air with a similar excited “Forest baby!”

“You know we still need to get to Rito village- it’ll get dark by the time we arrive if we do this.”

“Don’t care, forest babies come first.”

He smirked, “Koroks are older than you.”

“Your mum.”

“Very mature.”

“Who are you, Twilight?” A pang went through your heart. “Ah, no, sorry that was rude-”

Wild’s face had curled in a more comedic way when you turned to look at him, sour and betrayed in the way the skin folded. “Am I really turning into him?”

Pausing, you looked him up and down- “I mean…you kinda do remind me of him right now.”

Wild raised a brow; you grinned. “You remember when Wolfie fell into that bush?”

When you burst into laughter he rolled his eyes, letting out a “hardy-har” while the korok still wiggled happily in the confines of your arms, it’s bag now over your shoulder to relieve some of the weight. (You focused on the spirit and missed the way the Champion desperately pawed at the sticks in his flowing hair)

“I’m not going with you this time- we’ve already lost a lot of hours.” Crossing his arms, the blonde continued. “If you go I’ll head towards the village.”

You shurgged. “Alright, I’ll see you there.”

The Champion narrowed his eyes. “I’m serious, (Name).”

“I’m sure you are.”

“...I don’t like your tone.”

Clearing your throat, you raised it an octave. “I’m sure you are!”

Wild did not laugh when you did.

If there was one thing you knew about the Champion it was that he was attached to your side. Stuck stronger than the fuse of the Zonai magic, the blonde followed you around like a Hylian retriever followed those that held food towards them. If you strayed too far, he would get you, if you paused mid journey, he paused, there was so many occasion that something had caught your eye mid ride on one of the many vehicles he had created and the man would slow down to let you go study it- lest you hop off, something you had almost done once when he refused to stop.

You really did appreciate all he did, you knew he had a lot on his mind, but with all that was happening didn’t you both deserve to have some moments not caught up the drama of the end of the fucking world???

“I’ll see you in a little bit!” Daylight was falling and it would be harder to find the campfire smoke in the night. “Keep the bed in the inn warm for me, pretty boy!”

And thus began your hike. Your little companion happily chattering your ear off as you walked away from the hero, hearing his heavy sigh and impatient foot tapping loose volume the further and further you got.

You had made it past the first hill, Wild’s form out of your sight as you glanced back when the sound out wheels caught your attention. The korok let out a noise of confusion at the strange noise but you merely spared a giggle, standing aside as the beam cycle (minus the beam) slowed to a stop beside you- your hero refusing to look your way as he waited.

“Get on.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask me on a date first?”

He grunted and you gave him the grace to leave him be, being careful balancing the korok in your grasp as you hopped onto the odd bike and wrapped an arm around the man’s waist, another still holding the forest spirit tight. 

“You ready?”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

You missed the small smile that grew on his face, the Zonai devices lighting up with its phantom green glow as the hero started the machine back up and headed towards the direction of the smoke. Without a second thought, you gently kissed his nape, unable to reach his cheek and nuzzled into his back with a relaxed hum.

Wild straightened proudly.

“You still have sticks in your hair.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

[sky-kiss]

Okay hear me out. This isn't exactly a request unless...👀

But the Raphael x Tav dynamic where he is the only one who can poke fun or give them a hard time is eating my brain.

Like "I can call them a vapid little fool, but if anyone else does the exact same thing it's hellfire and brimstone for them. For a hundred years."

He'd call it affection if it was in his vocabulary.

A/n: This is short, but I’ve been doing a lot of Carrot!Raph and not a lot of Stick!Raph. Some gore and torture ahead. XD Also I don't think this is what you wanted RIP.

__________

“All this caterwauling! You should really feel blessed, little lamb! I rarely sully my hands these days.” Raphael folded his hands at the small of his back. Isolated from the scene around him, the devil would have appeared perfectly genteel: his doublet remained pressed, hair immaculate. Only the eyes were different, violently bright in the prison’s omnipresent gloom. 

Souls and prisoners howled around them, some in agony, some in a desperate attempt to catch the Master’s attention. He didn’t hear; only his guest mattered. 

The cambion stopped, lingering just outside their field of vision. They’d finally stopped screaming, lapsing into hiccuping sobs, slumped in on themselves. Not his finest work, he’d be the first to admit, but the rage had come upon him too abruptly for a more cerebral punishment. He reached out, fisting his hand in the sweaty mass of their hair, and tugged their head back. Terror flooded their eyes; their mouth tried to curl back in horror but failed to manage it. His claws left the cheek a ruin of tissue. He tapped a nail against the wound. They knew better than to twitch away. 

“Remind me��why I’m entertaining you, little one.” 

It took three attempts before they could finally choke the word out: “Duchess.” 

“Ah, yes. How forgetful! You will have to forgive the indiscretion.” Raphael stepped closer. He’d made quite a mess, honestly. Bones jutted from strange, haphazard angles; he’d removed a few in a fit of pique. He didn’t believe they were essential, but it was always so difficult to tell with mortals. He yanked, and the little thing screamed their anguish. “And what was it you said? Be specific; your life depends on it.” 

“W…whore. Whore queen. Raph…” they winced. The mouth couldn't form the words, an ever-increasing disconnect between the body and brain as blood loss took its toll. “Your cunt.” 

“An inelegant summation.” He wiped his hand on the thing’s shoulders, glancing across the chamber. “Care to vouch for them, duchess?” 

His pet chuckled. What a sight! His finest treasure, her gown set with gems, gold chains hanging about her horns. He had created art with her. “It is they say, my duke.” 

“And that bodes well for you, little one.” Raphael knelt beside them, stroking hair back from their face. They turned their face into the motion, an awful pantomime of intimacy. “Though…perhaps not as well as you might have hoped. I guard my treasures so zealously, and she is first among them. You understand, don’t you?” 

They nodded, miserable. 

“But I am not without mercy. Should you apologize to her…we could start fresh. Would you like that, little one?” He pitched his voice lower, speaking as if in conspiracy. Two friends, ready to make peace. They released a shuddering breath and nodded. Raphael held out his arm to his duchess. She came to him with vibrant eyes and a smile, a pretty reflection of all he’d accomplished. His conquest, his might, his pretty love. “Begin, wretch.” 

“Beg…beg forgiveness, dutchess. Please…gods, please, forgive us…” 

His duchess hummed. “You are forgiven, wretch.” And to Raphael, “My love, must you play with your food? Are you nearly finished?” 

“Very nearly, little mouse. First,” he withdrew a vial from his doublet, a draught of restorative waters. He held it to his guest's lips. Like magic, flesh mended itself! Wounds shrunk and disappeared! In a matter of moments, they were whole once more.

“Merciful King, kind lord,” they sobbed, crawling towards him. The wretch painted the toe of his boot with kisses. “Never again. Not a word against you or the lady will pass my lips.” 

“No. I imagine not.” He nudged their ribs with his boots. “Alas, our fresh start will have to wait. My duchess requires me.” The imps crawled forward, hungry and eager. “I leave you in my staff’s ever-capable hands.” 

[the-golden-comet]

😈 Villain Crimes Tag 😈

Thank you for tagging me for this game, @mysticstarlightduck ! ✨

Rules: List all the real-world crimes your villains are guilty of committing!

A loooooot of my villains in my books are VERY spoiler-y, but I will give a taste of one from Peter Hart:

Baron Alastair of Port Mayor 🇬🇧

But wait Goldie, I hear you asking: isn’t he a part of parliament? What crimes is he committing so closely in the Royal Courts? Oh boy, let me tell you:

1. Treason to the crown. He goes behind Duke Matthias’s back to work with all sorts of pirates and criminals.

2. Forgery of an official in higher status. Lots of documents that never made it to his boss’s desk. Hmmm 🤔

3. Murder. Lots of murder. Oh my gods so much murder. Pirates and naval officers are not safe from his crack shot rifle aim.

