#necessary' sticker down from a wall

[serach-bat-asher]

as i was saying

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

Standing in the yard, dressed like a kid, the house is white and the lawn is dead ⋆·˚ ༘ *

You stood firm on the ground, eyes stern and unwavering. In front of you was a place all too familiar—the "shelter" where you grew up, the house that had been your home for five years of your childhood. As you stood there, memories flooded your mind, both the happy ones and the melancholy ones. Your eyes roamed around the place, taking in every detail before you finally decided to enter, lest anyone mistake you for some kind of lunatic loitering outside someone's house.

As your feet mindlessly carried you into the room, a heavy, shaky sigh escaped your quivering lips. It hadn't even been five seconds since you entered, yet you already felt the urge to cry. Oh well, that's what memories do to you. You gently caressed the dirty white wall adorned with your old, fading doodles. Most of them were pink—your favorite color then and even now as an adult. You smiled sadly as the memories of your time in the house flooded back, making you nostalgic. You scoffed sarcastically at the irony that you missed this place more than the manor where you'd spent a longer time.

Perhaps it was because the old you—the innocent, sweet, and pure one—was still within these thin walls that had sheltered them through all the bad times. You could feel their giggles and laughter lingering in the air. Tears streamed down your face as you stared at every sticker, doodle, and writing spread across the walls. Somehow, you cried out of joy, relishing the fact that the child you left behind in this house was still here in some way. Still innocent, still unaware of the harm the world could do.

In the manor, all the love you ever knew came from the man who introduced himself as the family butler but whom you soon came to know as your father. He was the love you craved and begged for at Bruce's feet. He fed you, took care of you, and taught you the things you needed to know. He attended family days, PTA meetings, and other events that your biological father should have been at. Under Alfred's shelter, you did everything you could to try to level with your siblings' talents—learning acrobatics, martial arts, drawing, baking, and more.

Yet it was Alfred who, in the dead of night, under the whispers of the cold wind whipping past your teary face, assured you that you would never need any of those skills to truly earn your family's love. All you needed was to be yourself. You allowed yourself to believe his words and lived them as your truth for a short time, but soon gave up on the idea, accepting that they wouldn't truly see you.

Now, dwelling on your lingering past and memories outside the manor, you remembered those you knew before coming to live with them. You reminisced on the thought of your mother. You remembered her.

You remembered how poverty ate your mother away and that she couldn't provide necessary needs for you but you, sweet, beautiful, angel you never complained.

You remembered how much you loved those barbie shows and movies but couldn't afford the dvds and even a proper functioning television so you sometimes watched it from your window across your neighbors, and while watching you saw a glimpse of their life. Their happy, perfect family life. How they cuddled their daughter and watched those silly barbie movies together. Your eyes softened as you thought "I wanted that" the little you hoped that maybe one day momma will get better and finally love me. Your tears poured from your eyes at the thought.

You remembered while you were doing your homework alone, you heard a whimper outside your window near the alley. As you peeked your tiny head outside, your braids flowing with the cold, harsh wind, your eyes searching for the source of noise. As you let your gaze travel through every corner of the alley, you saw a dirty, poor puppy whimpering, alone, calling out for its mother, its father, anyone. You ran hastily outside and collected its tiny and fragile form gently in your arms. "I'm here, I'm okay, you're safe," you whispered softly to the creature. And from. That very day you fed it and kept it sheltered secretly from your mother. You named her Amara. It suited her. You didn't have much play mates so you sometimes play with her by the yard where you and her would either run together or lay down. You never really got to say goodbye to her. From "that" moment on, you never got to go back to your house. You wondered how she was. Was she well fed? Did she think you abandoned her? Does she miss you? The guilt of living her ate you up the longer you dwelt on the past. You shook your head and sighed, trying to forget about all of it. You mourned every version of you. And this was your most treasured one. Thinking back on all the memories you had of the old you, of her. You thanked them for being so forgiving, for being so brave, for being so content with what she had, and for never trading anything for it.

They Were such a kind soul. And you're glad that they gets to stay where they were the happiest despite the nightmare they endured those days. You will always look up to them. They were and will always be a part of you. You took one last look at the house, the drawings, the dirty corners of the room, and released a breath as you closed your eyes. This was it. You'll finally get to say goodbye-

Whimper

You froze as you heard a familiar whimper. You turned around and slowly walked towards the opened door, and you saw her. Amara, your friend. You can't help but let the tears fall as her once brown fluffy appearance is now old and grey. You wondered how even in the light of old age she somehow still seems so youthful. She was still your baby. With a shaky voice, you tested the name. "Amara...?" she wags her tail in delight as a response to the familiar name she's been waiting to be called for so many years. You kneeled down and gently caressed her. "Oh, baby. You've been waiting for me, haven't you?" she whimpered as if answering you. You noticed her trying to catch her breath and her body growing weaker. You glance at her tail and see its wagging has become more frail and slow. You glance at your eyes, and you know. You smiled at her and whispered, "It's okay, baby. You can rest now." Her face weakly lit up, and she slowly closed her eyes, calm and loved, finally in your embrace.

After some time, you tenderly wrapped her body in a blanket. You carried her to the yard where you both used to play together as kids, a place where you ran freely without a care in the world. Borrowing a shovel from a tenant in the apartment, you buried her there, in the spot where you both were the happiest.

You whispered silent prayers for your companion and left with the memories. This was it. You've made your peace with the old you. Almost. There was one more thing you have to do.

You used believed that your mother could have been so much more. She was a beautiful woman. Smart, even if other would beg to disagree. But, you knew that she knew how to play her cards right to get what she desired for. She would have been so powerful if she used her sharp mind to something much more.. Productive. Yet she chose to sleep with men, abandon her daughter, and let herself be eaten by poverty and lust. Well, you didn't really mind if she abandoned you. You've always felt like you were the burden, the barrier to her way of succeeding and the chain locked onto her feet, keeping her from truly running away to what she has become. You've seen it in her eyes, the thought of running away and living a new life, but when she looks at you.. She saw a mistake she could never be freed of. A mistake. If only you weren't born, she would have been so happy.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink. "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. Suddenly, you were back to reality. You blinked again, processing her words. You glanced at her expectant expression and blurted out, "Y-yes, yes, uhm. Yeah. I'm ready." She smiled and said, "Great. Let's go this way, ma'am." You followed her hurriedly, not wanting to test her patience. As you walked, dissociating and thinking of all the possible outcomes, the nurse suddenly stopped in front of a room and said, "We're here. You can enter now." You nodded and thanked her silently.

Facing the door, you chanted in your mind, "You can do this," with a mix of determination and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, you exhaled and opened the door. There she was—your mother, in all her glory. Bare-faced and vulnerable in her comfy hospital gown. You almost choked on your saliva, seeing her this... bare. You had always seen her so filtered, her face adorned with colors, her clothes tight and bright. Awkwardly, you shifted in your place and slowly sat beside her bed as her gaze followed your every move. You cleared your throat, preparing to speak, but she beat you to it.

“I know you.” you widen your eyes at her as she continues “you're my child.” you weren't shocked at the fact that she acknowledged you but the fact that she called you Her child, and the softness in her eyes. You were starting to think that maybe this isn't your mother, because she never looked at you like that. Never in years of living together has she even glance at you.

She chuckled at the sight of your confused and shocked state, bringing you out of your thoughts. "What? Shocked? Of course, I still remember you, Y/n," she weakly said, her voice small and quite different from the harsh tone she used to yell at you with. You inhaled sharply, trying to stop your tears from falling. What the heck? Were you about to cry again?

"I thought with how much resentment you harbor for me, you would have forgotten about me by now," you smiled sadly at her, watching her face drop slightly but still smiling weakly.

"Oh, Y/n," you almost crumbled right then and there. Oh, how much you had longed to be called so sweetly by your mother's voice. "I never hated you... that much," she said bitterly, and you stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue. "I just wasn't born to be a mother, no—at least not in this life. I'm a mess and I always will be. And I'm sorry I couldn't change for you because nothing can and nothing will change me anymore."

Your lips frowned at her words. "I always thought that maybe you could have been better without me," you said. You miss her, and you will always miss her. She was your whole world, but now seeing her and talking to her made you realize her world was clearly much different from yours. Her world was something one could not escape. You knew you couldn't live like that, and it seems that she cannot live any other way. They said that a mother and children exist as wretched mirrors of each other. You were all she could have been and she was all you might have been.

She closed the distance between you and embraced you for the first time. "You never were. It was me. I was the problem. You were just a child. In another life, I would've been able to care for you." You didn't question her on why she couldn't do it in this life because you knew. You knew she didn't have the capability to be a good mother and a morally good person now, and that was okay. You couldn't live with The fact that she will never truly care for you and will always hold secret animosity towards you if you force her to be a mother to you. You closed your eyes for a minute and silently took in the feeling of a mother's embrace for the first and last time.

"This is the last time you're ever gonna see me again," you said. Your mother chuckled bitterly and replied, "I know. Good for you, kid. Leave everything behind and start anew. You deserve it."

You soon moved out of her arms and held her hands tightly, looking into her eyes. With a deep exhale, you walked out of the hospital. This was it—you were finally free from your past. You had made your peace with it, and now it was time for you to move forward. You knew that if you didn't confront the horrors of your past, they would haunt you for the rest of your life. You had made a good choice.

As you stepped outside, the cool breeze greeted you, and you felt a sense of liberation wash over you. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It was as if the universe itself was acknowledging your newfound freedom. You took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, savoring the feeling of lightness that now enveloped you. Walking down the street, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The city seemed different somehow—brighter, more alive. You noticed the little things that you had overlooked before: the vibrant colors of the flowers in the park, the laughter of children playing, the distant hum of traffic. It was as if you were seeing the world with fresh eyes, unburdened by the weight of your past.

For the first time in a long time, you felt at peace. The past no longer held you captive. You were free to live your life, to pursue your passions, and to surround yourself with people who truly cared for you. It was the beginning of a new chapter. You get home to your apartment and sit at your couch grabbing some blankets and making hot cocoa. You thought to yourself that this is what you exactly needed. Watching barbie movies in your new cozy apartment without any burden past onto your shoulders, the little you would have been so proud, making you smile at the thought. This was it. Nothing was going to stop you now.

That's what you thought.

It has been 2 weeks since you've moved in your apartment and you're getting ready for your ballet rehearsal. You were especially excited about this as you were going to perform swan lake when you got to enact one of the most important and famous characters, how cool was that? As you were about to grab your pink bowed pointe shoes a sudden “ping!” notification was heard from your phone. You turned your head and went to grab it expecting a message from one of your close friends or even your ballet mates but all you were met with was a message from a person you least wanted a one from.

Dick. Your supposed older brother is asking you to hang out with him. At this very moment. You dropped your phone and stared at nothing while breathing heavily. You feel your heartbeat rapidly breathing, the knot in your stomach growing more tighter and tighter each minute you let the thought sink into your brain. You almost tripped at your foot as a result of your vision disfigured, as if you were looking through a fish-eye lens. This wasn't right, this wasn't supposed to happen. When-how?-why?! Why was this happening now? You were only starting to feel like everything in your life was finally starting to go your way. Why did this have to happen? It was as if the universe was mocking you. You bit your lips until it bled but you couldn't care less. You were numb. You hadn't even realized that you were nowate for today's rehearsals. With trembling hands you reached for your phone and shakily pressed the button “block” as you silently prayed that he-they would never come in contact with you ever again.

Of Course that wouldn't happen though. The universe was never really on your side.

Dick? What's happening here?

A sudden deep voice spoke, bringing Dick out of his deep trance. He turned around and saw his father standing outside the door, looking suspiciously at him. He stared at his father and saw the look on his face—full of confusion and unfamiliarity, not towards him but the room he was in. "I-it's Y/n," he stuttered, the name tasting so sweet on his tongue. He wanted to roll around in the scent of you. Was that weird? No—he just missed you, that's all.

"What about them?" Bruce's voice carried a nonchalance that almost made Dick angry. How could he be so indifferent about his precious sibling? With a hard voice, Dick replied, "They're gone." Bruce's eyes widened slightly at the response. What did he mean you were gone? You were just here when... Wait, when? He worriedly glanced at Dick, and as if understanding, Dick answered, "I know."

Bruce inhaled sharply and stepped inside the room, your lingering scent greeting him. Your trophies adorned the walls. This was your room? No, it couldn't be. This was too little. This was just... not it. The difference between his other childrens bedrooms and yours was so noticeable. You didn't have any fancy chandelier decorating yours. You didn't have your own bathroom.

Bruce's eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail. The neatly arranged trophies, the faded posters on the walls, and the small bed that seemed too empty now. He walked over to the desk and picked up a framed photo of you, when was this? You look so.. Grown? How old were you? Were you old enough to live alone? How come he didn't know? Did you have a job-were you even allowed to have one? he clenches his fist as he stares at the sight of your image and sees your bright smile. His heart ached at the sight. How had he missed this? How had he not noticed the signs?

Dick watched his father, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to scream, to demand why Bruce hadn't paid more attention, why he hadn't been there for you. But he knew he wasn't any better than his adoptive father was. Besides, it wouldn't change anything. The damage was done.

Bruce set the photo back down and turned to Dick, his expression a mix of regret and determination. He saw the tiny diary and other papers scattered across the floor and picked them up, reading them one by one as he slowly spiraled into regret and guilt. Dick watched as he knew this was going to make him understand. Today made it all clear to him. Why there was a nagging feeling inside of him saying that there was something missing in the manor. It was why the sweet muffled music of the orchestra haunted the manor, the same kind of music haunting their bedroom. Like it was a reminder, a warning. That something special was lost. The soothing sound of humming, light footsteps around the manor now gone. The pink bows tied around the handles of the stairs, the love that the plants receive now nowhere to be found. It was because you took that love with you.

"We need to find them," Bruce spoke, his voice steady but filled with urgency. His knees bounce as his Jaws tighten anxiously.

Dick nodded, his resolve matching his father's. "We'll find them," he replied, his voice firm. "And we'll make things right."

As they left the room, Bruce carrying the framed image of you tightly, almost as if he was paranoid that something would take it from him, and dick gently running his thumb through the texture of your pink, bowed, bright diary, the weight of their mission settled on their shoulders. They knew it wouldn't be easy, but they were determined to bring you back. The silence of the manor was a stark reminder of what they had lost, and they were ready to do whatever it took to make amends.

Bruce was anxious. He didn't have a plan. Ironic, because Batman always had a plan. It was an unspoken rule—Batman was always prepared. But now, he found himself at a loss, his mind racing with uncertainty. Perhaps it was because he knew every single person in Gotham. As the guardian of Lady Gotham, he prided himself on understanding the intricate web of connections and motives that defined the city's inhabitants. He calculated every person's actions, paid attention to every detail, and watched from the heart of Gotham.

He paid extensive attention to everyone... except you.