4. Theft. Steals and rotates documents around like passing a blunt at a party.

5. Impersonation of higher officials in parliament.

6. Illegal trade. This was VERY common in the courts, and one of the incentives for parliament to work with pirates.

7. Misappropriation of Government Funds for his own personal gain.

In other words, man is a politician 😂✨

Gently tagging (no pressure): @drchenquill , @wyked-ao3 , @gioiaalbanoart , @tragedycoded , @saturnine-saturneight , @marlowethelibrarian , @tildeathiwillwrite , @mauannacreates , @alinacapellabooks , @tragedycoded , @sableglass , @words-after-midnight , @coffeexafterxmidnight , @autism-purgatory , @jev-urisk , @kaylinalexanderbooks , @theink-stainedfolk , @honeybewrites , @oliolioxenfreewrites , @nczaversnick , @somethingclevermahogony , @houseplantblank , @willtheweaver , @aintgonnatakethis , @theaistired , @noxxytocin , @astramachina , @paeliae-occasionally , @yourpenpaldee , @authorcoledipalo , @48lexr , @thecomfywriter , @rivenantiqnerd , @eccaiia , @rhikasa , @worlds-tallest-fairy , @ominous-feychild , @smellyrottentrees , @lavender-gloom , @leahnardo-da-veggie , @illarian-rambling , @corinneglass , @fantasy-things-and-such , @finickyfelix , @deanwax , +open tag ✨

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

🌈 Queer Books Coming Out in March 2024 🌈

🌈 Good afternoon, my bookish bats! Struggling to keep up with all the amazing queer books coming out this month? Here are a FEW of the stunning, diverse queer books you can add to your TBR before the year is over. Remember to #readqueerallyear! Happy reading!

[ Release dates may have changed. ]

❤️ Shift: A Memoir of Identity and Other Illusions - Penny Guisinger 🧡 Tempting Olivia - Clare Ashton 💛 Monilinia - Free Mints 💚 Guillaume - Aurora Dimitre 💙 The Marble Queen - Anna Kopp & Gabrielle Kari 💜 The Baker & the Bard - Fern Haught ❤️ Rainbow! - Sunny & Gloom 🧡 The Safe Zone - Amy Marsden 💛 The Weavers of Alamaxa - Hadeer Elsbai 💙 The No-Girlfriend Rule - Christen Randall 💜 A Different Kind of Brave by Lee Wind 🌈 Cirque du Slay - Rob Osler ❤️ Wizard’s Debt - Niranjan 🧡 One Last Breath - Ginny Myers Sain 💛 Nothing Special - Katie Cook 💚 I Feel Awful, Thanks - Lara Pickle 💙 The Tower - Flora Carr 💜 Be the Sea - Clara Ward ❤️ What Grows in the Dark - Jaq Evans 🧡 Heirs of Bone and Sea - Kay Adams 💛 The Haunting of Velkwood - Gwendolyn Kiste 💙 Thunder Song - Sasha taqwšəblu LaPointe 💜 Mona of the Manor - Armistead Maupin 🌈 Like Happiness - Ursula Villarreal-Moura

❤️ Ellipses - Vanessa Lawrence 🧡 Saint, Sorrow, Sinner - Freydís Moon 💛 Blood & Brujas - Mikayla D. Hornedo 💚 Infinity Kings - Adam Silvera 💙 Really Cute People - Markus Harwood-Jones 💜 How You Were Born - Kate Cayley ❤️ These Bodies Between Us - Sarah Van Name 🧡 Icarus - K. Ancrum 💛 The Emperor and the Endless Palace - Justinian Huang 💙 How Not to Date an Angel - Lana Kole 💜 Enemy Colours - R.M. Olson 🌈 Broken Parts Included - Alyson Root

❤️ Who's Afraid of Gender? - Judith Butler 🧡 The Duke’s Cowboy - Andrew Grey 💛 The Secret Something - Emily Wright 💚 Colstead & Andie - Olivia Janae 💙 Play It Again, Ma’am - Sienna Waters 💜 Love Is…? - K.J. Wrights ❤️ Welcome to Forever - Nathan Tavares 🧡 Just Another Epic Love Poem - Parisa Akhbari 💛 The Phoenix Bride - Natasha Siegel 💙 These Letters End in Tears - Musih Tedji Xaviere 💜 Truly Home - J.J. Hale 🌈 Monster Mixer - Robin Jo Margaret

❤️ The House of Hidden Meanings - RuPaul 🧡 Promised to the Queen - Barbara Winkes 💛 A Conclave of Crimson - Nicole Eigener & Beverley Lee 💚 A Hunt of Blood and Iron - Cara Nox 💙 The Fealty of Monsters - Ladz 💜 Ariel Crashes a Train - Olivia A. Cole ❤️ Those Beyond the Wall - Micaiah Johnson 🧡 Dancing Toward Stardust - Julia Underwood 💛 Heir to Dreams & Darkness - Ben Alderson 💙 Comet Cruise - Niska Morrow 💜 Dead Girls Walking - Sami Ellis 🌈 Blackout - Carlos E. Rivera

❤️ Monster Crush - Erin Ellie Franey 🧡 Blessed Water - Margot Douaihy 💛 These Fragile Graces, This Fugitive Heart - Izzy Wasserstein 💚 Kiss of Seduction - Rawnie Sabor 💙 Sunbringer - Hannah Kaner 💜 Evacuation to Love - C.A. Popovich ❤️ Sin - Brooke Matthews 🧡 Falls from Grace - Ruby Landers 💛 Lean in to Love - Catherine Lane 💙 A Small Apocalypse - Laura Chow Reeve 💜 Cascade Failure - L.M. Sagas 🌈 The Mars House - Natasha Pulley

❤️ All This Time - Sage Donnell 🧡 The Romance Lovers Book Club - MA Binfield 💛 View from the Top - Morgan Adams 💚 Number Call - Nagisa Furuya 💙 Crossing Bridges - Chelsey Lynford 💜 The Boyfriend Subscription - Steven Salvatore ❤️ Love the World or Get Killed Trying - Alvina Chamberland 🧡 Synthetic Sea - Franklyn S. Newton 💛 The Prince & His Stolen Groom - J.E. Ridge 💙 Chrysalis and Requiem - Quinton Li 💜 Where Sleeping Girls Lie - Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé 🌈 A Botanical Daughter - Noah Medlock

❤️ Wednesday Nights - by Donna Jay 🧡 The Woods All Black - Lee Mandelo 💛 Song of the Huntress - Lucy Holland 💚 Rainbow Black - Maggie Thrash 💙 Spirits & Sunflowers - A.D. Armistead & Austin Daniel 💜 Floating Hotel - Grace Curtis ❤️ Far From Camelot - Rylee Hale 🧡 This Way to Change - Jezz Chung 💛 Mexican Bird - Luis Lopez-Maldonado 💙 Android Affection: Unveiling - Beau Van Dalen 💜 Welcome to the Damned - Astraea Long 🌈 She Came for Blood - Darva Green

❤️ Cover Story - Rachel Lacey 🧡 The Poisons We Drink - Bethany Baptiste 💛 The Perfect Guy Doesn't Exist - Sophie Gonzales 💚 In Walked Trouble - Dana Hawkins 💙 Never Leave, Never Lie - Thea Verdone 💜 Guardian: Zhen Hun - Priest ❤️ All the World Beside - Garrard Conley 🧡 Rainbows, Unicorns, and Triangles - Jessica Kingsley Publishers 💛 The Feast Makers - H.A. Clarke 💙 Synthetic Sea - Franklyn S. Newton 💜 All the Painted Stars - Emma Denny 🌈 A Hard Sell - Jennifer Moffatt

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter nine

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.5k

It would not be an overstatement to remark upon the folly of those who regard you with such narrow-minded scrutiny. Despite your accomplishments, diligence, and endurance through it all, the people have diminished you from a capable and esteemed Head of Civil Affairs to nothing more than the Chief Justice's attendant wife.

However, you find it not in your duty to rebuke those claims, or rather, think not to bother addressing them outright. The attitude you bring to your office and those beneath you isn’t anything out of the ordinary, per se, but one with a discerning eye can notice the unusual edge and snappiness to your character. 

And the one with the said discerning eye happens to be your husband. 

Multiple questions from him arose over the course of a week before his schedule took him up in its clutches again, and obviously you were one to deny such accusatory things. Oh, how glad you were when you found his office vacant most of the time. No one to pester you, and no one to pester the pesterer. 

But obviously such luxuries come with some demon to tip out the work-life balance. The invite to a ball as a plus one has you lurching for air, and another report on the impending prophecy gnaws at you like a teething hyena.

Today just so happens to be another banal day of doom and gloom. Ruthless court hearings meant Fontaine would see rainfall, and for this particular week it meant every consecutive day — which also meant a certain Champion Duelist is slipping through every nook and cranny for a playdate. 

“If it isn’t my favourite new bride,” she muses, leaning against the doorframe. You notice the difference in the way she quips the last few words, and you subconsciously associate the likeness of tone to that of the Duke; weird — you never considered their closeness up until this point.

You sip on your cup of chamomile tea. “So what you’re saying is that there was a point where I was not your favourite bride.”

“Maybe it’s because you weren’t married, idiot,” she starts, closing the door behind her and making herself home to your small, albeit homely office. “One day you’re all over never finding a husband, and the next day I see an invite on my doorstep that you’re getting married to the one man you hate!”

You wish to strain the lie for a little longer, test how much more you can baffle her straight through your teeth. “Well, Clorinde, fate has many a surprise for those who least expect it. Take the newlyweds that run the new bakery down the street — rumour has it that they hated each other before making out in the store room; oh, the poor manager… So, it really is a trap anyone can just about fall in.”

Her lips twitch as if a lightbulb had switched on near her temple, a subtle trip, but telling of the inevitable. You show indifference. “A trap, you say? So who exactly arranged it? Pray tell, was it Monsieur Neuvillette, Lady Furina, or god forbid, you yourself?”

“...What?’

She chuckles, taking a seat across from you.  “If there’s one person you’re not going to fool, it’s me. You forget I was on the other end of your endless ramblings about him — so why have you exactly gotten married to the very man you so detest?”

Ah, Clorinde, you reply with a soft smile, setting down your teacup. Always one for blunt truths and cutting humour.

Clorinde leans stiffly against the back of her chair, expression hardening. I’m serious.

I appreciate your concern, truly, you reply, a hint of amusement in your voice. But marriage hasn't dulled my wit or ambitions, if that's what worries you.

The Champion Duelist crosses her arms and you catch a familiar shade of crimson dotting her sleeve. “I never doubted your wit, only questioned the timing of it all. You're a force to be reckoned with, and now you have a husband? It all doesn’t line up.”

“Consider it the responsibility of my duty — Lady Furina thought me ‘worthy’,” —you say this while quoting it with your fingers— “of this, and so there she went, thrusting me into another job I did not want to do.”

Given the slight furrowing of her brows, you surmise she is more intrigued than she’d like to come off as. “Oh? And what do you mean, ‘worthy’?”

“Worthy of being a pawn in her stupid games,” you groan, finding interest in the shape of your nails, a roll of your eyes prompted by the repulsive thought of the woman that started it all. “I won’t have you guess any further. Your guess is correct, unfortunately.”

Now she’s truly given herself away; despite the stoicness of her poise, the way she grips the table to bring herself closer to hear you better speaks volumes. “Oh really? My guess was a shot in the dark. Never expected myself to be right.”

“If you did in fact miss your guess, you, my dear Clorinde, would be out of a job.” you three of your fingers inward  to mimic the shape of a firearm.

Arms crossed, she flashes a grin. “I’ll just bail my way out through my boss.”

“I don’t think he’s as merciful as you think.”

“To me, probably. But you’re another story.”

You scoff, your head canting to the side. “You think I’m the exception? Yeah, right.”

“Are you blind? Everyone in the workplace has been either praising or critiquing his bias,” She helps herself with the kettle of tea, slightly leaving her chair to reach for the handle. “But that’s the fun of it all. Keeps things interesting.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back in your chair. “Interesting is one way to put it. I prefer ‘degrading’.”

“Semantics,” she shrugs, a smirk playing on her lips. “Either way, what Lady Furina intended for your arrangement is playing out just as she planned.”

Time will tell, you muse, taking another sip of tea. But for now, let's talk about the blood on your sleeve, shall we?”

She reaches for her elbow, pulling the cloth toward her to take a closer look. “Oh — this? The usual, really. Criminals.”

“I see you’ve made short work of them.”

“As I usually do, miss ma'am.”

You try for another sip of your tea only to find that your lips come away empty; though with inexplicable reason you feel it as though you have, indeed, taken a generous gulp of it. With your eyes trained on Clorinde, you reach for another tea packet from the pouch.

“Speaking of which, that old man should be making his way over to the Palais in a moment. Saw him leave the Epiclese when I did.”

“Let’s not talk about him.”

Her eyes dart to every part of the room almost erratically, losing track of its target. “Great then, we shall move on to the next topic of conversation.”

In all your impatient habits you cannot wait for her to finish her sentence. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Archons, woman. You’re always so full of questions, you bursting buffoon,” Clorinde quips with a playful eye roll, noting the embarrassed look on your face. “But I was just going to mention what gift I got you.”

“Ooh, do tell.”

You did expect a gift sometime along this week: a lipstick, a gift she had frequented much in giving you, was nowhere to be found on the table, now replaced with a meticulously crafted blade with a sheen so polished it burned shadows into your irises. In one swift motion, a dagger slides onto the table, her hands prodding them forward. Her eyes study the subtle raise of your brow. “Not what you expected, I'm guessing?”

“Certainly so. But it is very in character for someone like you, Clorinde.” You trace the blunt end of the dagger with your finger, allowing your touch to graze the hilt. Foreign was the feeling of it in your hands,  the weight of it a limbo between light and heavy. It had been an undeniably long time since you were in possession of a tangible weapon, your reliability on both martial prowess and vision a dwindling skill since your role of being the Head of Civil affairs. “Thank you — but why?”

“I’m assuming you’re asking me what far fetched reasoning I have for it — but I’ll simply state this: you are now the focal point of public attention. And you know what that can stir?

“Envy?”

“Precisely. Or you could just take it as a token of our spar from a few weeks ago. Or to when we used to spar as children,” She delivers it with a sag into her seat, but beneath that facade, you know she really is just concerned.

You open your mouth to speak, but she interrupts you with an abrupt shift from her posture. “And before I forget — I got you more.” She holds a drawstring pouch teasingly in the air, and judging from the familiar clinking of glass, it’s exactly what you think it is.

You reach up for it, forcefully pulling it towards you. Peeking through the bag, you look up at Clorinde through your lashes. “How’d you know I ran out?”

“I'm your supply. Do you think I miscalculate, let alone forget? Come on, chenapan.”

You look away playfully, dodging the jab. “Shut up.”

Rain begins to patter erratically on the window, and both of you tear your focus to it. You swipe the curtain away to look out into the clouds, but you spot a familiar figure standing, hands poised on a railing. His hair is darkened, soaked by the water that drips down to his feet. 

A deep laugh stirs you from your staring. “I take it as my cue to leave. Have fun with your husband.”

You turn around as swiftly as one possibly can, and find her sitting up from her seat. “What? Already?”

“I have places to be. And you seem to have one in mind,” She gestures with her eyes to the man outside, and you roll your own.

“Are you serious right now?”

She flashes you a brief grin with a scrunch to her nose. “What do you think?” Before you can object, she rids herself from your clutches and slips through the door — and when you make your way to peek out from your office, you see nothing but the closing of the entrance.

Shame compels you to shut the door as you lean back, letting your head find solace against the smooth, polished wood. Your gaze, once fixed on the deathly white expanse of the ceiling, drifts instead to a forgotten frame resting on your shelf, its surface gathering a gentle layer of dust.

With no one to distract you from the paperwork on your desk, you find yourself moving of your own volition. If there’s no one to bother…then…

Tea it is.

Picking at the drawstring, you reach blindly for a packet of tea, letting whatever god decide which flavour would be bestowed upon you. You hope it’s chamomile.

It ends up being mint. You make a disinterested scrunch to your nose before lazily studying the print of the brand of tea out of sheer subconscious curiosity. Whatever you’ve just read draws you out of your stupor and suddenly you’re sitting up straight.

This brand is so undeniably familiar. 

And yet, before you can make the connection yourself, the way your heart picks up in pace tells just as much. The main cause of your mother’s murder. A harmless tea packet, seamlessly packaged with powdered death. It had long since been discontinued, but you make a whirl in your seat and hold up the tea packet beside the silhouette of the man standing far from your window and you begin to wonder. 

A pair of bloodied hands drag you by the throat to your home. Your mind forcibly tears itself open by the seams, flooded by the quiet, harmless serenity of dawn — shattered by gasps of your mother with her hands clutched, clawing at her neck. Your father’s calm, almost rehearsed demeanour as he offered her the cup, his eyes glinting with sinister intention; one of you which you were too blind to recognise.