It wasn't intentional. He had always been consumed by the weight of his responsibilities, the never-ending battle against crime, and the need to protect the city. But now, standing in your room, surrounded by the remnants of your presence, he realized his failure. The irony of it all struck him—Batman, the meticulous planner, had overlooked the most important person in his life.

Now he was desperate, he may not have a plan but he was desperate. He'll do anything to get you back. Any possible way to get back all the times he failed you, when he failed to be a father to you. He swore to protect you and never let you out of his sight ever again.

Dick wasn't any better. As he walked, his thoughts played tricks on him, but in a way he almost relished. His mind insisted that you must be so scared without him, without your older brother to protect you. He didn't even consider the possibility that you could be an independent, fully functioning individual on your own, or the fact that you had grown and most likely abandoned the thought of "bonding" with him. In this moment, his mind was consumed by the image of you and the curiosity of what more you had within yourself that he had neglected. His anxiousness grew, causing him to bite his nails and run his hands through his hair in frustration. His breathing became ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. It was as if he had turned feral, his bloodshot blue eyes itching to be blessed with a vision of your face.

The more he thought about it, the more his mind played tricks on him. He imagined you scared and alone, wondering why your older brother wasn't there to protect you. He couldn't bear the thought of you suffering because of his neglect. His thoughts raced, each one more frantic than the last. What if you were hurt? What if you were in danger? What if you had given up on ever reconnecting with him?

The guilt gnawed at him, making it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed you, that he had missed so many opportunities to be there for you. His heart ached at the thought of all the moments you had spent alone, craving the attention and love that he hadn't given.

As he continued to walk, his thoughts became more erratic. He imagined you thriving without him, having found your own path and your own sense of independence. The possibility that you no longer needed him stung, but it also filled him with a strange sense of pride. You had grown, despite everything, and that was something to be admired.

Still, his mind couldn't rest. He needed to see you, to know that you were okay. The uncertainty was driving him to the brink of madness. His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists, determined to find you and make amends.

he wouldn't rest until he saw you again.

Both Bruce and Dick disregarded everything around them, unaware of the curious look Tim gave them. He followed quietly behind their backs, raising an eyebrow as he wondered why they hadn't noticed his presence yet. Normally, these two were incredibly guarded, so Tim was shocked by their lack of awareness. What could have made them so unfocused?

Bruce—the Batman—and Dick—the first Robin and now Nightwing—were both engrossed in a particular object. They seemed to be completely absorbed, their usual vigilance overshadowed by their intense fixation. Tim watched as Bruce's eyes remained glued to a framed photo on the desk, his expression a mix of regret and determination. Meanwhile, Dick's gaze was fixed on the pink notebook in his hands, his fingers gently tracing the glittery cover.

Tim couldn't help but wonder what was so important about these items that it made two of the most vigilant people he knew drop their guard. The framed photo of you, smiling brightly, seemed to hold Bruce in a trance, while the pink notebook, adorned with bows and glitters, seemed to capture all of Dick's attention. They were so consumed by these objects that they had let down the walls they had built through years of vigilantism.

It had to be something incredibly significant—something better yet, special.

“What are you two doing?” asked Tim, suddenly breaking the silence between the three of them as he watched the father and son duo flinch, obviously flabbergasted at his sudden interruption at their deep trance. He observed as their face turned from shock to going back to their frowning faces making him mirror the same expression. Dick clenches his jaw and exhales sharply preparing himself to speak when he is suddenly interrupted by a familiar voice he would always recognize.

"What is going on here?" a figure with deep forest-green eyes asked, standing tall in the shadows, his cold demeanor unwavering. Dick's eyes met his, and he said his name. "Damian. Wha—"

"You have deliberately abandoned your promise to train with me today. Why?" Damian's voice was sharp, full of accusation. Shoot. That was right. Dick had forgotten to train with his younger brother today. But it didn't matter now; his other sibling needed him, and it was about time they knew about them too. He glanced at Bruce's unfocused state, feral and restless.

"It's about Y/n," Dick said firmly.

Tim stood still for a moment, trying to figure out who "Y/n" was, while Damian immediately sneered at the mention of his "rival." He couldn't pinpoint why your presence angered him so much. Maybe it was because he had to share the title of being the Wayne heir with someone so... normal, someone so far below his level. You both were so different. Perhaps he was jealous of you for being so normal, for not having to worry about tainting your hands with blood and painting others black and blue. What did you even do? He didn't know, but he bet it was something a normal civilian would.

Meanwhile, his peripheral vision caught Tim standing still, deep in thought. Damian saw him processing quickly, his mind running fast as he tried to figure out who you were and why you were so relevant at the moment. Then suddenly—aha! Tim remembered now! You were the kid who had pestered him non-stop about some game.

Tim's eyes widened as he recalled the memory. The realization hit him like a wave. He had been so dismissive back then, but now he understood the significance. Guilt washed over him, mixing with curiosity and concern. What had happened to you? Why were you so important now?

Damian's sneer softened slightly, replaced with a look of contemplation. “What about them?” asked damian. While Tim wondered the same. Suddenly Bruce's cold and deep voice said “they're gone.” Damian raising an eyebrow of his response, and Tim answering “gone? Gone how?” switching his gaze from dick and Bruce's form awaiting for one of them to answer his question as the tension in the room thickens. “I mean that they're gone. All their things not found in their room, no trace of them not in the mansion, and not even a goodbye.” Tim and Damian frowned at the same time. Damian scoffed and thought you were probably just making a big scene so the attention would be on you. Bruce said “we need to find them. Now.” his voice left no choice for them to abide by his command.

Now alone in the CCTV room, Tim let his bored gaze wander over the footage from a long time ago, his palm supporting his head. Suddenly, something caught his attention. He watched as you sat, his fingers tapping the keyboard to increase the volume. You hummed lightly at the footage, a simple gesture but not to him. Your voice was so familiar to him. His eyes dilated as you continued humming, your voice sweet as honey, as light as a mother's touch trying to lull her baby to sleep.

He zoomed the footage closer and closer, almost as if he wanted to go through the screen just to hear your sweet, angelic, melancholic voice. Your voice was like a soft fur blanket to him. He didn't know if he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, but he swore you were covered by a soft light, hugging your form and kissing your skin gently.

Tim sat in your "presence" for a bit, soaking in your voice. As he listened, memories flooded back. He recalled distant muffled sounds within the thin walls, lulling him to sleep, chasing away the demons that kept him awake at night. He had so desperately wanted to close his eyes and rest, and he remembered thinking maybe it was just a voice in his head, or maybe a real-life angel offering him salvation from suffering and the sweet pleasure of sleep. Now he knew, the angel was called "Y/n."

His fingers tightened around the edge of the desk as he leaned in closer, his breathing steadying as he watched the footage. The realization hit him hard. How had he missed this before? How had he not recognized that comforting voice? The gentle humming, the presence that had brought him solace on sleepless nights—it was all you.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch, his heart aching with a mix of regret and longing. He remembered the nights he had spent tormented by nightmares, the countless times he had struggled to find peace. Your voice had been his lifeline, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

He couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen the importance of your presence in the manor? Tim's thoughts spiraled as he recalled the moments he had dismissed you, the times he had been too wrapped up in his own world to notice you reaching out. He needed to see you. To hear your voice, to take you back, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness as his forehead kisses the cold, dirty floor, or to maybe steal you back without a word. He didn't know, he just had to see you.

The footage continued to play, your voice a soothing balm to his troubled mind. He sat there, never unwavering, always in awe of your voice and never taking his attention off you. He sat there,Unaware that he had been playing the same footage for hours and hours. His dilated eyes worshipping you as if you were a god.

He felt a deep sense of loss, realizing that you were gone, and he hadn't even had the chance to thank you for all the nights you had unknowingly saved him. Determined, he knew he had to find you. He had to make things right.

After some time, finally. Tim's resolve hardened as he stood up, his eyes never leaving the screen. He would find you, and he would make sure you knew how much you meant to him. With renewed purpose, he left the CCTV room, ready to join Bruce and Dick in their search. Together, they would bring you back and rebuild the bond that had been neglected for far too long.

With much focus on the object of his obsession attention, he failed to notice a tall figure in the shadows, watchin. Thinking after all these years they have finally come to their senses, realizing the greatest gift of all was right under their noses.

Damian was a dangerous person. To be fair, he was raised to be an assassin and an heir to the throne from the moment he was born. Not even a moment out of the womb did he catch a glimpse of the normal life he so desperately wanted. He trained day and night, month after month, year after year, to become the perfect product of the world's greatest detective and the daughter of the king of assassins. Imagine the inner turmoil within him when he didn't meet the expectations set upon his shoulders. All his life, all he knew was to fight. In any situation, his first instinct was to fight and guard himself for his life.

Sometimes, he wondered how they expected a child to lead thousands of assassins to create a bloodbath. Behind his pride and arrogance was a deep-seated anger towards those in charge of his fate. He was furious that his innocence had been stripped away, clawing its way back to him, but ultimately, they succeeded in giving him a future burdened with the weight of guilt for painting the young and innocent red.

Damian's upbringing left him with a constant battle within himself. The expectations placed upon him were immense, and he often felt like he was suffocating under the pressure. The relentless training, the unyielding discipline, and the need to prove himself consumed his every waking moment. The anger he felt was not just directed at those who shaped his fate but also at himself for not being able to escape it. Many didn't know of it but he found it hard to be Robin. The conflict between leaning to your instincts or “your- now- morals” was hard. To kill and to save was wrong and somehow to save and to forgive was right.

Despite his impressive skills and abilities, there was a part of him that longed for something more—something normal. He envied those who lived ordinary lives, free from the burden of bloodshed and violence. He wondered what it would have been like to have a childhood filled with laughter and innocence rather than combat and survival. As to why he wonders what more could you possibly want? He was so sure that you had so much wonderful time living such a luxurious life in the manor and never having to prove yourself to be worthy of something in being able to get the object of your desire. How could you run away from this life? From your life? You were so unfair, so selfish.

As he continued to grapple with these conflicting emotions, Damian's exterior remained cold and guarded. He rarely allowed anyone to see the vulnerable side of him, the side that yearned for a different life. But deep down, the scars of his past lingered, a constant reminder of the life he was forced into and the innocence that was stolen from him.

He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and released a heavy sigh. What a bother. Making his way to every corner of the manor to "inspect" and see if you had left any trace of yourself there. As he walked down the path, letting his bored state guide him, he glanced at the thick walls and noticed some unfamiliar works of art. His gaze roamed around the room, settling on various paintings he had never noticed before. It was as if the paintings spoke for themselves, screaming out for anyone to notice and appreciate them. The different textures, colors, shapes, and stories behind the art captivated him.

Damian liked to think that he noticed everything and had the ability to be highly aware of his surroundings, whether he was familiar with them or not. But at this moment, he paused, questioning himself. If he was truly aware, how had he managed to overlook these breathtaking canvases filled with bright colors that made him... feel things? He took a step forward and saw a tiny signature on the left side of one of the canvases. He brought his hand up to softly caress the painting, gently and carefully, as if he were afraid that a mere touch could destroy it.

Engrossed in admiring the paintings, he failed to notice the tall figure beside him. It was only when the man spoke, "Master Damian," addressing him, that he flinched slightly.

"Ah, Alfred. My apologies, I was a bit distracted by the art adorning the walls, which seems to be... unfamiliar to me. Would you mind telling me where my father keeps buying these paintings? I must say I'm quite... impressed."

Alfred frowned and smiled sadly at the youngest Wayne. "Well, Master Damian, these paintings are actually not your father's doing. Rather, they are Master Y/n's work of art."

Damian's eyes widened in surprise. He turned back to the paintings and said "Y/n did these?" he asked, almost incredulous. The realization that you had created such beautiful and meaningful art struck him deeply. He didn't even know that you could draw much less create such.. Beautiful art. While he was thinking about it he realize that he had complimented you, you!

"Indeed, Master Damian," Alfred confirmed. "Y/n spent countless hours creating these pieces. Each one holds a story, a piece of their heart."

Damian felt a pang of emotion through his chest, he couldn't pinpoint what it was but it was somehow nagging him about something, or rather someone. His fingers traced the brushstrokes with a newfound reverence, as if trying to understand the emotions you had captured on canvas.

"I never knew..." Damian whispered, more to himself than to Alfred. The layers of vibrant colors, the delicate details, and the raw emotions conveyed through your art were all a testament to the depth of your soul. He felt a connection to you that he hadn't realized before, a sense of camaraderie and understanding. And he was totally not dissing you just minutes ago.

Alfred placed a comforting hand on Damian's shoulder. "Art has a way of speaking to us, Master Damian. It reveals truths that words often cannot. Y/n's art is a reflection of their experiences, their joys, and their sorrows. It is a part of them that they have shared with the world."

Damian nodded, taking a step back to fully appreciate the entirety of your work. Your art had opened a door to a deeper connection, and he was willing to walk through it. He didn't know why but in a way this was proof that you had always had some kind of connection to him.

As Damian and Alfred stood there, surrounded by the masterpieces you had created, a sense of resolve settled over Damian. He frowns and takes a look around all the work of your art. His style doesn't differ much from yours. the caress of brush ever so slightly seen, and the emotions behind the soul of your paintings, like his. What made you so similar to him? And that, he will not know until he finds you.

He knew that finding you and bringing you back was not just about making amends—it was about recognizing and celebrating the unique and irreplaceable person you were.

Y/n considered themselves a keen observer, attuned to the delicate nuances of the world around them. They noticed the gentle yet sometimes harsh swaying of the wind as it danced with the leaves, creating a symphony of nature's whispers. They noticed the lady sitting on the park bench, quietly absorbing the view of the home she once grew up in, her memories interwoven with the present. They noticed the ducks by the pond, gracefully gliding through the water alongside their mother, a portrait of serene tranquility.

Y/n noticed everything, yet no one noticed them. And it was fine. They had long accepted this reality, enduring the loneliness of being invisible in a world where they saw so much. The weight of being unnoticed had become a familiar companion, a constant presence that shaped their existence. In the silent spaces between moments, Y/n found solace in their observations, finding beauty in the overlooked and meaning in the mundane.

So why were they just noticing you just now? Why? When you have just started to accept and move on. Why must they bring the horrors of the past when your current life is filled with hope arraying a new journey, now destroyed.

Why couldn’t Dick just let you be, drifting away in the silence you’d crafted? Why couldn’t he leave you to fade quietly, just as you had promised yourself you would, a ghost of your former self, untouched and unbothered? Yet there he was, an ever-present weight, his hands—rough, calloused, scarred by years of untold burdens—forcing your face into the past, as if his touch could rewrite history. His fingers dug into your skin, twisted into the soft contours of your face, tearing through the years of numbness, of denial, dragging you back to a place you had sworn you’d never return.