As you clutch the packet, the print of tea blurs against the well that rim your eyes. Maybe it was what your father always had on his person: a gift, a kind gesture, a murder weapon. 

Given the period of Neuvillette’s station, it would be an educated guess to say that your father had met him several times. You can almost see it: your father charming the Chief Justice with that same smile, his lies wrapped in the veneer of regard. For the first time, you feel a flicker of doubt. Could he be unaware? Could he too have been a pawn in your father’s deadly game?

With the curtain of silence drawn between you and Neuvillette since the rise of never ending contretemps, you think maybe you should ease it a little, but not too much — you are inquiring only of his acquiring of such tea.

You stand from your seat, reaching for the parasol that leans against a wooden leg of your desk. It worries you not at how you drag it across the floor, the rubber end of it leaving nothing but a squeak of friction.

Ensuring the door to your office is firmly shut, you begin to pace through the opulent halls of the Palais with an almost childlike curiosity that stirs within you, urging you to uncover what solace he finds in standing amidst the rain. Each step is measured, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the soft patter of raindrops, growing more muffled than the last imprint of your stride. Avoiding Sedene is a calculated move on your part, slipping past her by briskly walking on your toes when her eyes are plastered on something you aren’t able to discern past the counter.

You slip quietly past the back end of the Palais and push through the heavy barricade of the backdoor. A light coolness touches your head in irregular successions, prompting you to look up at the now brighter sky, a marked change from the sombre gloom it had worn when you last observed it from the inside. 

The slide upwards from the metal skeleton of your parasol scrapes against the gentle downpour, and you eye his figure from behind a white pillar. Nothing seems to stir him from his fixed gaze, one that overlooks the expanse of Fontaine, a land belonging, by technicality, to his people.

A wave of hesitation washes over you like a deluge, for perhaps such a matter is best discussed over tea (the irony of it does not escape you, but your preoccupation with trivial details overrides the thought).

Whatever. You loop the drawstring of the pouch of tea in your free hand, twirling it in your fingers as a makeshift fidget toy. The pad of your heels provides a necessary friction against the floor, a main giveaway of your whereabouts, and still he does not stir.

You walk until you are a few metres behind him, amusing yourself with the idea that he has come so far as to ignore your very existence—a foolish notion that has only furthered the distance between you both since the marriage.

He remains unmoved, ever so rigid and uniform in his stance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” you call, your voice carrying a command that transcends the simple utterance of his name — a subliminal message only he can decipher.

He turns slowly, his expression inscrutable as he realises it is you who has come to seek him out.  For a moment, he simply regards you, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Madame,” he finally responds, his tone courteous. “It is you.”

You take a step closer, the parasol offering minimal protection against the persistent drizzle. “Might I inquire about something? I expect you to not think too much of it.” You feel you know him enough to know of his tendency to over inspect on many a detail that come under his radar, so consider this a courtesy for one less burden. 

Neuvillette’s eyes flicker with a hint of something — surprise, perhaps, or maybe curiosity. “Go ahead,” he replies softly.

A scrunch of the small paper packets in the cloth brush against each other as you bring it up to eye level. You reach into it almost as naturally as if you were one of the magician prodigies that made themselves known amongst their covey at the grand festivals of Fontaine, producing seemingly impossible wonders from the very depths of their pockets.

“Does this brand of tea seem familiar to you?”

His head dips from the point of your parasol to the item of interest. Despite his speculated age, the rounding of his eyes seem to take off a few years, easing the wrinkle between his brows. “I am afraid it appears to be just about any tea brand. Is something the matter?”

You take a step closer, the rim of your umbrella shielding but a fraction of Neuvillette’s exposure to the rain. “Monsieur Neuvillette, this specific brand of tea hasn’t been manufactured to the public in five years.” 

Those words, once uttered, solidify your qualms, drawing you back to the very heart of your deepest fears. Yet, a part of you refuses to accept it. It could’ve been any other aristocrat! your mind suggests, desperately grasping for any semblance of hope. But you know such thoughts cannot obscure the harsh reality — and this you know well:

He is alive. And free. 

The man standing before you gazes at you with mounting concern, his eyes reflecting a growing unease. Shadows cast the contours of your face to form a mask of denial, yet you are acutely aware that he does not buy into your falsehood.

“Goodness, is the tea horrible?” he questions, the tremble of his voice a comical degree of concern you cannot help but laugh at. 

Scoffing, you turn your head to the left to avoid his probing eyes. “Why would I give myself the trouble of coming here if that was the problem?” you retort, trying to mask the heat trailing down your cheeks as tears threaten to escape. You blame it on the rain, but you know that isn’t why you are ablaze.

“Tell me what ails you, Madame. I shall fix it,” he implores, his voice filled with genuine worry and a desire to help.

“It is just as I said. The brand of tea. Do you have it delivered to your doorstep? Does it come in bulk?” you ask, questions tumbling out, each more desperate than the last.

He blinks, momentarily taken aback by your line of questioning. Even to your own ears, the inquiries sound strange and out of place — but, they are vital to uncovering the truth, to piecing together something you thought you left behind.

“Well — I had it gifted to me,” Neuvillette begins, his tone measured. “And in turn, I requested more with the intention of always having a suitable gift on hand.”

Your eyes flit to every outline of his features as you try to match the puzzle to the one you find is fraying in your very mind. His eyes betray nothing in your search for a tell, a slip. Everything brings you back to square one. Perhaps your father has already stopped in his schemes — or perhaps (you think with foolish aspiration) his age has taken him. But your father is too resilient and stubborn to die a cretin’s death. 

“Then that is that. I shall take my leave — sorry to bother you, Monsieur.” You wish to continue this investigation elsewhere, for you find that the sombre droplets of water that stain the parts of you that your parasol cannot protect is too gloomy and dismal.

As you bow and turn, you miss your husband’s act of hesitation: to let you go, or to be selfish. He is a man of duty and stature, and to stray from such virtues would be incredibly unbecoming. The topic of scandal rises for a brief moment (he seems to be as forgetting as you in remembering such a tie).

“Stay,” he murmurs, voice barely carried by the wisp of wind.

He himself seems surprised that he had gone so far as to reach for your wrist: an anchor, something to hold on to.

Brows knitting, your mind searching for anything to study — because who knows? A man’s intent can be just as malicious as any other of their kind. “What?”

“I am requesting that you stay,” he says, a little louder, before his voice drops again: “here, with me.”

You tip the handle of your parasol backward in an attempt for a better look — or, for lack of a better word: to appraise.

Your eyes scan him from head to toe. “And what for?”

His grip on your wrist loosens slightly, though he does not let go. “Company,” he confesses, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

The rain continues to fall around you, a gentle, persistent reminder of the world outside this moment. You study his face, noting the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability in his posture.

For a moment, you consider pulling away, retreating back into the safety of distance and formality. But something in his gaze holds you in place, a silent plea that begs for you to yield.

“Alright,” you say softly, lowering your parasol. “I’ll stay.”

His shoulders relax, and a faint smile graces his lips. “Thank you.”

You toe lightly until the tip of your heels meet the stoop of the balcony, which diverts the path of your stride so that you don’t nudge Neuvillette with your parasol (if it does, he makes no comment of it). The two of you stand in silence for what seems like aeons, the only assurance of him still being there being the slight rustle of his robes that have grown to latch onto his skin like lifelines. 

After a while, Neuvillette breaks the silence with a quiet, almost offhand comment. You know, he begins, his voice gentle, I’ve always wondered whether it is because I am rigid.”

“And what of your rigidity?” For this you find no reason to look at him — but you think he senses your sceptical brow nonetheless, the rain dulling almost when you find another, more interesting thing to latch onto: that being his response to your inquiry. 

“It is the very quality,” he replies, his tone reflective, “that compels you to resist, to fight tooth and nail against even the slightest inclination of giving me your attention.”

The shift of your head carries the weight of your astonishment. What a far cry! Oh, this man was certainly in your good graces for being so utterly unheeding. “You think that’s the problem? If you are having trouble, picture this — and I am talking from the perspective of those netizens that so revere you — you, the Chief Justice, stand between the very apple of the Oratrice. Do you not see? You are reduced to a mere byproduct, an instrument of Fontaine's justice. And justice always prevails; partiality, love, does not. Despite your greatest efforts, your own prejudices aren’t accounted for on the scales.”

You hadn’t expected to find yourself on such a tangent, but the words flow irresistibly, and you surrender to them. “Consider it, mon chéri.” The term of endearment carries no warmth; instead, it is a taunt, a beckoning.

“Is that what you think of me? Detached?”

The parasol now rests on your shoulder, supported by the balance of it as both your arms find a more comforting rest on the cemented railing. “Oh, I like that word: detached. You stand out here, overlooking the city just about how you might an audience at the Opera Epiclese and it makes me wonder if you are even able to dream.” 

“I do not come here to daydream.”

A bitter smile pulls at your lips, its sharpness cutting through the soft rain. “Do not play that game with me. Your pastime is quite what you are doing now, and it makes you look like a defeated dog. Has no one inquired of it? Ever? Have you never been questioned about the shadows in your eyes, the perpetual distance in your gaze?”

“The inquiries of others matter little to me. I am simply here to seek solace,” he responds, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of weariness that speaks of long, lonely nights and endless responsibilities.

The cuffs of your sleeves are now soaked from the rain, but you find it a small diversion to focus on while listening to his rebuttal. “Proves my point,” you murmur, brushing away droplets as you speak. “Your solitude is not solace.”

A low laugh sounds from Neuvillette. “You mistake my solitude for avoidance, for I have long carried the weight of my duties alone — and changing this is no easy feat.”

Without a second thought, you grasp the handle of your parasol and extend it to shield him from the rain, sacrificing your own comfort for his. In doing so, you are left drenched, the cool droplets seeping through your garments. It is the first time in many months that you have afforded yourself the opportunity to truly study the smooth contours of his profile. His opalescent eyes, so often inscrutable, now glimmer with a mingling of hope — sending a sudden chill of the rain upon your skin that nearly causes you to shudder, and yet you endure it, thinking perhaps it would not be so terrible to experience what he does.

You offer a small, tentative smile. “No, it isn’t. But it is not impossible, either. You must allow yourself to be human, Neuvillette, with all the imperfections and vulnerabilities that come with it. This arrangement shall fail without your empathy.”

He immediately extends the parasol back toward you, the fleeting warmth an indulgence for only a millisecond before the chill breeze takes you in its clutches again.  “Madame, your clothes —”

“You sought out my company, so this is what you receive. Take it as a token of my gratitude, and nothing more — for I’d like us to be on good terms, given our ranking and status as of late,” you push the item in his hand away, obliging him to latch onto it like a lifeline before it blows into the pattern of the wind.

“And do not forget, we have a ball to attend to,” you add, albeit very plainly.

It is a warp of the way light catches on the fine lines of his face — you tell yourself — when his lips quirk into a fatigued smile. “I do not forget important things.”

a/n: hey... hi... do you guys even remember me ive been in hiding for so long I am so sorry school is horrible finals are horrible ive completed my FINAL official exam today but that doesn't mean I won't have any tests for the rest of the term I have left when I tell u I RUSHED to complete this .

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

[rubydubydoo122]

Jason gets de-aged because I've seen fics of Tim or Dick being de-aged, and Bruce losing his memory, but no one has realized the potential for angst if you de-age Jason.

Zatanna had something come up. So of all people she could have sent to replace her, she sent Constantine. Bruce really didn’t know if his luck could get any worse. At least 15 year old Jason liked his accent. 

Constantine was a really capable sorcerer, he was just really hard to work with. Worse than Hal Jordan. Though, if they wanted to get Jason back to normal, they would have to accept Constantine. 

“Hey, Batman! Go back down into the cave, and send Bruce up. I want him instead of Brood and Gloom.”

Bruce was suddenly brought back to the breakfast table. In all of his 41 years of living, he had never seen Alfred smile this big, “That’s my boy.”

Jason beamed at that.

Bruce’s phone pinged. He didn’t even have to look to know it was Dick sending him a ‘Rule #2’ . That’s all his messages with Dick consisted of. Mostly rule #2’s, some rule #3’s, and the occasional rule #1. All in all, Bruce was doing relatively good. He was definitely avoiding Jason more, but if he was around him too much, the only thought that started to fill his brain was his cooling body in his arms. So he toed the line. And he doesn’t think Jason noticed all that much, because whenever Bruce wasn’t with him, one of his children was.

“Constantine’s coming instead of Zatanna.” Bruce finally said, “I think I should be allowed to brood a little bit.”

“ Don’t get your knickers in a twist , old man.” Jason actually had a really good Liverpool British accent, “Mr. Constantine’s not that bad.”

“I just hate magic.” Bruce didn’t grumble. He was too old to grumble like a toddler.

Jason looked himself over and then put a hand to his chest in fake offense.

Bruce’s phone pinged again, “Dick, will you stop that!” 

But it wasn’t Dick, because Dick was holding a fork and knife in his hands and mid-bite.

Bruce dug out his phone.

“ Is the bloke with the sparkly fingas here? ”

That earned a snicker from Duke, Dick and Tim.

Bruce stood up at the same time Tim said, “I’ll give you five dollars if you say that to his face.”

“Oh! Abso–”

“..Lutely not, Jason. To the cave. Let's go.”

Jason slid out of his chair without noise and followed.

Constantine was already in the cave, and smoking a cigarette. 

“Hi, Mr. Constantine!” Jason practically glided down the stairs, as Bruce strode down at a normal pace.

“Hello there, Jason. I reckon you were a bit taller the last time I saw you. Bruce.”

“Constantine. I’m assuming Zatanna filled you in?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. I’m offended you didn’t call me first. I thought we were mates.”

Bruce just raised an eyebrow. Constantine squirmed a bit, and Jason shot Bruce a grin. A grin that was so reminiscent of the way Jason used to look at him after he cuffed a bad guy. Before Fellipe Garzona had fallen off that roof. Before Gloria Stanson had hung herself.

“Alrighty! Let's check out what kinda curse you’ve got going on. Brucie, would you mind taking a couple steps back, love?��

He did, and as soon as Bruce was out of range, Jason was surrounded in a dome of golden runes. Bruce didn’t miss the way Constantine frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“The little birdie here has a lot of magic knotted all up together.” Constantine started searching through the runes, “Was it you or the Demon child that– Aha, knew it was you. Your soul’s got dimensional ripples.”

Jason frowned, “Heh?”

Bruce blinked, Dimensional ripples? Clark, Lois, and Jonathan had somehow been transported to this dimension before their souls had merged with their counterparts… who had died. Was that what happened with Jason? Maybe he should talk to Barry when all of this is over.

“And you’ve got some leftover Lazaru– Blimey! You have access to the All-Blade?”

Jason shrugged, “I don’t really like beyblades.”

“That’s not what the All-Blade is. It’s–” A set of runes began to glow, and the borderline fangirl look on Constantine’s face immediately dropped. “Jesus...”

“I have access to Jesus?” Jason touched his forehead, then his left shoulder and then his right, “Thank you, father, son, and the holy spirit. Amen.”

Bruce ignored Jason’s prayer, “What’s wrong?”

The dome of runes disappeared, “...I’ve got good news and bad news?”

He gave Constantine a look.

“Um, good news is, the spell looks like it’ll wear off on its own…” Constantine tried for a sheepish smile, but immediately dropped it, “bad news is, it isn’t supposed to? The magic is interacting with the dimensional ripples, and I can’t touch any of it because it’d be like…”

“Disarming a bomb?” Jason supplied. And Bruce had to suppress the urge to flinch at that analogy.

“Yes. Yes exactly, but one wrong move–”

“Boom.” He mimicked an explosion with his hands. ”But you said it’ll wear off on its own, so it’s fine. Right?”

Constantine winced and a ringing was starting to form in Bruce’s ears as he grabbed Constantine by the tie and started dragging him up the stairs.

“Stay here, Jason.”

“Bruce–”

“I said stay !” Jason flinched at his tone, but Bruce and Constantine were already in the study. “Explain.”

Constantine fixed his tie, “Whatever magic he got hit with didn’t just affect him physically, it also affected his soul. I think, if we’re going off of what happened to Clark and Lois, his soul merged together with his soul from an alternate dimension, causing it to be all… rippley. I can’t fully tell what it’s going to do, but in a couple of days, it looks like it’ll in about two or three days? There’s a 50/50 chance– or I guess, a 25/25/50 chance– that he’s going to either go back to normal, stay this way or…”

It was the 25th. two days from today would make it…

The 27th of April.