And then, Tim. Oh, Tim. The boy who once didn’t even see you, who barely even remembered your name when it lingered in the air of the manor. Now, he’s relentless, his fingers tapping into your phone with the same quiet insistence that his presence once had in the dark halls of that place you used to call home. You want to scream, to rip the silence apart, to do anything but feel what you’re feeling now—this suffocating pull to return to them, to face them, even when you know you never should have to again.

The ache swells, the lump in your throat is a tangible thing now, a choking presence you can’t swallow down. It’s the same searing pain that’s lingered, festering, hidden beneath layers of what you pretended was healing. How cruel it is, to have spent so much time trying to break free, only to find that some things, some people, are never quite done with you.

The ghost of them lingers, burrows deeper, with every unanswered message. They still haunt you, even from afar. You hate them for it, for still holding the power to break you open, to make you bleed from places you thought had long scarred over. It feels like a thousand wounds opening up again—slow, deliberate, bleeding you dry in a way you don’t know how to stop.

You stared blankly into the emptiness, feeling numb, when suddenly a hand rested on your shoulder. You flinched instinctively and turned to see who it was. Your eyes widened as you recognized your ballet teacher standing behind you. "Miss Kavinsky! I-I... Hi! I’m—" you stammered, but she quickly cut you off with a smile.

"Y/N L/N-Wayne, I know," she said with a warm tone. "It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you."

You winced slightly, the sound barely audible, but Miss Kavinsky didn’t seem to notice. "Come on, let’s meet the other dancers. I’m sure they’re eager to meet you."

The surprise hit you hard, and you stuttered, "M-me?" You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.

She grinned, a playful mix of amusement and mild disbelief on her face. "Yes, you. You're kind of a celebrity here, Wayne. Not surprised with a talent like yours."

Her words lingered in the air, but you went quiet, caught off guard by the compliment. You couldn’t fully process it, the idea of anyone looking up to you seemed so foreign, so distant. And somewhere in the haze, you barely registered the way she had called you "Wayne.”

As you and the other dancers gathered at the stage, a wave of anxiety washed over you. The weight of thoughts about Tim and Dick pressed heavily on your mind, and the pressure of the moment only made it worse. Just as your mind started to spiral, a voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey! You're Y/N, right? I'm Desiree, but you can just call me Des."

You forced a smile, barely hearing Miss Kavinsky as her voice faded into the background, announcing something about attendance. Your attention was now solely focused on Des, who had just broken the ice. You shook her hand and smiled more genuinely, the tension in your body loosening up a bit.

"Hi, Des. Yeah, you already know who I am. Nice to meet you."

You both exchanged a quiet laugh, and the chatter around you faded as you continued talking. For a moment, you felt like you could breathe again. You asked the usual questions: "How old are you?" "What's your favorite ballet?" The conversation flowed easily, but when your name was suddenly called for attendance, you were snapped back to reality.

"Here!" you called out, your voice getting lost in the sea of dancers.

But then Des said something that made you freeze.

"So, are you excited that both of you are here?" she asked with a playful giggle, her smile sweet and innocent.

You blinked, confused, but smiled through it. "Both of us...?" you repeated, trying to follow along.

Des chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. "You and your sister, silly! It must be so nice to perform together. My brother wouldn't even try to get into ballet, you know?"

Her words, lighthearted as they were, suddenly made your world feel like it was crashing down around you. You felt a cold panic begin to rise. Your fingers instinctively dug into your palms, almost drawing blood. Your smile wavered, barely holding on, while your eyes fluttered, teetering on the edge of tears. Des’s voice became distant, her words fading into a muffled blur as your thoughts spiraled out of control, bloodshot eyes starting to sting with unshed tears. Your heart raced, and the chaos inside you was too much to contain.

In that very moment, her name echoed through the air, sharp and clear. Without thinking, your gaze shifted, and you locked eyes with her. Her wide, unblinking stare pierced through the noise, anchoring you in place. For a fleeting second, you wondered if she had been watching you all along—since the instant your name was called, or perhaps even before. You couldn't be sure.

What you did know, however, was that the weight of her gaze felt like a force, pulling you into a quiet abyss. It made you feel small, fragile—as if you were prey beneath the steady, unyielding gaze of a predator. A shiver ran through you, and suddenly, all you wanted was to escape, to flee from the suffocating intensity of her eyes, which seemed to strip away every layer of protection you had left.

The fates were clearly playing with you now.

Cassandra was an exceptionally gifted individual, much like her siblings, each of whom possessed their own unique abilities. From the moment she first pursued ballet, her family showered her with unwavering love and support. She had access to training that most could only dream of—privileges afforded to her not because of her wealth, but because she was no ordinary person. She was Batgirl, the daughter of Batman by choice, a mantle she wore with pride. So, when an invitation arrived for her to join the prestigious Swan Lake performance alongside other top-tier dancers, it hardly came as a surprise. After all, excellence was something she had always embraced, both on the stage and off.

As she gets ready for her first rehearsal she can't help but notice that some of her siblings are missing. She shook it off and ate her food but also not abandoning the thought of asking about the absence of her siblings and father, to a familiar companion of their family:Alfred. As where Alfred only replies with them being busy about.. Something, yet said to her to fret not and just worry her mind about her ballet play, quickly chasing away her concerns for her family with a smile that made her feel lighthearted. With a chuckle she got up and made her way to the location of where the dancers were told to meet.

Cass had always believed she was the only one in her family who truly appreciated the delicate artistry of ballet. Her passion for the graceful movements, the precision of each step, and the beauty of the performances had always felt like a private world to her, a world she inhabited alone. She couldn’t recall a single moment where anyone in her family shared even the slightest interest in it. So, when she entered the crowded theater that evening, expecting to be surrounded only by fellow ballet enthusiasts, she was taken aback by something unexpected.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, she spotted you. For a fleeting moment, her heart skipped a beat, not from the rush of seeing someone in the crowd, but from an overwhelming sense of familiarity that washed over her. There you were, standing like a ghost from a forgotten past, an unexplainable connection sparking between you both. Cass couldn’t place it, but it was as though she had known you forever, even though your paths had never crossed before.

Her mind wandered, replaying the memories that had been buried deep within her. A distant image flashed across her thoughts: she was standing in a room filled with soft, pastel-colored fabrics, the scent of leather and polish hanging in the air. Two pairs of pointe shoes rested beside one another on the floor—one was familiar, worn and well-loved, the other brand new, the laces still fresh and untangled. The second pair, the one that felt entirely foreign, immediately piqued her curiosity. She was certain it wasn’t hers, yet the connection to it lingered, something so subtle but undeniable.

The realization hit her like a wave. She didn’t know you, not consciously, but somehow she felt bound to you, as if fate had woven your lives together in some strange, invisible thread long before either of you had even been aware of it.

The entire day she watched and observed you. She paid extra attention to every detail of your expressions, body language, and posture. She didn't know why but you seemed to be very clear–in her case, in distress, like you were panicking over something. And she didn't know why she somehow hated seeing you that way. As the minutes passed, she found herself simply just staring at you. Not even for a fleeting moment had she taken her gaze of you. She watched and observed tensely at every person who looks at you, who talks to you, who breathes near you. Almost as if she was guarding you. As they were told to gather she followed silently after the crowd and placed herself purposely in front of the other side from you. She scoffs in amusement as you barely notice her, too focused on your own little world. As minutes continued to pass, suddenly a girl broke you out of her thoughts with her voice making you flinch. Her breath hitched as irritation started to crawl their way through her chest. Why couldn't the girl be more gentle with you? Can't she see that you were clearly stressed? She frowns slightly at the girl, surprising herself by the sudden change of mood. She holds her breath and watches you like a hawk would at its prey. Her vision was filled with your now loosen frame, giggling with the girl who approached you earlier. A new feeling started to claw its way through her chest, now bigger and stronger. The green monster eating her up when suddenly the call of her voice brought her out of her thoughts as she, for a moment took her eyes off of you to answer quietly to her name and as she bring back her gaze to you, quickly to not miss anything she might take the pleasure in seeing, suddenly your eyes are on her too. Her eyes couldn't leave the sight of your gaze who held such horror in them, as if seeing her was too much for you. As she was your living nightmare sitting right in front of you.

The remaining time the dancers practiced, you avoided her gaze and her presence. The more you avoided her, the more she itched to be in your presence alone, to be near you. The whole time at the practice she was, for the first time, distracted. Her thoughts are consumed by you. Her thoughts came up with every question she could ask about her and your current situation. What were you doing here? Why didn't she know? Were you at the manor? No, if you were she would've known.. Right? Okay if you weren't, then why weren't you? Those questions alone made her uneasy and frustrated. As it was time to go home, she watched as you hurriedly got out and quickly went home to wherever your home was. The nagging feeling screamed at her to follow you but decided against it and thought that going home and bringing the news to her family might help more. After all, they were stronger together.

She stormed into the manor, urgency in her every step, and sought out Alfred with a single, breathless demand: "Boys. Where?" Without hesitation, he led her to them. Her gaze fell upon them, intense and unyielding, her pupils trembling with an unspoken storm. She whispered a single name, a breathless, haunting utterance: "Y/N." The boys, in unison, responded, "We know."

A deep breath escaped her, the weight of their actions—venturing after you without so much as a word—forgotten for the moment. She snatched a laptop, her fingers flying over the keys in a frantic dance of their own. The screen flickered to life, revealing a video that stole the breath from the room. There you were, dancing—each movement a testament to grace, each step more captivating than the last.

The world had already fallen under your spell. The internet buzzed with adoration, praising the way your every turn, every leap, every pause held the audience in thrall. Under the stage lights, you seemed more than human—a celestial being, your form bathed in soft light, glowing like an ethereal angel, kissed by the very air around you. The boys stood frozen, their gaze fixed upon you, entranced.

Your presence was no illusion. You were a goddess of their own making, and in that moment, they knew: they were already devoted, bound by the silent understanding that they would worship you, body and soul.

As the video played, the room fell into a hushed reverence. The boys, once brimming with urgency and tension, now stood motionless, their eyes locked onto the screen, as if spellbound. Every fluid movement you made seemed to breathe life into the very air around them. They couldn’t look away; they didn’t want to. Your every step, every pirouette, was poetry in motion, a delicate balance of strength and grace that made their hearts race.

The way you arched your back mid-spin, the soft brush of your fingertips against your skin, the quiet breath you took before every leap—it all drew them in, slowly, methodically, as though they were witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. Each turn of your body mirrored the very rhythm of their own hearts, synchronized with the ethereal pulse of the music, and they couldn’t help but feel as if the entire world had narrowed down to this one sacred moment.

Your eyes, though focused on the stage, seemed to flicker with a spark of something far deeper, something they couldn't quite place but could almost taste. It was like watching a dream unfold, where every movement became a metaphor—each glide across the stage spoke to something eternal, something untouchable. They found themselves lost in the elegance of your form, the way your body seemed to move with a natural fluidity that defied the laws of physics.

The lights above you softened, caressing your silhouette, painting you in a divine glow. And in that moment, they felt small, insignificant even, as if you had been carved out of stardust itself, too perfect to comprehend, yet impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just the skill of your dance—it was your presence, your essence that held them captive.

They felt an almost primal pull, as though your every movement was speaking directly to their souls. The way your body spoke without words—your elegance and power blending seamlessly—rendered them speechless. They were entranced by the aura you carried, intoxicated by your beauty and the mystery you exuded, a beauty that wasn’t merely skin-deep but radiated from within, a force of nature.

For a fleeting moment, they could almost believe that you were more than human, that you were something higher, something divine. They stood there, wide-eyed and breathless, as if they had been granted a glimpse of something sacred—something that no one else could understand. And in that moment, they knew that they would follow you, worship you, in a devotion that transcended mere admiration. You weren’t just captivating; you were everything. They couldn't believe that someone like you had been overlooked by then.

Bruce now understands that with no plan in mind he would still follow you till the end of the earth. Oh his little baby. He would do anything to earn your love and affection for him. To see you and to bask under the ray of sunshine your smile brings. To feel your presence alone.

Dick now understands that he owes you more than a few dinners or dates as siblings. No. He owes you the world. As guilt eats his flesh up one by one, mourning all the versions of you that he could have witnessed right before his eyes are now long gone. But that's okay, he'll make it up to you.

Tim now understands that you were surely his angel. His savior. His form of salvation. He could watch you all day and never get bored. He could listen to you all day until his ears bled but never say a word.

Damian now understands that the disbelief he felt when looking at your paintings full of emotions overflowing with a sense of overwhelming feel, was now long gone because he knew that only such being like you, almost like a supernatural being, could be the only one who has the ability to capture such deep emotions in one painting, to be able to create such beautiful, breathtaking object.

Cassandra now understands why she felt like she somehow had a connection to you and that was because she was your sister. And as she was a daughter to batman by choice, that she will also be a sister by choice to you. She was an observer, someone who guards-and she will guard you with her life for all eternity.

As the overwhelming tension fills the room Alfred stands at the corner with a small smile. “apologies master y/n had I done this sooner, you would have not slipped through my grasp dear child. Do not fret for your family is coming to get you.”

Ah, Alfred, the mastermind. He knew this would happen. He just needed to intertwine a little. He did not worry because he knew. He knew that leaving your bedroom door open the moment he knew Dick was coming over to the manor while the others were busy, and knowing Dick's tendency to wander off in the vast expanse of Wayne Manor, the chances of him finding your room were high. He knew that rearranging your trophies inside your room (which you had told him to get rid of) would pique the interest of your family even more. He knew that decorating your hidden paintings around the minimalist and empty walls of the house would catch the attention of the youngest Wayne. He knew that playing those soft melodies of your voice through the small TV in the kitchen would enchant a certain sleep-deprived boy, making him miss the sweet sound of your voice.

Alfred knew that when Cassandra was called for the big ballet play, you would be at the same play too, as you had told him over the phone, giggling and excited with a high-pitched voice. He didn't bother to tell you about your sister's similar invitation, nor did he inform your sister about yours. He knew every single detail, every thread that needed to be woven together to create this intricate tapestry of reconnection.

Alfred's wisdom was like a silent symphony, orchestrating events with a delicate touch. He understood the nuances of each family member, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their desires. He knew that Dick's curiosity would lead him to your room, where the trophies would spark memories and questions. He knew that Damian's keen eye for detail would be drawn to the vibrant paintings, each brushstroke a testament to your hidden talents. He knew that Tim, in his sleep-deprived state, would be captivated by the melodies of your voice, a soothing balm to his restless mind.

Alfred's heart ached with the knowledge of your absence, but he also held hope. Hope that these carefully placed breadcrumbs would lead your family back to you, to the realization of what they had lost and the determination to make amends. He knew that the path to reconciliation was not an easy one, but it was a journey worth taking.

As the days passed, Alfred watched with a knowing smile as the pieces began to fall into place. He saw the flicker of recognition in Dick's eyes, the softening of Damian's demeanor, and the spark of determination in Tim's gaze. He knew that the seeds he had planted were beginning to grow, and soon, the family would be whole again.

Alfred was getting old and he couldn't bare the vision of his children Bruce and you, drifting away from each other, and you from him. Maybe it was his own selfish reason but he couldn't help it. He raised you from the moment you got to the manor. Teached you everything he knew and gave you all the love he could. He watched you grew up and maybe it was a moment of rush that he allowed himself to be selfish and turn the tables around.

In the quiet moments, Alfred allowed himself a moment of reflection. He thought of you, the child who had brought so much light into his life. He knew that you deserved to be seen, to be cherished, and to be loved. And he would do everything in his power to ensure that you found your way back to the family that needed you just as much as you needed them.

Authors note: I'm sorry I took so long in writing this! I hope yall enjoy the 10k+ words I wrote. One tip tho is to read and observe the details very carefully! Dw I'm gonna explain it soon tho. Hope yall enjoy this cuz imma take a break after this.

[quillpenartistz]

・❥・ Headcanon time ・❥・

╰┈➤ Here’s only a few headcanons I’ve made throughout my whole ego phase [my life basically]. Some that I have are already pretty popular amongst the community, so that must mean I’m doing something right!!!

.·:*¨༺╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗༻¨*:·.

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・❥・ Wilford Headcanons

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•⌇⌦ Can shift fragments of reality intentionally and unintentionally [he can’t necessarily manipulate all of reality itself. But he is aware of his existence and its purpose - he knows he is a character meant to play in a story and he simply goes along with it, all while manipulating and shifting the story in some ways.] His reality shifting power is similar to Wanda’s [marvel] reality manipulating powers in a way, though watered down. He can sneeze confetti, take out balloons out of thin air, spawn bubbles in his hands, teleport, and defy the laws of physics.

•⌇⌦ With his reality shifting abilities, he can turn into AU [alternate universe] versions of himself. Maybe there’s a universe where he’s a cartoon? Chibi? Horror eldritch creature? He can turn into those versions of himself in the physical world whenever he wants! The laws of those universes will then apply to the world he is in [such as onomatopoeia words appearing in physical text midair.]

•⌇⌦ He is easily distracted and can never sit still. He always tries to actively distract himself from the darker parts of his mind.

•⌇⌦ His body ‘desaturates’ similar to pinkie pie from my little pony whenever he is in a ‘dull mood’ or when someone drives him to the point of being sad.

•⌇⌦ He loves stickers a lot, he can never stop collecting them. Mischievously, he also likes to splash glitter onto anything he deems necessary [to torture people to clean it up, but he claims that it’s just to ‘liven things up’ a bit.]

•⌇⌦ Too much creamer in coffee kind of guy [“Can I have coffee with my vanilla creamer please?”]

•⌇⌦ Constantly eats and smells like fruit candies.

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.·:*¨༺╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗༻¨*:·.

╭┄┄┄┄┄┄┄╯

・❥・ Dark Headcanons

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•⌇⌦ More monster than human. [Yes, Dark is all the mansion, Celine, and Damien in one walking corpse. However, overtime, as Damien fell into the role of the villain, he may have embraced it a bit much. He still cares about his sister very dearly… so much so that he made sure she’s in a permanent sleep. Celine, even in her sleep, knows about this, and parts of herself influences Damien - thus influencing Dark as a whole. He is completely merciless, sadistic, manipulative, and couldn’t care less about the consequences of his actions as long as it benefits himself and his plan. Besides, he is immensely powerful, so if he is met with his consequences, he simply destroys them.

•⌇⌦ He is also very aware he is nothing more than a character, but, he knows he’s much more than this. Because he knows he’s a character, you often see him staring at the fourth wall but never necessarily addressing it [unlike Wilford.]

•⌇⌦ Can read minds and telepathically speak to people, conceal his presence, move through shadows, mimic voices, shift shadows and blend into them, and can turn himself into a Raven. Ravens hold a lot of symbolism, but for Dark specifically, The Raven means ‘Death, bad omen, bringer of chaos, transformation & metamorphosis, and the duality of existence’. He often stalks, observes, and travels within this form of himself.

•⌇⌦ Camera’s, no matter what kind, CANNOT pick up him as a whole. Whenever a picture is taken, a video, or anything of that sort is taken of him, he will always appear as a sporadic blur of blue, red, and black. He can never be caught on any footage.

•⌇⌦ Whenever he is present in a room, depending on his mood, the ringing sound that emits from him can completely shatter ANY kind of surface. Glass, wood, stone, etc. His surroundings also turn a bit desaturated/monotone whenever he’s around.

•⌇⌦ EXTREMELY tall, eerily tall, to the point it is very obviously inhuman.

•⌇⌦ Can take form of people’s fears and/or desires [used for manipulation tactics.]

•⌇⌦ Loves being praised for any reason. In fact, he could get distracted by it… likely because he’s slightly egotistical.

•⌇⌦ His body, to the touch, is always ice cold. Just being around him gives off cold chills and makes rooms colder.

•⌇⌦ Neck twitches constantly.

•⌇⌦ He’s highly patient.

•⌇⌦ Smells like smoke and old candles.

•⌇⌦ He is constantly tired, yet he never sleeps.

•⌇⌦ He can be referred to as Damien only by Wilford as he knows it’s a comfort for Wilford rather than anything else.

•⌇⌦ Dark wisps, like smoke, often emits from his hair and leaves a feint trail wherever he walks.

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.·:*¨༺╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗༻¨*:·.

・❥・ Bonus Short-Story ・❥・

.·:*¨༺╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗༻¨*:·.

A fuchsia haired man sat on a weathered wooden bench, the crisp autumn air swirling around him, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves and the hint of change. The trees stood tall and dark, their skeletal branches reaching out like gnarled fingers against the dark sky. Beneath the rolling clouds of black was a light shower of cold rain, paired with occasional deep bellows of thunder. Wilford, unbothered by the weather, wore a bright yellow coat that bore a striking contrast to the muted colors of the dark day, yet he felt oddly muted himself, as if the world around him had absorbed all the vibrancy he once possessed just moments ago. He stared at the trees, his curled mustache twitching as he was lost in thought. The shadows cast by the branches danced around him, triggering a flood of memories that flickered in his mind like fading autumn light. This time of year always made him contemplative how everything seemed to prepare for a long slumber, how decay and beauty coexisted in a delicate balance. Just as a gust of wind dragged him out of his thoughts and rippled up his spine, a dark figure swooped down from the sky. It landed gracefully next to him, perching on the back of the bench; its form a sleek raven whose feathers shimmered black as the void. The raven’s eyes glowed with an otherworldly stygian energy, deep pools of darkness that could drag anything into them.

Wilford turned to the raven, raising an eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you a striking little creature?” he quipped, a grin tugging at his lips. “What brings you to my little corner of the world? Here to steal my bread?” The raven tilted its head, regarding him with an unsettling calm, remaining silent but observant. Fragments of its being would fall out of place and come back together, as if reality itself fought against the creatures existence. Wilford leaned back against the bench, hearing it creak from his weight while his expression shifted. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the roles we play, the expectations we uphold… it’s exhausting.” He glanced at the raven, as if seeking validation. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m still just a part of the show. One of the many characters in this unending, chaotic play. Am I the hero, the jester, or maybe even the villain? It’s hard to tell when the lines blur! As if I would use any scripted lines… but you know what I mean.” The raven hopped a bit closer, its gaze cold. Wilford felt a familiar chill run through him from the stare. “And then there’s the bigger picture. All those choices we make, the paths we tread. Are they truly ours? Or are we really just puppets on strings, guided by forces beyond our understanding? It’s like we’re all just fragments of a larger story, one even I can never understand, lost in a labyrinth of our own making.”

The raven remained silent, but its intensity seemed to deepen, as if it understood. Wilford sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess what I’m really trying to say is… I’m not sure where I fit into all of this. Sometimes I want to scream, to break free from agonizing expectation. But then I think—what if in doing so, I lose everything that makes me… me? Do I even have the power to break this? If I do, what would happen?” He would ask, hoping for an answer. With a rustle of feathers, the raven leaned in slightly, almost as if offering comfort. “You will never know until you try, William. Every great discovery begins with a leap of faith.” The raven spoke without its beak moving an inch. The raven studied the man in the yellow coat for a moment longer, and then, with a powerful flap, it took to the air, soaring high above the trees. As it ascended, Wilford felt an odd sense of clarity settle over him. He smiled softly to himself, the weight of the world feeling a little lighter as he returned his gaze to the autumn trees. In the depths of uncertainty, there was hope. A chance to steer his path towards an unforeseeable future. And it was all only a leap of faith away.

.·:*¨༺╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗༻¨*:·.

・❥Thank you for reading! If you wish to see more, request some ideas. What are you curious about the most?❥・

[llyfrenfys]

"Fascism and Welsh Nationalism", or "Stop Fawning over the FWA you cont"

This is inspired by things I've been noticing around Aberystwyth lately while out and about.

Some mfer is putting up Free Welsh Army (FWA) stickers and I have to keep on pulling them down. Why? You ask.

Fascism.

Because of the not so subtle links between the FWA and fascist movements (of which those links are quite frankly underdiscussed) this post is necessary.

So, starting with the stickers:

This is just one of three identical stickers I've pulled down this last week in Aberystwyth. They appear more to be car stickers than anything else and must have cost a pretty penny to print and/or purchase. They appear to have been bought directly from a website using FWA imagery and slogans - yet does not claim to be the FWA (that I can see, at least). I'm not going to link to it because they don't need any more web traffic. But we will get onto why this is significant in a bit.

Anyway, returning to the stickers - I pulled down the first one off of an electric box on North Road, opposite Vaynor St in late November. I pulled down the second (pictured) also in late November on Penglais Road off the bus stop near the hospital. And in early December I pulled down the third one off of a wall near the Spar at the end of Vaynor Street. Right off the bat we can assume the guy who wasted a lot of money on these stickers lives local to where the stickers I've found so far were. So they're lazy, for one - not venturing much further than their own front door by the looks of it.

Iconography:

I've written about the iconography of the FWA before here but it bears repeating that if fascists approve of your iconography, then that's a sign your movement is already overrun with fascists.

This is the sticker design which I've been noticing about town. Top to bottom we have "Cymru Rydd/Free Wales" which on its own is fine. No qualms with that. But between the Welsh and English text is a symbol. This one:

Now, this was the symbol of the Free Wales Army. Note that I say *was* because the FWA doesn't exist any more. Yet various actors have tried to resurrect its very unsuccessful corpse over the years. These stickers seem to belong to a new organisation which is the latest to try and capitalise on the ghost of the FWA. Now, if you're like me, you'll have already noticed this design is, for lack of a better word, a bit dogwhistley. The angled, blocky, swastika-like stylisation of what is supposedly an eagle, the black and white void of any other features and the very fact it *is* an eagle depicted all seem a bit *too* similar to the iconography of the Third Reich, don't you think?

Their design choice is no accident. It is a design which appeals to fascists while also has enough Welsh cultural reference for apologists to hide behind with a plausibly deniable reason for why their eagle Looks Like That. The white eagle is a reference to the 13th C. poem Mab Darogan, in which Myrddin prophesises that "a king shall come with heroism from among the Welsh people" and that "generous men shall be reborn of the lineage of the eagles of Snowdonia". The eagle could have literally been drawn in any way. But it rather specifically was drawn like this. That choice is not accidental.

Now this new organisation which is trying to reanimate the corpse of the FWA (we'll call them EW) has incorporated the FWA symbol into their sticker. An endorsement of the failed so-called 'paramilitary' organisation on their part, to be sure. EW also have included a different style of white eagle on their sticker as well - which is blatantly stolen from Wikipedia (the copyright is expired, but 0/10 artistic effort on their part even so). Also not to nitpick but the eagle on the sticker is grey not white so that's also a fail.

Artistic criticisms aside, the sticker is loaded with dogwhistley iconography all round. The Celtic knot border isn't necessarily problematic, however, fascists and/or neo-nazis love to slap Celtic knots onto things because they associate Celticity with whiteness. The colour scheme may also be a coincidence, but it does remind me of the fascist symbol which is the 'Flag of Kekistan" which uses the same colour scheme.

Why does this matter and who were the FWA?:

The FWA were a Welsh nationalist (supposedly 'paramilitary') outfit which formed in Lampeter in 1963 and disbanded in 1969 (just 6 years of activity). They took a lot of their cues from the IRA and were effectively fanboys of them. The group was never really considered a threat and mostly consisted of middle-aged men playing paramilitary dress-up. They did claim to be funded by the IRA and that they had dogs trained to carry explosives. Their claims remain unproven.

HOWEVER - and here's where things get sticky. A lot of the issues the FWA were publicly concerned with were and are actually valid issues (e.g. the drowning of Capel Celyn, the Aberfan Disaster etc.). The problem is that fascists or fanboys of fascists love to get their foot in the door by addressing genuine issues. But what happens is that invariably a minoritised group is blamed for the existence of said issue and naturally that leads to discrimination and violence.

The police started to get a bit antsy with the investiture of then-prince Charles as prince of Wales and the possibility of the FWA doing some terrorism. So some of the FWA's leaders were arrested just prior to this. The group officially ended in 1969.

The nationalism advocated for by the FWA was of the 'blood-and-soil' type. Not just your common or garden nationalism (which still has issues but given context is perfectly able to exist in a non-fashy way). And that's why the idolisation of the FWA in years since is sus. It appeals to romanticised nationalist notions of brave men in uniforms helping free Wales - when in reality they did little terrorism and little to actually further the Welsh nationalist cause. In fact, the leadership of the FWA fell apart after they started to disagree on whether their actions were damaging the cause rather than helping it.

Julian Cayo-Evans founded the FWA and ran it with Dennis Coslett and Gethin ap Gruffydd. Gruffydd went on to found other youth nationalist organisations after he left the FWA due to disagreements with its direction - e.g. he founded the Patriotic Front in 1964 which was later outlawed by Plaid Cymru in 1966. It goes without saying names like 'Patriotic Front' are deliberate nods to other, similarly named fascist organisations like National Front.

Legacy and The Present:

FWA's only legacy is the sycophantic fanclub which ressurects the corpse of the FWA every few years to parade it around and relive the 'glory days' of paramilitary cosplay. But aside from functionally being useless, their iconography and politics are still very much under the fash umbrella and that must be resisted at every opportunity (hence why I'm tearing down their stickers - I don't want fascists to feel welcome here). Part of why people may turn a blind eye to the FWA/sympathise is that they may not be aware of the history of the FWA or see the dogwhistles laden in their work and symbols. Some may even just assume without any other context that they're just another Welsh-language preservation group and may even support them without realising the deeper nature of the organisation beyond just preserving the Welsh language.