It suddenly felt like the ground underneath them was turning or tilting, or hell, both.

Bruce had gotten him back. He’d gotten him back, he can’t leave again. He can’t lose him again, he can’t die again.

Jason found it very rude that Bruce and Constantine were obviously leaving him out of the conversation about him. It completely baffles him how Bruce was raised by Alfred, yet had no manners. He wasn’t even subtle about it. 

Constantine said the spell would wear off. So why did he look like he was about to say something was wrong. Like really wrong. Sure, trying to tamper with whatever was going on would be… bad, but they weren’t gonna mess with it. They would just wait for it to wear off.

Would he physically go back to normal, but he would never remember the past five years? Or was he slowly going to become younger and younger until he was just a literal fetus flopping around on a table? 

Why won’t anyone tell him anything? It would be so much easier if they did. 

Jason eyed the Batcomputer and then the stairs. There was no one else here, no one to stop him from learning by himself.

He opened up the batcomputer, and the first thing he noticed was that everything was filed differently. Instead of being alphabetical, the missions were sorted into who had the mission and the date. For some reason, Jason’s folder had the least amount of missions under it, even though the folder itself was older than Duke’s. 

Still, he clicked on it, only to find that the oldest mission was less than a year ago. Not helpful.

Maybe if these were sorted recently, some of the older mission reports that he did with Bruce would be in Bruce’s folder.

Bruce’s most recent mission was called “Fun Sized Jason”. Guess that would be him. Jason clicked on it and… Bruce is a much sadder man than Jason had given him credit for. And Jason was currently upset at Bruce for snapping at him, and Bruce had obviously snapped because he was being broody. This man. Couldn’t even follow his own rules.

Rule #3 Don’t let Jason know something’s up between your relationship with him 

What was ‘up’ between him and Bruce? If anything, Bruce has been a lot more patient with him.

Unless Bruce was acting. And Bruce could act, Jason had seen him at Galas.

No. He couldn’t have been. Bruce had said he’d give him the world. And he said it in the way that made Jason know he was telling nothing but the truth. 

But that first night Bruce wouldn’t even look at him.

No. Bruce had to have been telling the truth.

But the longing and the guilt and regret… Maybe Jason had done something to Bruce, the same way he did something to Tim and Damian. Jason still didn’t know what exactly that was, just that he felt bad about it.

Jason exited out of that mission statement and started scrolling down to April of 2018. And there were a lot of cases. A part of Jason was glad they were re-organised by date because it would’ve taken a lot more work to try to figure out the name of the file, and then find the file.

Ethiopia: Sheila Haywood, the Joker, and Jason Todd – 4/24/2018- 4/27/2018

Bingo. The first date lined up with the last date in his notebook. He double clicked on it, when a locked symbol came up followed by a space for a password.

Great. Just perfect. 

He tried the password Bruce used on most things.

Wrong.

Bruce’s birthday?

Wrong again.

Jason’s Birthday. Since the file seemed to be about him.

Oh yeah! Who has the best guessing skills? Jason does. He did a little victory spin in the chair, but when he went to look back at the computer, there was a Tim shaped wall blocking his view.

He tried to look around him, but Tim shifted to block him again.

“Timmy, Timbooo, my favorite brother-o. You’re blocking my view, Hermano.”

Tim gave him a look that was scarily similar to Bruce’s bat-glare. 

Jason tried to look around him again, but suddenly, he was being tossed over Tim’s shoulder, and they were moving farther and farther from the computer.

“Hey! I was obviously in the middle of something!”

Tim snorted, as he started up the stairs. “I could bring up a spreadsheet of all the times you’ve done this to me. We’d be here for hours.”

Jason licked his finger and twisted so that he could stick it in his ear. Good news was, it made Tim let Jason go. Bad news was, it made Tim let Jason go, and sent Jason tumbling down the cave’s stairs.

“Jason!”

Lucky for Jason, he was a fast recoverer, and made an immediate beeline to the computer. 

After escaping Arkham Asylum, The Joker had made his way to Ethiopia. Jason had come across the information that Sheila Haywood was his birth mother. Haywood had been a doctor who was working at a refugee camp, also located in Ethiopia. Without my knowledge or Alfred’s, Jason traveled to meet up with his mother. 

Jason and I had managed to cross paths in Ethiopia, when we soon learned that Haywood was being held ‘hostage’ by the Joker. I went to go check on some other thing that had come up, and I had told Jason to stay put, but instead he had gone to attempt to save Haywood. Which led to Jason getting hurt by the Joker.

Jason started to scroll down more, the screen went black.

Tim was standing next to the outlet with the power cord in his hand.

Suddenly all the scars on his hand looked interesting, “Is.. Are most of my scars from the Joker?”

Jason heard Tim’s feet shuffle across the flood of the batcave, “I don’t think I’m the person you should be having this conversation with.”

“But it was bad enough to the point where I needed a Lazarus pit to get better. It was bad enough to the point where I had to stop being Robin.” Because why else would Tim start hanging around the manor when he was 13? Why else would Bruce adopt him? “And you were Robin after me?”

A beat, “Yes.”

He thought back to the conversation he had in the bathroom with Tim, “So, I didn’t grow out of being Robin. I was… forced into retirement. By the Joker.”

“That’s… the easy way of putting it.” Tim took one of Jason’s hands, “I want to show you something.”

They both went over to the locker area and Tim opened his locker and pulled out a shoe box from the top. “I guess since you knew I was a little stalker back in the day, there should be no reason for me to feel embarrassed for showing you these.” He moved to the bench and opened the lid. 

Inside the box were a bunch of photos of Batman and Robin. Of Bruce and Jason. Tim handed him a couple. The first one was of Jason when he had just become Robin. He was talking animatedly while walking with a teenage girl. He remembers that night.  Her name was Angela, and she had been followed for a couple of blocks by a bunch of older guys, and Jason couldn’t let her go home alone. Not with how cruel the streets could be. 

The next one was of Jason cradling a baby. The mom had been separated from the baby during an Ivy attack. 

The last one Tim had handed to him was of Batman and Robin in an Alley. They had just taken down a bunch of thugs, and Jason was talking with the two kids, Gavin and Evan, while Batman was farther off, with a fond smile on his face, looking at Jason. 

“Robin is the light to Batman’s darkness. Hope to his fear. Every Robin gave light, but out of all of us, you shined the brightest. You were the people’s Robin, you cared about them so much, like each and every one of them are your brothers and sisters.” Tim pointed at the picture in Jason’s hand, “Your light was so bright, you made Batman smile. And that isn’t the only picture I have like that.” He put his hand on Jason’s elbow, “I could never come close to the Robin you were, but I always tried. You were like the Sun. And I could never take your place. Not really, but I tried my best to do what I thought you would. To make you proud. Even though… you didn’t really like me when you found out.”

“No. I like you. It’s just…” Jason could feel his eyes burn, “If I got hurt, really bad, bad enough to the point where I couldn’t be Robin anymore, why would Bruce let there be another one? When- When it could happen again? Or even worse. ”

Tim closed his eyes, “When the Joker did what he did to you, it sent him down a dark path. He was barely holding back his punches and he was barely dodging them either. Batman needed a Robin and—“

“I wasn’t there.”

“No! Jason, it wasn’t your fault. You were going through some of the worst moments of your life, it wasn’t your job at that time to be Robin, or emotionally babysit Bruce while he fought crime to deal with his trauma.”

“But you were, what? 13 at the time with no legal obligations to him. It shouldn’t have been your job either.”

Tim blinked, “ah, fuck.” He sat criss cross on the bench and turned so he was fully facing Jason, “point is, it was just a bad time. Bruce kicked Dick out of the Manor, The Joker had diplomatic immunity, which still does not make sense to me, but then he was sent back to Arkham. Bane broke Bruce’s back, some psycho took over being Batman and would not let Dick and I in the cave, but then Bruce got better and became Batman again. Superman died, but then he came back. Then Bruce got framed for murder, and then the riddler and clayface teamed up with this whole convoluted plot which involved Clayface showing up as you and trying to kill us and Bruce probably needed therapy, but he was too much of a stubborn ass to ever actually go.” Tim finally took a breath. 