Which brings me back to EW. I'm going to put the rest of this under a cut, I do encourage reading the rest though and reblogging to get the word out that

It is always morally okay to tear down fascist propaganda

If you see some in your town, don't hesitate to let fash know they aren't welcome here.

EW:

So, onto the latest in a long line of paramilitary wannabes who idolise a long-dead organisation from the 60s.

The EW website seems... sketch. Lots of banners and sections asking to 'donate now' and 'take action' (with money). So right off the bat this looks like a cash-grab.

Secondly, from their own 'About' section they claim that the Welsh Independence movement has "become inundated with authoritarian Marxist entryists who regard Welsh independence as merely a vehicle for furthering their own political agendas". Which is pretty bold stuff coming from an organisation trying to do The Exact Same. There's also a LOT of emphasis on youth involvement and youth nationalism.

There's also a lot of ahistorical claims in the About section too. E.g. on the prophecy of Myrddin "From this legend derives the very name of Cymru’s greatest mountains, with ‘Eryri’ meaning the ‘Seat of the Eagles’ in Cymraeg." - this is contested as there is no one agreed upon etymology of Eryri. To claim that this is The Etymology suggests that they picked this one just because it conveniently fits the version of the mythology they're presenting. They also claim that "Owain ap Gruffydd, would adopt three such eagles as his royal coat of arms" - this is blatantly incorrect as Owain ap Gruffydd lived before the Age of Heraldry and the three eagles are actually later attributed arms.

In EW's FAQ there's a section on supporting their organisation - with one paragraph saying that you can buy stickers instead "If you aren’t eligible or willing to commit to becoming an activist". Lol at 'if you aren't willing to fully commit to our FWA fanboy club you can put up some stickers instead'. Also the button to buy stickers suggests you pay via paypal "We’ll accept quick payments using PayPal and will have them shipped to you First Class" - which *totally* sounds legit (what do you bet they ask people to pay via 'friends and family instead of through business means?).

And... that's it. There's very little else on their website. It *looks* like they're trying to be a movement, but appear to lack substance (and money, judging from how many different Donate Now buttons are plastered all over the site). A hollow organisation blatantly bending history and mythology to fit their narrative, proudly using symbols designed to appeal to fascists while asking people to trust them with the future of Wales?

Dim diolch.

For further reading on why we should guard against fascism in Welsh language revival and independence, see my other post here.

Reblogs welcome for an antifascist independent Wales.

[yoyomomiko]

[TWO] — The haunted shed

☆ `` SPECTRAL SCAMMERS ``

☆ — summary: when cartman comes up with yet another 'get rich quick' scheme, he forces his friends, and you, into starting a ghost hunting service. armed with a mix of makeshift equipment, a questionable van and no actual skills, you begin taking jobs to "exorcise" haunted houses.

warnings: strong language, cartman being cartman

(a/n): it's so short and it feels pretty bland, but I'll try to get better and make the chapters longer :(( also, it looks like there's no ghosts in this chapter! at least for now.

wc: 2.7k+

★m.list

★series m.list

<- [PREVIOUS] — [NEXT] ->

The next day, you all met in Cartman's basement, which now served as your official 'Specter Squad Headquarters'. Cartman paced in front of the whiteboard, still scribbled with your chaotic business plan, a smirk glued to his face.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." He began, pausing for a dramatic effect. "We have our first job!"

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, except for Tweek, who was already trembling.

"Who's the poor sucker?" Stan asked, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

Cartman waved his phone in the air proudly. "My mom's friend's neighbor. Apparently, their shed is haunted by some ghostly menace. Creepy noises, things getting knocked over, the whole paranormal package!"

Kyle frowned sitting on the edge of the couch with his arms resting on his knees. "Let me guess. You told them we'd take care of it for a ridiculous amount of money?"

"$50." Cartman replied with a smug look on his face.

"Fifty bucks for a shed?!" Kyle repeated, eyes wide.

"Hey, ghost insurance isn't cheap." Cartman shot back. "Do you even know how much ectoplasm containment costs? Exactly. I'm giving them a good deal."

You snorted, leaning back on the couch. "More like you're scamming them. What's next, charging a consultation fee?"

"That's not a bad idea..." Cartman muttered, trailing off as he mentally added it to his list.

Stan sighed. "Alright, so what's the plan? Just show up, wave a flashlight around and hope no one notices we're full of crap?"

"Uh, no, Stan." Cartman replied, rolling his eyes. "We need equipment. Real ghost hunting tools! If we show up empty handed, we'll look like amateurs."

"We are amateurs." Craig pointed out, but Cartman ignored him.

...

Within minutes, you all had rummaged through the basement for anything that could count as equipment. Flashlights were passed around, most of them barely functioning, as Cartman dragged a vacuum cleaner from a corner.

"This." He started, holding it up. "Is our spirit vacuum. It sucks up ghosts and traps them inside."

"That's literally just a vacuum." You stared at Cartman, crossing your arms.

"Not anymore." Cartman declared with a smirk, sticking a few glow in the dark star stickers on its side. "Now it's paranormal tech. You're welcome!"

"This is so stupid." Kyle groaned, running a hand down his face.

"You're stupid!" Cartman snapped. "But guess what? The customers don't care. They just want results. And results are exactly what we're gonna give them. Fake or not!"

You grabbed one of the flashlights, testing it's weak glow before glancing at Kyle. "You think this thing's gonna last the night?"

"Not a chance." Kyle shook his head, the corners of his lips tugging upwards, forming a faint smile.

His gaze was fixed on you for a moment longer than necessary as you felt heat rushing to your cheeks.

"Alright, lovebirds!" Cartman interrupted, snapping his fingers in your direction. "Save the awkward flirting for later. We've got ghosts to catch!"

"We weren't-" You quickly spoke up, but Cartman was already moving on.

.

.

.

The group assembled just outside the neighbor's picked fence. Cartman stood at the front with his back straightened and a clipboard in hand.

"Alright, listen up." He began, his voice hushed. "This is our first gig, so we're going to nail it. No screw ups, no whining, and definitely no blowing our cover."

"Cover? You mean the fact that we're not actual ghost hunters?" Stan raised an eyebrow.

Cartman glared at him. "Exactly. So shut up and follow my lead." He turned back to face the house, his face lighting up with smug confidence.

You all exchanged glances but followed him up the driveway anyway. You stayed close to Kyle, who was mumbling under his breath.

"This is going to be a disaster." He muttered, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Probably." You agreed, giving him a small smile. "At least it'll be entertaining, right?"

"You have a weird definition of 'entertaining'." Kyle glanced at you, the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

Before you could respond, Cartman knocked loudly on the front door. A moment later, it creaked open to reveal a middle aged woman with dark circles under her eyes.

"Thank goodness you're here!" She exclaimed. "It's been awful! Just awful!"

"Ma'am, you made the right choice calling the Specter Squad. We're South Park's best paranormal investigators, and we're here to solve your ghost problem." Cartman faked a professional tone, which wasn't really convincing.

"Oh, I just don't know what's in that shed. Every night, I hear the strangest noises... Scratching, banging, sometimes even growling... It's terrifying!"

"Sounds like raccoons..." Kyle muttered under his breath.

Cartman elbowed him sharply, giving the woman a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, ma'am. We've dealt with worse. Now let's talk about payment..."

"Payment?" The woman blinked, caught off guard as her brows raised in surprise.

"Of course! Ghost hunting isn't cheap, you know. We've got specialized equipment, years of experience-"

"Years?" Clyde interrupted, but Cartman ignored him.

"And we offer a guarantee of satisfaction. For a case like this, we'll charge a base fee of $50."

"Alright... Fifty... But only if you can get rid of whatever's out there." She hesitated, looking towards each of you in the group.

"Deal!" Cartman exclaimed, sticking out his hand. She shook it hesitantly before leading the group around the side of the house and into the backyard.

.

.

The shed came into view, at the far end of the yard. It was old, its wooden walls splintered, with rusted hinges hanging off the door.

Cartman took a deep breath, clipboard clutched to his chest. "Alright, this is it. Stan, [Y/N], you investigate the area. Kyle, you're with me. Clyde and Kenny, guard the door. Craig, Tweek- uh... Just stand there and look useful."

"This is a bad i-idea! What if it's not a ghost?! What if it's like, a demon or something?!" Tweek panicked, fidgeting nervously.

"It's not a demon." Craig replied flatly, but even he looked a bit uneasy.

You and Stan both glanced at each other as you both began walking around the shed, flashlights in hand.

"So... What do you think we're actually dealing with here?" You asked as you waved your flashlight around.

"Probably racoons." Stan answered with a shrug. "But knowing Cartman, he'll find a way to make it sound like a ghost."

"That sounds about right." You smiled softly.

On the other side, Cartman was crouched, pretending to examine the ground. Kyle stood nearby, arms crossed as he had a tired expression on his face.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Kyle asked as he sighed loudly.

"Ectoplasmic traces." Cartman replied, nodding to himself.

"You don't even know what that means." Kyle ran a hand over his face, sighing for the nth time that day.

"Shut up Jew! I know what I'm doing."

Kyle rolled his eyes but gazed at you when your flashlight beam caught something shining in the grass.

"What's that?" He asked, walking over to join you.

You bent down and picked up the small, glinting object. A broken piece of metal that looked like it had come from the shed's roof.

"Probably nothing." You responded as you held it up for him to see.

He leaned closer, his face inches away from yours.

"Still, good eye."

You felt heat rushing up to your cheeks, but before you could say something, Cartman's voice cut through your sweet moment.

"Alright, idiots! Enough playing around. Let's get inside and find this ghost!"

...

The shed's door creaked loudly as you pushed it open, earning a whimper from Tweek. Your flashlight glow cut through the dark, revealing cobweb, scattered tools and a floor with littered leaves. You quickly turned off your flashlight as you looked away from the sight.

"Alright assholes, try not to screw up." Cartman declared, clipboard in hand as he gestured towards the shed.

"We have to act professional!" He whisper yelled, eyes narrowing.

"How professional can we look with a broken vacuum and dollar store flashlights?" Craig muttered, but his words were drowned by Cartman's loud, fake cough.

"Why do I feel like this is going to be a disaster?" Clyde mumbled, rubbing his arms for warmth.

"It's always a disaster when Cartman's in charge." Kyle replied in a dry tone.

You smirked, catching the way Kyle's gaze studied the shed. He glanced at you, his eyes softening, though only for a moment, the tension in the air didn't feel so heavy.

"Are we doing this or not?" Craig asked impatiently as he crossed his arms.

"Yes, Craig, we're doing this. But first, we need to assert dominance!" Cartman sighed out in an exaggerated way.

"Dominance?" You repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"I like how that sounds." Kenny snickered, and so did Clyde as he nudged Kenny's shoulder.

"You don't just walk into a ghost's lair! You have to show it who's boss!" Cartman pointed at the shed dramatically.

"We're ghost hunters, not wrestlers." Stan stated as Craig chuckled.

Ignoring him, Cartman turned to the neighbor, who was watching nervously from her back porch.

"Ma'am, we're going in. We've got this under control." Cartman spoke up confidently.

"Please... Just be careful." The woman clutched her cardigan tightly as she nodded. "It's been making horrible noise lately."

"No worries, we'll take care of it. By the way, there's a $10 fee for ghost insurance in case it tries to follow us home."

"Ghost insurance?" Kyle repeated, squinting his eyes at Cartman.

"Do you want to get haunted, Kyle? Didn't think so." Cartman shot him a glare.

...

The group gathered their supplies, which were only some barely working flashlights, an old vacuum cleaner Cartman had given the title of 'Spirit Sucker 3000', and a few random tools from Clyde's garage.

"I still don't understand how this is supposed to work..." Tweek muttered, holding his flashlight like it might explode.

"It works because I said it works." Cartman replied, adjusting the vacuum strap on his shoulder.

You rolled your eyes and turned on your flashlight again. The shed wasn't particularly big, but the barely standing wood made it seem more sinister. Plus the cobwebs, creepy old tools and leaves left on the floor.

"Let's just get this over with." Craig sighed as he stepped up to the door.

"Hold up! The leader goes first!" Cartman held up a hand to stop him.

"You're not the leader." Kyle shot back.

"Yes, I am!" Cartman snapped. "I made the website, I set up the payment system, and I'm the only one here who isn't a total pussy!"

"Fine. Go ahead, fearless leader." Craig mocked.

Cartman smirked as he confidently pushed the door further and stepped inside.

...

The air inside was heavy and barely breatheable, carrying the scent of mold and rotting wood. Your flashlight flickered as you swept it across the space, revealing shelves packed with rusted tools and boxes stacked carelessly.

"Wow..." Kenny's eyes scanned the area. "This place is charming."

"Spread out, assholes! We're looking for signs of paranormal activity!" Cartman waved his clipboard dramatically.

"What exactly counts as a sign?" Stan asked as he stares at a random jar with unidentifiable substances.

"Anything spooky." Cartman answered simply. "Weird sounds, cold spots, glowing slime... You know, ghost stuff."

"You're making this up as you go, aren't you?" Kyle groaned.

"Shut up, Kyle! Do your job!" Cartman yelled.

You held back a laugh as Kyle mumbled something under his breath. When he caught your eye, his gaze softened, giving you a small smile that made your heart pound in your chest.

...

You all explored different corners of the shed, examining and looking out for 'spooky stuff'.

You crouched near a stack of boxes, brushing away cobwebs to get a closer look. The wood beneath your fingers felt slightly wet and splintered. You noticed a faint light coming from above.

"Hey..." You called out, shining your flashlight towards the roof, standing up. "There's a hole up here."

Kyle joined you, squinting up at the opening. "That could explain the noises. If wind's getting in, it might make the walls creak."

"Or it could be the ghost's escape route." Cartman interrupted, scribbling something on his clipboard.

"Pretty sure ghosts don't need escape routes." You sighed.

Cartman ignored you, turning his attention to a nearby workbench.

Kyle stood by your side, tilting his head thoughtfully as he examined the roof. "Good catch." He praised, his voice quieter now.

"Thanks." You replied, smiling to yourself like an idiot as you felt your cheeks warm up.

All of the sudden, a loud crash echoed from the back of the shed.

"What was that?!" Tweek yelped, clutching his flashlight like a weapon.

"Relax." Kenny spoke up, moving towards the source of the noise. "It's probably just-"

His words cut off as he stumbled upon a crate.

Kenny crouched down, shining his flashlight on the wooden box. It was old and had a loose lid that looked like it hadn't been touched in years.

"What do you think's in it?" Clyde asked, creeping over Stan's shoulder.

"Only one way to find out." Kenny replied, slowly taking the lid off.

Inside was a trio of small and furry bodies. Wide eyes reflected the flashlight glow as tiny claws scratched against the wood.

"Aww, raccoons!" Kenny cooed as he pouted. "They're adorable!"

"They're so cute!" You purred as you admired them. They were so small and it could fit perfectly in your palm!

"I wanna pet them." Kenny said as he reached out to pick one up.

The once cuddly creatures now hissed loudly, lounging at him with surprising speed.

Kenny screeched, stumbling backwards as the raccoon latched onto his sleeve.

The other two raccoons bolted from the crate, darting across the shed.

"Jesus Christ!" Stan yelled, jumping out of the way.

"Get it off! Get it off me!" Kenny screamed, waving his arm around crazily as the raccoon kept clinging onto his sleeve.

"Stop moving!" You shouted, grabbing a broom and trying to swat the raccoon away. It hissed at you, revealing its sharp teeth.

Another raccoon climbed onto a shelf, knocking over jars and sending their contents crashing to the floor. Tweek jumped onto a crate to avoid the mess, grabbing at his hair.

"Where are they coming from?!" Cartman swung his flashlight around wildly.

"They're everywhere!" Craig noted, dodging another raccoon as it ran past him.

"We need to get them out of here!" Kyle tried to block one of the raccoons' paths.

"And how do you suggest we do that?" Stan yelled, ducking as another jar flew above his head.

"Loud noises!" Cartman quickly grabbed a rusty pot from a workbench. "Scare them out!"

You didn't have a better idea, so you grabbed a pan and started banging it against the broom handle. The others quickly followed, grabbing tools and smashing them into anything, clangs echoing through the shed.

Tweek kept flinching at the loud noise, but he also followed and helped the rest.

The raccoons screeched in protest, before finally rushing out the hole in the roof.

"Victory!" Cartman shouted proudly, slamming his pot.

You lowered your makeshift drumstick, panting from the effort. Kyle was standing beside you, his face flushed.

"Nice work." He nudged your shoulder lightly.

"Not bad yourself..." You replied, smiling despite what just happened.

.

.

You all stumbled out of the shed, disheveled but successful. The neighbor was waiting in the yard, fidgeting nervously.

"Well? Did you get rid of it?" She asked, nibbling on her bottom lip.

Cartman puffed out his chest, clipboard in hand. "It was a tough case." He started dramatically. "But yes, the ghost has been banished. You're welcome."

"Oh, thank you!" She exclaimed, reaching out for her wallet.

"Now, about the payment..." Cartman stopped her, holding up a finger. "It was an agressive spirit, so we're charging an extra $10 for chaos pay."

The woman hesitated but handed over the cash either way.

As you all walked away, Cartman grinned joyfully, stuffing the money into his pocket.

"First job: complete. We're officially ghost hunters, bitches!"

★yoyomiko ★miko

[pointyhatspointyears]

🎀Do they have something they collect? {Stamps, rocks, stickers, etc}? For Goose, Yasumi and Fyrstyrm (curveball! I wanna know what a gardener might tuck into his pockets)

Goose:

Scars/bruises: Since she was little, she's been running around parkouring her way around Uldah's walls and riling up the brass blades (her extended refugee family lived in tents outside but that never stopped her from getting anywhere) and her insufferable habit of getting into fights she knew she couldn't win only got worse when she landed herself a job aboard Fyr's merchant vessel. It's her way of defying her lot in life and saying "I'm still here. Do what ye will, I'll still be here." She hardly ever has the advantage in terms of raw strength (she a growin' gurl) but you can be sure she'll outlast most opponents by sheer tenacity. The crew have been trying to tell her it's really not necessary. Really, No one's keeping count and she has nothing to prove to anyone. Never stuck.

-

Yasumi:

She'd deny being in the habit of collecting anything that didn't serve a practical purpose; astrological tomes, scryglasses, ephemerides, tinctures. Practical tools. But the dizzying amount of baubles, stones, bright quill feathers, fines laces and Amdapori artifacts littering her basement would beg to differ.

Memories: Other people's, that is. She stores them in the form of tarot cards, each ornately decorated with its previous owner's face. What does she use them for? No one knows. Do they have a say in it? No and no one would know to object. Only Yuusei had previously given her consent to take some of her memories away. The rest are stolen. People tend to let their guard down around sweet little old ladies. It makes it much easier for her to draw upon their most repressed memories and extract what she will as they prattle on about the latest Raven editorial.

The pointiest of hats but that's a given

-

And as much as I'd LOVE to answer for Fyr, I'll take dictation from @fyrstyrm since he's not my character :D

Soil! Reeeal dark, rich stuff full of minerals. He'd grab a fistful, take a long whiff, and stuff it in his side pocket.

Wild flowers would be gently tucked into his waist satchel to be arranged at home for Yuuko.

As of late, and ever since he found out about Yuusei's peculiar affinity to rocks, he's been picking up the odd rock to sort of put her to the test.

- "An' wot's this one got to say?" - "...Please leave them alone. They have their own place for a reason. They didn't ask to be taken away. Oh wait, except for this one. He's excited to go on an adventure."

He does eventually return most of them.

[partofmycharm]

The Neon Project - Part Two (Male Yautja x GN Reader)

Awkwardly popping in to finally post the second part. Genuine apologies to anyone who was interested in this story and thought I lost interest. I never did, I was just stumped on how to continue. Also just letting everyone know that I saw every comment on the first part. I love and appreciate all of them, and I'm sorry I never replied - I'll do better.

-

Summary: You lead Hadt'yk'e to a club to find an audit log necessary to kick-start your rocky alliance.

Content Warnings: mentions of drugs and alcohol use, mentions of nudity (not the reader), swearing, SFW.

Wordcount: 3130

Tag List: @fall-myriad (happy to tag anyone who asks😁)

-

Part One

Sirens wailed in the distance, audible even from your position, presumably loud and echoing amongst the empty streets. You guessed it was one of the street kids caught prowling the shopfronts for some faulty security systems. It only ever was because no seasoned city dweller dared to even touch the metal sidewalks past shakedown hour. Kids often thought they were invincible, though. Until it happened to them, where the military plucked them off the street and shoved them into the juvenile detention centres on the outskirts to never be seen again.

You took the backroads — an interconnected web of tunnels that sat just below the surface. They’d been built years ago, a cooperative project between multiple rebel groups across the entire city. But they were old and a little precarious. Excessive foot traffic had worn down the stone, and the electrical equipment smugglers were able to source back then was poor quality at best, so there was a myriad of malfunctions that existed to screw someone over one day.

Hadt’yk’e hardly fit; the tunnels weren’t built for an individual his size. He kept his head low as you led him through the crumbling tunnels. You looked back at him as crumbs fell from the ceiling and rolled down his body. The claps of the debris hitting the stone ground echoed up and down the expanse of the tunnel.

It was difficult to not find his predicament amusing. When Hadt’yk’e clocked the mirth on your expression, he snarled lowly. It was an empty threat, perhaps just a warning, so you turned your head back to hide the growing, mocking smile.

An elevator sat up ahead. Your shoes scuffed the pebbles on the ground as you approached it and slammed your palm against the red button that jutted from the stone. There was a harsh creaking noise, and you waited in silence for a few seconds as the elevator jolted down to your level.

You pulled open the protective gate, which shuddered and groaned as it folded into each other. It revealed an old elevator covered in graffiti and peeling stickers. You entered first, but you never took your eye off Hadt’yk’e; not here, alone. He stepped inside after you, and it shook precariously under his weight.

“Watch it,” you said coolly. “Lift can only handle so many pounds.”

Hadt’yk’e glanced around, and when you pressed the only up button inside, he placed his hand on the wall. There was a horrible groaning sound as the elevator started to rise. The Yautja’s head craned up to carefully watch the grinding mechanics.

He wondered how many times it’d fallen, if ever. And exactly how far it would fall before coming to a crashing stop. His grip on the wall tightened, and he looked over at you to make sure you hadn’t noticed.

When the elevator stopped at the top, you stepped forward and pried open the metal gate. The antechamber was cold, and a green hologram glitched and bounced just ahead. ‘Human Only Territory’ glared at the both of you, almost mockingly.

At the grand double doors behind it stood a burly, silent man. You walked through the hologram, which disappeared inside your body for just a second before you approached the bouncer. He looked past you and at Hadt’yk’e, who came to a stop just a few steps behind you.

“What? You can’t read?” The bouncer remarked casually.

“Just biz,” you said harshly, leaving little room for argument in your voice. But the bouncer only sneered down at you with his one eye.

“This ain’t no grounds for business,” he said just as resolutely.

“It is now.”

The bouncer leaned down towards you, his breath ripe with spearmint. He spoke slowly as if he was spelling it out for you. “Humans. Only.”

Hadt’yk’e stepped forward, his shoulders squared. “Must I treat you like a youngling? This is business beyond your scope of practice. Step aside.”

“I’m no thug. I don’t get intimidated by freaks,” the bouncer said coldly. He leaned back and flicked his cool gaze to the purple Yautja. “Now beat it.”

There was a split second of tense silence before a loud crack echoed throughout the antechamber. You stepped back as the bouncer suddenly collapsed to the ground, blood dripping down the side of his face after the thorough hit Hadt’yk’e had delivered to his temple.

The Yautja stepped back and turned to you. You glared sharply. “No more of that shit. This isn’t a good cop, bad cop, action comedy.”

You pushed open the double doors and stepped over the bouncer’s thick, unconscious body. The club was basked with UV light — no strobes or flashing lights that made you feel nauseous. Most of the booths were occupied, and the smoking stations were blurred by a haze of white smoke. And, as the icing on top of the cake, just about everyone was topless, their skin painted with glowing designs of various colours. Psychedelic music vibrated the walls, floating up and down the two storeys of the club.

Immediately, eyes were on you. Well, not exactly — behind you, actually. Hadt’yk’e’s presence garnered an abundance of stares, sculpting him into an object of scrutiny. You could only imagine his discomfort, or perhaps confusion. No one went running, no one screamed, they all just glared as if his presence was a nuisance, like a persistent mosquito. Their red eyes followed his every step, gazing up and down the length of his tall body with a clear sheen of judgment.

The UV lights made the whites of your eyes and your teeth glow. You looked up to the second floor, which overlooked the club below. The railing was cold on your palm, and the metal stairs rattled under your combined weight.

Hadt’yk’e shouldered off the abundance of unwanted attention as he kept his head straight. He looked up at you as you trekked up the stairs, trying to gauge how you were feeling. But you, too, wore your emotions glacially cold.  To be fair, you weren’t the centre of these drugged people’s attention, whose eyes still followed the hulking purple figure until he disappeared onto the second floor.

You turned and held your hand up. “Leave it to me this time,” you said, if anything, quite coldly. The last thing the both of you needed was more trouble, especially here. When Hadt’yk’e chuffed behind his mask, you exhaled roughly through your nose and turned on your heel. Fletch was certainly going to get an earful for what he was putting you through.

A black leather booth wrapped around a corner. It was occupied by a middle-aged man with a metal left hand. He sips from a tumbler glass while two women sit on either side of him, dressed in only short skirts. Their upper bodies were painted with glowing red as they blew smoke from a small machine that bubbled on the glass table in front of them.

A security guard leaned against the balcony, watching you and Hadt’yk’e with careful eyes as you both approached. He folded his arms over his burly chest as if to puff it out more. When you got closer, the guard held out a hand and then made a shooing gesture.

“No, no, Sean. Let 'em through,” the man on the couch said. Isaac, his name was, the CEO of a technology company founded on Elysium. His products were popularly used in warfare. There were also rumours he had dealings with President Eustance, but that was neither here nor there.

Isaac pointed at you. “Fletch send you?” He asked, his voice deep and gravelly from years of chain smoking. The two women in the booth shifted, sending you and Hadt’yk’e selective looks.

“Yeah,” you said, folding your arms over your chest. “Just some side biz.”

“Huh.” Isaac nodded almost as if he was unimpressed. He hid it well as his sly gaze slid to Hadt’yk’e. “Who’s your friend?”

You sighed, your shoulders heaving. “Just a shadow,” you said through an exhale. Hadt’yk’e looked at you for a second, unimpressed, but not visibly so.

“Hmm.” Isaac’s hum rumbled over the music. “Yautja.” He grinned, pointing his pinkie finger at Hadt’yk’e. You raised your eyebrows at the blatantly insulting gesture. “They’re everywhere. Even when you can’t see ‘em.” Isaac looked at Hadt’yk’e, then. “Como las ratas.”

Hadt’yk’e squared his shoulders. He didn’t rise to the bait, though, You cut in before anything serious happened.

“As much as I’d love to sit here and discuss the quintessence of Yautja’s, I’m actually wanting to discuss something a little more important,” you said without even bothering to hide the sarcasm that dripped from your voice. Isaac raised his brows and gestured for you to continue. “Did Fletch send you the deets or not?”

“Fletch and I are no longer in correspondence with each other,” Isaac said. He pointed at Hadt’yk’e again. “It seems my absence has opened a few holes in your resolve.”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” you said easily, raising your brows as if to emphasise your point. “You have something that we need. A chip.”

Isaac shrugged. “I have many of those.”

“It’s an audit log of all the crafts that have registered on the touch-down pads,” you said coolly, breezing past his sarcasm. “As far as we know, yours is the only company that tracks that kind of data.”

The only company that does dealings with the Cobras, but you left that part out.

“Hmm.” Isaac hummed again, lifting his chin a little higher. “First you get some Yautja to fight your battles for you, and now you want to, what? Stalk some people? Neon City isn’t yours, you know.” He leaned back, placing his arms around the two women. “Maybe I should get back in touch with Fletch. Provide some moral support.”

“Do you have it or not?” You asked bluntly. Hadt’yk’e remained as stiff as a rock beside you. He’d crossed his arms at some point, trying to reinforce an imposing presence behind you.

“That depends on how much you’re talking.”

“A thousand credits for a night,” you said. Credits were the underworld currency across most human colonies, Elysium included. “I’ll get Temperance to return the chip tomorrow.”

Isaac waved a hand. “Two thousand. And an extra five hundred for the bouncer you almost killed.”

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

With a heavy sigh, Isaac leaned forward and turned a glass tablet around. There were a few live video camera feeds, and the man tapped his knuckle on the entrance surveillance camera, which showed the unconscious bouncer. “Perhaps this will recall a memory.”

You slowly looked over your shoulder to glare at Hadt’yk’e. When you turned back around, you tilted your head to the side. “Deal. But we need it now.”

Isaac smiled, his gaze darkening with sick pleasure and greed. He snapped his fingers at the security guard. “Sean will retrieve it for you.” He nodded once at Sean, who made a point of directing the weight of his ire onto you before purposely bumping shoulders with Hadt’yk’e on his way past. Isaac watched, a sly glint in his eyes. “But I need to see the credits now.”

“Half,” you responded quickly. The jacket you wore only seemed to make your body temperature feel sweltering in this psychedelic club. You felt you were about to get high just listening to the music.

“I don’t think so.” Isaac wagged a finger. “I’m not about to be scammed.”