Jason blinked, “That’s a really rough five years.”

Tim groaned and leaned his head on Jason’s shoulder, “That was only two.” 

“Then it was probably a… shittier five years.” Jason patted his head, “Thanks, Tim.”

Tim glanced at Jason, “For what? I literally just trauma dumped on you.”

Jason shrugged, “Yeah, but you also gave me more information about what the hell is going on around here than anyone has in the past two days. Maybe a lot of the things that happened sound horrible, but it’s better than not knowing. Ya know?”

Jason felt Tim nod, “I’m sorry we’ve been keeping it all from you. It’s not something Bruce likes to talk about, and for Dick being the next adult who isn’t emotionally constipated, he evades certain topics like the plague.”

Jason snorted, “Wanna know something I’ve been completely baffled by?”

Tim sat up, “What?”

“Dick isn’t… wallowed up in angst. Him and Bruce haven’t had a single argument, and Dick…he’s a lot different. So is Bruce.” Jason thought about it for a moment, “Am I different too?”

Tim smirked and dug out his phone, “Mentally, Emotionally, or Physically?” Tim angled the phone so Jason could see, and it was a picture of a man, kneeling and talking to a little girl. There was a red helmet on the floor, but the man had a domino that covered his eyes. Tim swiped to the next one, of older Jason helping an old lady across the street. He swiped again to a photo of him holding Damian in a firefighter’s hold. “You might be a lot rougher around the edges, but everyone changes with time, especially with the things you’ve gone through. Yeah, you might be different, but I think you’re still the same in the ways that it counts.”

Jason looked at the photo. Without the domino, or the helmet he could really see how he had grown into his features, “I look a lot like my papi,” He looked back at Tim, and then pointed upwards to where Bruce had gone, “But I think I learned how to help from my dad.”

[rippi-17]

I have a cool saiki k fic idea, where it's a superpower world that has heroes and villains (non employed) that duke it out, but saiki is a phantom thief with pink all over. like phantom thief but fill color tool pink and some green for all his outfit.

Then have teruhashi be a heroine that tries to stop saiki using the power of being god's favourite being (aka plot armor, magical girl transformation, flashbacks give you power, etc).

Also all their identities are kept because they can't think that gloom boy saiki is the villain of japan

Now, take inspiration from I became the villain the hero is obsessed with, add my own writing and voila! peak fiction.

I WOULD write this, but i have 3 other WIPs that i want to write about.

[lutethebodies]

LTB Tav Tuesdays: Olinitza Cuel, the Silent Sentinel

My fourth Tav is one of two rangers, and a fave among faves in both 5e and BG3. Olini is my current tabletop character, stomping all over my brother's unique homebrew game (Magic as deteriorated AI! Perma-storms hiding secret islands! Mad underground bioengineers! Dragons on the moon!) as a half-drow planar-warrior-wielding Horizon Walker ranger who was (unwittingly at first) working for a patron that once helped cause an apocalypse.

Her name is a very loose translation of (as I understand it) "she who moves quickly" from Nahuatl. In 5e she has the Investigator background, and was sent by her superiors in the big city to investigate war crimes (and their cover-up) committed by commanders of the same unit she used to scout for in the wilderness. Discovered, she was run off the frontier as a traitor and, at the game's start, was back in the city taking up the righteous yet thankless task of petitioning bureaucratic authority for justice.

Olini is a natural explorer annoyed by civilization's limits and rules, driven to seek justice on her own terms, and will push any boundary to do so. Her ideals are 1) freedom; she relishes her self-appointed role as the spear-tip protecting innocents from abuses of authority; and 2) people; she respects like-minded friends more than powerful titles. When not seeking righteous retribution against the war criminals who cast her out, she is sentimentally attached to her spyglass and scimitar, mementos of her childhood and long-lost ranger father.

Her flaw is an insufficient patience with nuance or the gray realities of life; she is quick to react and judge if it confirms her priors. This can curdle into selfish denial if unchecked, and earned her the ironic moniker of "silent" after frequent outbursts as she raged against incessantly-postponed audiences with corrupt power brokers. That temper caught her future patron's attention, who promised her help in exchange for temporary silence and other vague "services yet to be named." Eager to clear her name, Olini readily agreed.

In BG3 Olini is translated to a Gloom Stalker with the Soldier background, which in addition to being insanely overpowered, fits a bit better with her backstory and half-drow lineage. An ex-Fist who witnessed first-hand that unit's incompetence in Chult, she was in Baldur's Gate seeking an audience with Ulder Ravengard, but missed him by a few days when the Grand Duke left for Elturel (and his subsequent fate). Put off by Blaze Portyr and ignored by Gortash, she was back in the wilderness seeking Ravengard's party when captured by the Nautiloid.

I've played her for years as a belligerent force of chaotic good, with many sources of inspiration but most recently the character of Evangeline Navarro from True Detective 4. Navarro fits Olini to a T, complete with the "haunted by her dead mother" bit. She fights hard (she nearly killed Absolutist-Minthara on the spot for calling her "half-breed") and loves harder, which got awkward with Karlach (who's unrequitedly down bad for her) and got her into bed with Shadowheart (who did indeed become her romance).

Metagame tidbit 1: I haven't explored their romance yet beyond superficial commonalities (shadow magic, caring for animals, half-elven lineage), but I like the idea of Olini learning subtlety and tact from Shadowheart, and our favorite cleric learning self-assurance by example from someone like Olini, who's so comfortable in her own skin. Metagame tidbit 2: Olini is also the first character for whom I've kept track of long rests; she defeated the goblins and hit Level 5 within 8 in-game days (which has pretty much become my standard for subsequent runs).

Tune in next week for another ranger-ific Tav!

[dukemeropide]

A note is left with the plush - he's a bit too intimidated to hand-deliver this one.

Dear Duke, although this tea is not consumable, I hope it makes a fine addition to your collection nonetheless. I once again thank you for your help and grace during my brief time at the Fortress. I hope we may cross paths under more positive circumstances in the future. - Freminet

Here in the depths of the sea was a world built of brass and iron, of scars and hardship-hardened bodies, of underwater gloom and even darker darkness, kept in motion by cogs both metal and flesh. It was a place of hard edges, guarded eyes, and bone-deep cold, where the stains on the walls outlived those that had left them and the sun was a long-forgotten myth. Greys and browns made its palette, flattened into a sepia gradient by dim, ancient lights. Anything that arrived soft was chiseled into angles sharp enough to cut.

The Head Nurse represented the sole resistance against the Fortress’ merciless wear, and she would try to undo that which had been done to the Duke: stickers on his clothing, colorful drawings pinned to the walls of his office, and sometimes hand-sewn plushes hidden where she knew he’d find them.

He thinks this one is one such prank, and crosses the floor to his desk with amusement chasing the day’s weariness from his face. He lifts the stuffed teapot and turns it this way and that, inspecting the handiwork, thinking to himself that this might be another of Sigewinne’s hints to watch his tea intake. But a note then slips out from under it and glides to the floor. Setting the toy back down, he kneels to pick it up.

The neat handwriting gives it away at once - this is not from Sigewinne - so his private smile changes to one of cautious curiosity. Eyes trace each line as he rises back to his feet, and by the end his expression has softened again into something rarely seen beyond the protection of his office.

He remembers Freminet, of course. He remembers how he and the other two kids from the House of the Hearth had learned firsthand how impenetrable the Fortress could be. But at the end of it all, Wriothesley had not been terribly disturbed from his routines, and the Fortress had not lost anything but a couple of workers who’d served their sentence. Seeing them off without a grudge had been the privilege of the victor, but it was maturity that had penned this boy’s truce.