“Fletch isn’t interested in ripping you off.”

“Maybe not Fletch.”

You stayed silent for a few seconds. You then lifted your hand and yanked down your jacket sleeve to reveal the clear thin strap around your wrist. There was a small chip in the centre below the soft flesh underneath. “Transactions in his name.”

 Isaac sucked on his teeth as he observed you with a glinting gaze. “He trusts you.”

“Trust is scarce,” you responded quickly. You pulled the jacket sleeve back down and shot a pointed look at Hadt’yk’e, who remained unnervingly silent. Though, you supposed you had told him to just shut up and let you do the work.

“Right, you are.” Isaac leaned forward to grab his tumbler glass. He sipped the dark liquid inside that, upon closer inspection, emitted a faint smoke.

Conversation dwindled until Sean returned with a plastic baggy, inside it the audit log chip. He showed it to Isaac, who tsked and leaned forward to grab his tablet. His fingers tapped roughly on the screen, and when he turned it back around, you found that he’d brought up the secure payment tool developed long ago for non-legally authorised exchanges.

When you confirmed it was half of the agreed price, you brought Fletch’s transaction ship to the screen. There was an audible ding as the app processed the payment. Only then did Sean allow you to snatch the baggy from his hand.

“One day,” Isaac warned, holding up a finger. You almost scoffed — as if you would forget his rigid conditions. “And I want it back in perfect condition.”

“Your biz is with Temperance after this, Isaac. Not me,” you said coolly. You tucked the baggy into your pocket and took several steps back, almost bumping into Hadt’yk’e.

“Watch your shadow,” Isaac said, again gesturing at the purple Yautja with his pinkie finger. “Oh, and (Y/N)?” When you turned to look at him, he grinned. “You should visit more often. I’ll save you a nice warm seat.” As if to emphasise his point, he wrapped his arms around the women’s shoulders and squeezed their bare breasts.

You pretended to think about it for a moment. “Hmm. Pass.” You turned back around, walking off quickly to escape the heated conversation.

Isaac sighed heavily as he pulled his arms away from the women, who were both dazed, the whites of their eyes red from the drugs. “Chingado,” Isaac muttered as he sipped his drink.

Neither you nor Hadt’yk’e spoke until you exited the club. The bouncer was still unconscious, though he was being tended to by a topless man whose body paint didn’t seem so impressive with no UV lights. He glared sharply at the both of you, and you kept your head down until the shuttering elevator started to move.

“That was Isaac.” Your voice rang in the tight space, bouncing off the yellow metal walls.

Hadt’yk’e grunted. “He is no saint.” He folded his arms over his chest, evidently bruised by the unexpected ego attacks.

“He’s a CEO. Corp motherfuckers who think they’ve earned the right to treat others like trash,” you spoke quietly, staring at the chipped concrete ahead as the elevator rattled dangerously against it. “When in reality, they’re no better than us, creeping around after dark like rats. Only difference is, they’re only here to flaunt the money in their pockets.”

“Hmm. And referring to me as your shadow is not treating others like trash?” Hadt’yk’e asked casually, looking down at you through the eyes of his mask.

You glanced at him, quickly answering with a snappy response. “I don’t know if you noticed, but outsiders aren’t welcome here. You’re lucky no one tried to fuck anything up.”

The elevator came to a shaking stop, and you stepped out into one of the tunnels in the backroads, the same one that led back to one of the Cobra’s’ safehouses. Hadt’yk’e stepped out after you, watching as the elevator precariously shuddered in the absence of his weight.

“Only I’m lucky?” Hadt’yk’e asked after you both started walking through the tunnel.

“You think I care about the credits?” You made a point of scoffing loudly.

“Yes,” Hadt’yk’e replied quickly. “Is your survival not dependent on the lowly payments your temporary employers promise you with?”

“You’re dumber than you look if you think it’s difficult for me to find another contract that pays the same, if not more.”

Hadt’yk’e chuffed, almost with a disbelieving aura. “If it were me, I would be more concerned about what my superior would say if they found out I left my partner at the hands of intoxicated scum.”

You quickly turned on the Yautja, who paused in his path before he ran you over. “Let me get one thing straight. We are not partners. We are not allies.” You pointed between the both of you. “You are nothing but yet another Arbitrator dirtying his name to pay the likes of me, who is nothing but a criminal who could destroy your life if anyone else found out that you were here with me.” You lowered your hand. “Don’t fool yourself and think this is anything more than just a job. Don’t make yourself look like an idiot by thinking that Fletch would give a single fuck if you were to die at the hands of ‘intoxicated scum.’”

“Not even after paying so many credits for a useless chip?” Hadt’yk’e jutted his chin at you.

You squinted. “It’s two a half thousand credits. We have this thing called debts, and that’s nothing off my back.” You turned around and started to walk again. “And, by the way, this chip isn’t useless. It’s an audit log that tracks the movement of spacecrafts.”

“So, mine would be registered on this log, I assume?” Hadt’yk’e just about breathed down your neck.

“Don’t sweat it. Temp will give back the polished audit log.” You rested your hands in the pockets of your jackets as you walked, protectively curling your fingers around the baggy. “And besides, we’ll be able to track the precise location of the handover that occurred. You know, with your so-called buddy.”

“Hmm. Yes. The one you handed over to Weyland-Yutani.”

“Yada, yada, yeah, that one,” you said sarcastically. “We can record all the activity in that area and try to triangulate the possible coordinates of their facility. Could be in there within a few days, granted your friend is still alive.” You said the last part quietly.

“He will be,” Hadt’yk’e said.

You hummed. “I didn’t know Yautja communicated telepathically.”

“I don’t know what this means, and I don’t appreciate your goading.” Hadt’yk’e’s voice was stern as he followed behind you.

“I wasn’t goading,” you replied coolly. The end of the conversation saw you reaching the Cobra’s’ safehouse. The steel door was painted red, and you banged your fist a few times on it before a small hatch opened. Two eyes peered through, and when they landed on your figure, the hatch slammed shut, and the door rolled open.

You waved Hadt’yk’e through. “Ladies first.”

Hadt’yk’e grunted, staring down at you with his mask for a few seconds before he turned and strolled past the man who waited for you both to enter. You sighed, smiled in mirth, and followed the large male before the door rattled shut.

[j0kers-light]

have you considered taking requests? Your writing is wicked good and I get it if you don’t. If you’re interested/ I was feeling a role reversal with a male Y/N being the civilian to joker’s female?

Role Reversal - Oneshot

Hello anon I love you so so much!! 🖤✨

First things first I never considered taking requests (I didn’t think anyone cared😭😭😭) but THEN I read yours and I went down a spiral! You didn’t give me any details or perimeters, just an idea and I just took that as a sign to go crazy go stupid! It is my first time writing for a M!reader so please forgive me if I screwed that aspect up! I got carried away and I’m not ashamed!!

I’m so sorry this is almost three weeks old! I promise I didn’t put you on the back burner.. I just didn’t now where to go at one point SO! without further ado *drum roll*

Please note I was kinda inspired by The Neighborhood. I can envision Joker walking into this song sooo bad! Enjoy! 🖤✨

It was like any other day. Long hours spent sorting and moving heavy shipments within the warehouse.

Everyone had a role and stuck to it while maintaining playful banter whenever there was downtime in between work. You worked third shift, being wide awake when the common civilian was fast asleep. You handled the unseen portion of society's cycle of commerce. If you didn't work, these important goods would never arrive on time to where they needed to go.

A lot could happen overnight. It was your goal to make sure it did.

It didn't matter what was inside the boxes, your job was to prepare and load them into trucks. In your division just about everything from household electronics to stationary could pass through.

Tonight you signed up for misc. overtime. Ten-hour shifts with your fellow co-workers packing who knows what. It could be anything passing right under your nose.

Your manager; who's attitude was infamous within the warehouse and aptly nicknamed Frost, vaguely confirmed some goods were hot and reminded everyone to keep their heads down and not ask any questions tonight.

This was Gotham City. Not everything being moved was legal but a job was a job and this one paid the bills very well. You learned to keep your mouth shut a long time ago about the things you saw. The company had lawyers on standby should there be any liability issues. You wouldn't need them.

You were almost done with your shift without touching any hot items when a new order was assigned to your line in redacted print.

"Great." You sighed and waited for the goods to arrive. In the meantime, you read over the shipment details.

They were bound for a southern shipping container truck. It was common knowledge that the south warehouse processed all of the illegal goods. Walking back there freaked you out and you didn't like to stay longer than necessary to get a job done there.

The new order consisted of ten big wooden crates with ominous fragile stickers plastered all over. You programmed your mind to ignore the contents and simply do your job.

"Whatcha think is inside of 'em, huh, Y/n?" Your buddy Jazz asked. He'd been with the company for three years and still asked stupid questions. It was a miracle he was still employed.

You matched the serial numbers to your portable power pad and scoffed. "Don't know, don't care."

You read the loading bay, 3B, and called it out. "On me. Three, two..." You were flexing your muscles to lift on one when a loud blast came from the main entrance.

It brought with it a cloak of smoke but you could hear the various shouts and rapid gunfire closing in on your location. "Jazz! Get down!"

You dove to tackle him and avoided the spray of bullets that hit the wall behind you.

"Yo! What the f__k man!?" Jazz shoved you away to scramble to his feet. You were confused as to why he was so calm until approaching footsteps stole your attention.

They were calculated and sharp on the ear, almost like heels, which made you stop and think.

What sane woman would walk through gunfire? Let alone be at a warehouse this late at night. Regardless, three figures emerged through the smoke.

One was a tall man who carried an assault rifle and another who preferred a standard pistol— but both flanked a woman whose presence stopped your heart.

Gotham City's most notorious psychopath was here and she looked every bit the crime boss she claimed to be.

Her stilettos could kill a man while simultaneously adding height to her petite frame. The tailored pinstripe suit she wore was a deep plum with subtle details but it was nothing compared to the complex character wearing it.

Joker's long hair was dyed her signature forest green and tonight she kept it pushed back— so her face could be seen.

The scars. They were hideous and yet one couldn't look away no matter how hard they tried. Some accounts reported an ex-lover did it, another rumor claimed it was self-inflicted. Why any woman would carve her own face was beyond you.

Paired with her ghastly white makeup and dramatic smokey eyeshadow (that accented her light green eyes) she looked every bit the scary clown found in movies.

Joker came to a stop in front of Jazz and for a moment you thought she was gonna kill him outright until she smiled wide.

Her glossy black lipstick highlighted her unnaturally white teeth. "Well, well, well! Someone's been a very good boy."

Seeing coverage of her on tv was one thing opposed to the real deal. So many cops and eyewitnesses claimed she sounded like the devil, low and fierce, a true menace when demanding things yet if you closed your eyes, there was a slight childlike quality to her voice that put your mind at ease.

Delicate and alluring until she proved otherwise.

"Y-Yeah, I told ya I'm good for it! Don't believe me? It's all here." Jazz swept his arm towards the crates you two were supposed to be moving.

It took you all of three seconds to realize he was in on this. You decided to stay hidden behind a nearby forklift and listen. Joker nodded at her lackey to inspect. Thankfully he only cared about checking the goods and not looking over the side to find you. You saw him nod and move along to check the other crates down the line.

Jazz must've been promised compensation beforehand or he was simply one of the most cockiest dealers you ever seen. "Soooo. I helped secure the goods, gave solid intel." Joker's eyes darted over to him. "What's in it for me eh?"

Joker quickly replied. "I don't follow."

It was too quiet in the warehouse. The lackey finished his inspection and gave the all clear to his boss before resuming his flanking position. Everything was accounted for.

More men appeared from nowhere and began manually moving the crates into the 3B container. You looked on in horror as they added two more large crates into the container before closing it shut.

The truck was already backed into the loading bay. It wouldn't be hard for them to drive off with whatever was inside. What was Jazz thinking, messing with this lot? You peeked out of your hiding spot at the shakedown wrapping up. They were blocking the only exit and from here, things weren't looking too good for Jazz. He was outgunned and outmanned.

Joker had a frown on her face and from your position, you saw her acrylic nails twitch on the trigger of her gun.

The safety was off.

You knew Jazz had a hot temper and it didn't take much to set him off. You saw the signs in his posture. He took a deep breath and ticked his head to the side before speaking. "I'm askin' heh, where's my cut?"

You facepalmed. Jazz was incredibly stupid and Joker thought the same.

"Oh. Oh! You want a uhhh.. percentage! You hear that? He wants a cut!" Joker directed at her lackey holding the rifle. He chuckled and shook his head at the audacity.

Her heels clicked loudly on the warehouse floor as she walked closer to Jazz. Without warning, she grabbed his face and used her other hand to brandish a knife to it.

"You wanna cut? I'll give you a cut. You think I'd pay a lowlife informant like you?! Ha! Now, don't get me wrong. I'm veryyyy thankful for the intel. Really! I am! But uhh.. I don't need you anymore."

Joker spoke with such conviction she almost sounded sympathetic using her airy voice. It was like an angel speaking on the devil's behalf.

"And when I don't need things, they become loose ends! You wanna know what I do with loose ends?" She paused for dramatic effect.

Jazz looked ready to piss his pants but still had the balls to answer her. "N-No. No, I don't."

"Of course you don't know! So lemme tell you!"

You began to hyperventilate to the sound of Jazz choking on his own blood. A feminine giggle was also heard right before your co-worker's body slumped to the ground.

"I get rid of 'em." Joker replied to no one. "You three handle the rest and move out."

They all replied with their affirmatives and the area suddenly became vacant. You thought they were gone and opened your eyes.

You were still behind the forklift but took a peek around. The coast was clear. You breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight's shift was insane and you didn't know how to proceed any of it. How would you report this to HR?

You turned around to catch your breath but you saw Joker crouching down in front of you. "Holy shh.."'

Your heart was in your throat watching her stare at you. Up close like this you could really appreciate her domineering presence in all of its glory. She applied both fear and seduction to rule Gotham City and it worked wonders in her favor.

Before her disfigurement you had no doubt she was beautiful. Hell, to an extent she still was.

Full lips stained a jet black curled naturally at the corners. Joker had a heart shaped face with soft features but her eyes... God, her eyes. They drew you in with their pale color and they were framed by thick, dark lashes.

They brushed against her high cheekbones with each exaggerated blink. "That's it. Breathe for me now..."

Her voice coached you into regulating your heartbeat. She didn't seem hostile at present but you knew her reputation. Her mood could flip at the drop of a hat.

"Better?" She asked. Your voice hadn't returned yet so you nodded frantically. It seemed to appease her. "Good, that's good."

Her hand came up to cup your cheek and brush some of your h/c hair off of your forehead. She cooed at you gently when you flinched away from her touch.

"Now, now. None of that." Her heavy-lidded eyes were all you saw this close up. You chose to ignore Jazz's blood splattered across her face. She smelled like lighter fluid and roses; an obnoxiously sweet smell that clouded your senses.