So Wriothesley circles his desk to write a thank-you of his own:

Mr. Freminet, Your thoughtful gift looks right at home with the rest of my collection. As you likely saw the last time you were here, I’ve gotten a lot of teapots over the years, but this one’s the only one of its kind on my shelves. While it can’t be filled, it can join us at the table if you ever decide to visit one day. My invitation to tea still stands for you, Mr. Lyney, and Miss Lynette. I hope you’re keeping those two out of trouble, by the way. Kind regards, The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide

[majorbaby]

decided it was as good a night as any to watch MASH (1970). i was going to take detailed notes the way i've been doing during my current rewatch of MASH (TV) but the purpose of that has been so i have stuff to refer back to when creating fanwork. about halfway through the watch i decided it wasn't worth all of that, but i did still make some notes about what i liked and didn't.

the bad

i'm starting with the bad because it had a really big effect on my experience of watching this movie. no need for bullets because it's the one thing, but the one thing is really bad: the misogyny. given, i have a very weak stomach for sexual violence on screen, particularly against women, but like, under no circumstances would i recommend this movie to anyone without a very heavy-handed content warning.

i'd been forewarned against it but i still underestimated how bad it would be. it was cruel and it left such a bad taste in my mouth i don't think i can rewatch, and if i ever do, i'd skip the offending scenes.

don't be fooled by the number of things on my "good" list. i'd trade 'em all for there to be less of the bad.

the good

genuinely touching opening credits. the MASH theme is immortal. beautiful shots of the compound. i'm gushing about it because i've worked in editing/motion graphics and i love a solid title sequence, this is one of the best i've ever seen

this movie hates christianity in general, but distinguishes catholicism from protestantism. i thought that was interesting considering MASH (TV)'s Frank is prejudiced against Catholics, something that is characteristic of a more rigid flavour of white supremacy that racializes people who would normally qualify as white (e.g. Italian and Irish Catholics). pointing out the difference tells me this movie is aware of evangelical christianity being the chief religious influence on American public policy, including foreign policy

this movie really hates the army, it could just stand to do better at hating the ideologies that prop up the army as well

hawkeye will call any man "babe" or "baby"

trapper john and his mysterious parka of assorted sundries

that's another thing. this movie is really gay, which does not absolve it of its sins

"Captain Pierce, did you call me?" "No, my name is Hawkeye"

Mclean's Henry Blake is way more likeable than movie Henry Blake, but the similarities are all there

i need to talk about the tone of this movie. so going back to the title sequence, part of the reason i like it so much is because it perfectly establishes the tone of the entire movie. larry gelbart once said that the title sequence to MASH (TV) "prepares you for what you are about to watch" and while I agree with that statement completely, I think it's doubly true of its film counterpart. there's this melancholy feeling that persists throughout the whole movie. kind of depressing tbh, despite how boisterous and silly the events on screen can get. there's a lot of mood lighting, quiet conversations. outside it's eternally overcast. when i think of it and compare it to MASH (TV) I understand why Robert Altman hated the show so much. tonally, it's completely different. when you hear the japanese cover of "happy days are here again" in the movie, it feels especially ironic, rather than lighthearted as it can be on MASH (TV). "my blue heaven" sounds even darker. but inspite of the gloom that pervades the movie, it's never quite as tragic as the objectively tragic moments on MASH (Bless You Hawkeye, GFA, Sometimes You Hear the Bullet, Guerilla My Dreams etc). the ending really nails that sad, but not too sad vibe.

once again, oliver jones is the hottest surgeon at the 4077th

elliott gould is a close second

trapper and hawkeye are in love... to everyone's peril. gay wrongs. so many gay wrongs in this movie.

did you think i was done talking about how in love trapper and hawkeye are in this? hawkeye, trapper and duke are supposed to be something of a trio in this movie, but as soon as trapper arrives duke is third-wheeling constantly. hawkeye says to trapper when he meets him, "do i know you from somewhere?" and a slow smile spreads across trapper's face later, while tossing around a football, hawkeye catches a pass from trapper and recognizes him by it as trapper does a slow walk towards hawkeye with his hands in my pockets good god, be still my piercintyre loving heart: trapper: [describing a pass] lucky your mouth wasn’t open or it would’ve got stuck in your throat hawkeye: baby! why it’s trapper john mcintyre!

we are never having the casual sex on MASH debate ever again, hawkeye settled it in this movie: (the) lieutenant dish: hawkeye, you have to remember, i’m married hawkeye: i’m married. i’m happy. i love my wife. if she was here, i’d be with her dish: i’m very happily married hawkeye: there is no question to loving anybody, it is a question of only helping.

[insomniac-jay]

Honor Among Rogues

Chapter 2: Got a Secret, Can You Keep It?

Vicia watched as the workers took the last of the merchandise out her truck. All that was left was to drive back and clock out. Then she'd head home to get some much needed rest before heading to the shop.

"Is that everything?" Vicia asked.

"Yep. Thanks for the help. Consider this a tip."

The warehouse manager put some money in her pocket. With her work done, Vicia walked back to the truck. But before she climbed into the driver's seat, a voice called out to her.

"Disculpe, señorita."

An older woman with brown skin and coily black hair seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She wore a fancy deep purple suit while a bag full of envelopes was slung over her shoulder.

"¿Puedes llevarme?"

Vicia quickly recognized the woman and let her into the passenger's seat. She then drove away from the warehouse.

"¿Qué haces fuera tan temprano, Pilar?"

Pilar's cupid's bow curved with delight. "I'm surprised you still remember me, Vicia," she crooned. "I always have the day the boss brought you to the manor on my mind. Did you know it was sunny that day?"

"Just tell me where you're going."

"Stop when you see the black pickup truck."

When she turned down the street, the aforementioned vehicle waited right on the corner of the avenue. The larger truck stopped, Vicia watching Pilar get out. She then drove straight back to her job to park her truck and take the subway home just like she planned.

Vicia was surprised to see she got a message from Will when she pulled out her phone. They'd be at work at this time, especially with that fancy blue collar job at Kord Industries.

Think you can come to HQ?

It's fine if you can't

I'll be there

Jahzara hated Gotham.

Its bleak stone gray and pitch black buildings filled her with dread and Gothamites got on her nerves. It was a miracle that she hadn't resorted to becoming a criminal or burning down the city. Maybe in a different universe she did.

No matter what her mother, or anyone for that matter, said, she'd never acknowledge this place as her home.

Her heart longingly ached for the beauty of Port Harcourt, her real home. She missed warm air blowing through her hair as she walked down to the nearby markets, the beautiful house her family lived in with a personal library made all for herself, and the countless summers spent with friends out on the water.

Why her mother chose to trade the glamorous life they had back in Nigeria for the dreary gloom of Gotham she'd never understand. But she knew one thing: she was not staying in this hellhole of a city. Especially true if she was going to be a lawyer.

Being a lawyer in this city is a curse, she thought walked through a hall of Gotham Academy.

Her refusal to befriend any of her classmates, often saying that no one here was worthy of even being her acquaintance, put a target on her back. But she definitely wasn't threatened by that or those jealous of her.

Too many people dealing in shady businesses and too many dead lawyers.

"Good morning, Jahzara!"

Oh god, not him again.

Jahzara rolled her eyes. What was this guy's name again? Malloy or something? She couldn't remember. But what she could remember is that he stood in particular spots everyday waiting for her. Not that she cared for the little stalker.

"How's your day going?" Malloy asked.

Jahzara didn't answer upon entering the large gym. Even worse that they shared this class. Sooner she made it to the girls locker rooms, the better.

"Do you need help with the chemistry project, Jahzara?" Malloy asked.

The poor fool was too lovesick to see Jahzara's annoyance. Made worse since his parents were business partners of Jahzara's mother, meaning she wasn't even free of him outside of school.

Her phone buzzed as she dove into the locker room, both saving her from his questions. On the screen was a text message from Aviva.

Wanna skip n go 2 the mall? :3

Yeah. I'll skip lunch

When she stepped out, her eyes settled on a different person: Duke Thomas. A face she'd seen around the academy before, especially in track events. Rumors were that he was the newest adopted child of Bruce Wayne. Not that it'd change Jahzara's opinion about Gotham's top dog or her mission.

A mostly uneventful gym class--say for Malloy's following--full of warmups and free play took a turn when Jahzara returned to find a message from one of her fellow Watchers.

Eyes open

The Watchers calling card.

Glancing around for anyone nearby, Jahzara rushed into the nearest bathroom stall and quickly changed into her costume. Maneuvering her way around the room, she crawled through the vent leading to the roof of the school.

"Fatale, come in," a voice requested. It was Duchess, another Watcher.

"What's wrong, Duchess?"

"Black Butterfly is back from honeymoon."

Fatale groaned. Black Butterfly was a long time enemy of the group. She'd almost forgotten that she was gone until she made headlines a few days ago. Her newlywed spouse was a frequent topic of discussion.

@floof-ghostie @calciumcryptid @jasontoddssuper @honeysgalaxy @moonage-gaydream @theautisticcentre