You began to crave more of it against your better judgment.

She glanced down at your uniform and spotted your ID. A purple nail scraped the plastic surface right above your heart. "What are you so afraid of, Y/N L/N?" She even pronounced it right on the first try!

You stared straight into her eyes and answered truthfully. "You."

You were graced with her smile. It didn't matter that it was slicker than oil and also the same shade, it was the last thing you saw before you lost consciousness.

Your body felt groggy as if it were moving through molasses.

There were lights overhead that kept fading in and out. It felt like a weight was on your body. Like down feathers you wanted to cuddle into. Sure, it was comforting but something told you the pressure it was wrong. It didn't belong there.

Your instincts were correct when it kept touching your body unprovoked. It glided over your chest and arms and moved to the nape of your neck almost affectionately.

You shook your head, groaning, which only made the feeling worse. The unknown was kissing you and you couldn't deny that it felt absolutely amazing.

"Wait..." you slurred. Your hands moved through the heavy fog and came to a rest on a set of hips.

They began moving in earnest once you squeezed them tight. No amount of force could make them stop. Overtime they grew tired of your useless efforts and relocated your hands above your head. Then all bets were off.

You protested but a gentle voice shushed you. A lingering kiss burned your cheek as you slipped back into unconsciousness.

You woke up in the back of an SUV. The lights you saw before were street lamps shining through the sunroof.

Your head was still foggy but all of the night's events came back to you when a weight shifted on your chest. You looked down in horror as a head of green hair nuzzled in closer to you. A rush of roses hit you right as Joker glanced up at you.

How could someone so beautiful cause so much mass destruction? Surely this was a dream.

Without thinking about the consequences, you brushed a strand of her hair away from her face. Two seconds later she had your wrist pinned to the headrest and a knife at your throat.

"Aht aht, don't get all sentimental on me alright?" She eyed your lips hungrily until you threw all caution to the wind.

"S-Sorry it's just, you're so pretty. Wait, f__k! That's not true! Wait, you are.. but I mean that's not.." She watched you struggle with words with a raised brow.

"And I'm the crazy one." Joker murmured under her breath. This was pathetic to watch. "Spit. It. Out!"

You looked at her, ready to reply, when the entire SUV suddenly lurched forward. You were protected by your seatbelt but Joker almost went airborne if not for your quick response. You caught her around the waist and dragged her back down before she was sent flying towards the front.

"Have you ever heard of a seatbelt before?" You asked offhandedly. She rolled her eyes at your lame joke.

"Hey Boss! Your lover boy is here!" The driver shouted over his shoulder. It was like a switch went off.

Whatever cheeky moment you had with Joker was cast aside, the second her crush/enemy was confirmed tailing the SUV. "Bats?"

Joker instantly got excited and dove forward to program the sunroof open. The vehicle was going over eighty mph and the sudden wind spun her seaweed hued hair about like a hurricane, giving her perfect bed head vibes.

She ducked down to ask you. "How do I look?"

Your e/c eyes traveled from her toned legs in those sexy heels, to her clenched waist, all the way up to her deadly smile waiting for your opinion.

You couldn't lie no matter how dangerous it was to tell the truth. You were a warm blooded male for crying out loud and Joker was every bit an ideal female. Well, minus the face and personality. But her body?

"H-Hot. You look.. hot."

You waited with bated breath to be stabbed or worse, but Joker simply laughed and stood on the seat to poke her head out the sunroof.

What followed was typical Batman and Joker behavior. She taunted the caped cruiser while shouting out declarations of love, (it didn't make you jealous..) while firing off an array of guns which surprisingly included a bazooka, at the hero.

You panicked when the front seat passenger loaded it up inside the SUV before handing it off to Joker. "Hey hey hey hey! What the f—!"

The shockwave it made as it went off caused the SUV to lose control for a few scary minutes and it left you little choice but to wrap your arms around Joker's legs, lest she hurt herself in the chaos.

Her jovial laughter sent a clear message that she was having way too much fun to care about safety.

If Batman's swanky tank of a car wasn't enough, two GCPD cruisers flanked the speeding SUV and rammed both sides at once. And poor you was caught in the middle, swearing at the top of your lungs. More gunshots decorated the body of the car, one of them piercing through the back of the passenger's seat.

Joker's men in the front were mocking your attempts to get her to stop this madness and pull over.

She kicked your arms away and continued her antics until you had enough. You never thought things through during intense situations. You adopted tunnel vision until the problem was resolved.

You tuned out the police screaming to ceasefire as you poked your head out of the sunroof. Your voice lowered an octave as you yanked Joker's arm down. "Get back inside the car now!"

Her minty eyes were wide like saucers witnessing your dominant display and if you were more focused, you would've seen the incoming missile hurling towards the SUV. It obviously came from the Batmobile and in any other scenario, the shell would've been harmless.

Joker was a tough cookie and so were her goons. They could walk away from anything unscathed. You couldn't.

The missile hit dead on, sending the SUV swerving straight into a GCPD car and both flipped over multiple times upon impact. The crash site was hauntingly quiet.

The other police cars set up a perimeter a respective distance as the Batmobile screeched to a halt behind it. As broken glass and smoke settled, you came too fairly quickly. More quick thinking on your part saved you and Joker's life as you pulled her inside and shielded her head the moment her driver shouted, incoming!

You wished you kept your seatbelt on but things weren't always perfect in near death situations.

You took majority of the impact and knocked out your shoulder to save Joker's more fragile body. You lost your grip on her during the second roll and you had to wait until the SUV came to a stop, on its driver's side, to call out to her.

All she did was groan and turn her head away. Not good.

You saw a sea of flashing lights and wisely crawled out the door for help. This was supposed to be an average night at work, clocking overtime, not witnessing your co-worker make a bad arms deal and be actively involved in a high speed police chase. Wait till your friends heard about this on the eleven o'clock news.

You were still wearing your work uniform but the police still shouted at you to stop moving and put your hands on your head. You didn't get offended; you did emerge from The Joker's getaway vehicle. You could be hostile for all they knew.

Orders were orders and you raised your bloody hands up slowly but that didn't stop your mouth from moving.

"My name is Y/N L/N I work at Dixon Shipping Co. I'm unharmed! She's inside and unresponsive! Please... do.. something.."

You sighed as two officers made their way to your side. Too little too late. They fell dead from two gunshots each. It caused another wave of panic and you turned to watch a disoriented Joker pick off the remaining cops like flies.

Her head was bleeding and she was missing a shoe but God did she look drop dead gorgeous in her element. Her hair was a mess blocking her vision, but she made it to your side without any issue.

You thought the worst when she yanked you up to your feet and shoved the barrel of her gun to your head. Great, so her mood had turned sour, again.

This time Batman himself entered the scene. "Let him go, Joker." His modified voice sounded way cooler on GCN..

Joker wheezed out a laugh. "Oooooh! Is my Batsy jealous?! Don't know why, since you SHOT A MISSILE AT ME!" She pointed her gun at the dark knight. "You... hurt me.. Bats. All the time! Over and over! Y/n would never hurt me. Right, Y/n?"

Batman gave you a look that clearly meant, play along or die.

You watched as another fleet of cops arrived on scene. Batman waved them back. Joker was far more hostile than she'd ever been and her head injury was only making her current episode worse. She kept blinking her eyes and swaying on the spot, but she was in control as long as a weapon was in her hands.

You played along and made sure to establish physical contact with her. "That's right J-Joker. I would never, um h-hurt you. Ya gotta believe that baby." The endearment left a sour taste on your tongue but if she was buying the lie, hey.

You felt the gun waver on your temple and you cautiously moved to twist Joker around so she was facing you. She felt so small wrapped up in your arms, you never wanted to let her go.

You fussed over her wild hair and sucked your teeth at the nasty gash found on her head. "I told you to wear a seatbelt."

"Shut up." Joker groaned. You were only one privy to the tiny smile pinching at her black lips.

"I'm giving you one last warning, Joker. Let. Him. GO!"

And all of your hard work went down the drain.

Joker screamed and restrengthened her grip on the gun, now pointed squarely at your forehead.

"Or what Bats? Huh? Or what? You're gonna punish me? Ohhh I do love it when you do that." Joker tipped her head back and laughed. Each tap of her gun to your head felt like a code but you wrote it off as a coincidence.

Maybe she was growing on you or maybe she was just predictable. Fat chance of that. But either way you felt safe being held at gunpoint by this madwoman. You knew she wouldn't pull the trigger. Her finger was nowhere near it.

"I'm not here to play games, Joker."

Joker scoffed at her adversary. Batman was no fun; you however were. Joker gave you a lazy, pained smile and out of the blue kissed you right there in the middle of the street. You were too tired to deny her.

A spotlight highlighted the bizarre moment and made you pull away to look up at it.

A helicopter was hovering above and within seconds a rope was tossed over, headed your way. Joker used your dazed expression (her kisses were that electrifying) and the shock factor from her audience to grab onto the rope. She fired her automatic at the police department to make her grand escape. They never saw it coming.

One bullet clipped Batman's breastplate, stunning him if anything, but the effect was all the same. It bought her some time to make it a few feet off the ground to get away.

Joker's sultry laugh quickly drew Batman's attention. "Have fun boys! Don't hurt each other too much fightin' over little 'ol me!"

More gunshots and laughter rained down as you dove for cover and stumbled across a broken piece of mirror. Black lipstick marks were all over your face and neck. No wonder GCPD officers saw you as a threat before.

Joker sent a clear message: you were her new plaything. And you were quite fine with that new title.

[hawthornsword]

Oh I wanna hear about Seeing Fives!

As you wish 😁

Fox:

It starts small at first, small enough Fox can ignore it.

A large blue 5 is graffitied on the wall of an alley between the barracks and the Senate dome. He doesn't think much of it.

But it keeps happening, more and more. Big fives, small fives, printed, stickered, painted, kriffing guerrilla crocheted around a tree - 5555 in blue cotton thread.

Fox thinks he might be going insane.

Ahsoka:

Some days, especially lately, reaching into the Force is hard. It's like trying to wade into the sea of Kamino in choppy waves. It's easy to be knocked over and pushed back. It can be overwhelming, and tiring. The reason it's so important to get kids initiated in the Force early is so they can put on their arm floaties and wade in the shallows while their creche master holds their hands. And then, when they are older they can withstand stronger waters. If they're left to their own devices, they're liable to wade too far in, with disastrous consequences.

Once Ahsoka became a padawan, learning battle meditation and exerting herself beyond what was physically possible of most sentients, having a master was like having a safety line. Someone could always reel her back in if the waters got too rough.

At Mortis, she drowned.

Afterwards, she was afraid to go back in the water, clinging to that safety line for all that she pretended she was fine. Once she left, she'd tried, truly she had, but she rarely strayed from the shallows. Only when necessary had she ventured into choppy waters, and she never felt safe.

But sometimes that didn't matter.

Sometimes, no safety line would ever be long enough, but that didn't change the fact that the only option was to jump feet first from the laarty straight down into a hurricane.

It may very well be deadly. There just isn't time to come up with a better option. Sometimes you have to trust your instincts rather than your training.

Ahsoka closed her eyes, breathed deep, and jumped, immersing herself so deeply in the Force so quickly that it left her breathless and tingling. She could feel entire star systems spinning, and it would be easy to get lost in it, but that wasn't why she was here.

She heard the rustling of feathers.

She oriented herself, and time slowed to a syrupy crawl. She felt herself travel along the path of the blaster bolt that had been fired, entwining with it as it traveled. It struck its mark. Ahsoka felt the soul tear from its mortal bonds. She wrapped herself around that soul and held on.

[but-what-if-we]

Cloudy

The sky was gray when Larger Form awoke, foreshadowing the mood of the day. LF’s room was modest in size, they didn't need much, decorated with movie posters of some of their favorites, a few floating shelves displaying trinkets and oddities with the two small bookshelves next to the doorframe. Everything in the room was primarily dark colors punctuated by glass or the neon lights of the pc on the black glass desk situated in the corner near the large window. Mustering the will to move out of bed, LF steps to the window moving aside the sheer curtains taking in the light, but darkening gray sky.

Hmmm, soup day.

Moving into the black and steel colored kitchen, LF begins to assemble the necessary pots they would need to make their own broth. Opening the cabinet they pause, standing to view over the island countertop to look into the living room for any signs of the typical “nest” of the Smaller Form. Seeing no signs of a Switch, drawing tablet, phone charger, or typical blankets LF reaches down into the cabinets noisily removing a large pot, placing it on the electric stove top built into the island countertop in the center of the kitchen. Turning to the coffee maker next to the fridge LF presses a couple of buttons before grabbing their favorite mug hanging from the hooks affixed to the underside of the cabinets that lined the walls above the sink. Leaning against the sink as they wait for their coffee to finish brewing, LF’s gaze is locked onto another mug hanging from the hooks. This mug belonged to Smaller Form and as they looked at this mug they couldn't help but become lost in thought.

How did I get here? How did my life manage to turn out this way? What did I do to deserve this bliss?

Each thought is punctuated by vivid memories that do their best to serve those questions answers but a constant in each memory is the Smaller Form. When they had first met LF was not in a good place with themself, struggling with anxiety, depression, and their identity. SF became a pillar of positivity in LF’s life showing them that there was more out there and being there by LF’s side while they did the hard work of self improvement and discovery. In a way SF dragged LF out of their pit of isolation and doubt, showing them light once again and since then they have always been friends. A smirk slides across LF’s face as they bask in fond memories of days and  years gone by filled with adventures, exciting and mundane with SF, memories they wouldn't trade for anything in existence.

In a soft warm mound of blankets Smaller Form shifts, maneuvering their head out of an opening in the mass of cloth. Blinking sleepy eyes they look around in an attempt to understand what is different about their surroundings. How did they end up on the floor? Didn't they lay down in bed last night? The gray cloudy sky did little to illuminate the pastel colored room of SF but the nightstand lamp was enough for the moment. Unwrapping themself from the mound of cloth, SF could already smell the bitter scent of coffee in the air signaling that LF was also awake, they put on a pair of shorts and a fresh oversized t-shirt before grabbing their phone and heading into their bathroom for the morning routine. Smaller Form looking into the mirror while brushing their teeth takes a moment to look at one of the decorations that dot the edges and corners of the large mirror. One in particular stands out this morning, a sticker of a single open eye colored neon green, a gift from LF in the early days of their friendship and a reminder that SF can just be themself regardless of who is beholding them. 

With the sticker fresh in their mind SF makes their way into the living room, seeing LF standing unmoving leaning against the sink staring at the different mugs hanging from the decorative hooks above the sink. It isn't all that uncommon for LF to be lost in thought but SF always thought it was a bit creepy watching LF stay so completely still that their body would ever so slightly start to sway.  The tile of the kitchen was cold against SF’s bare feet as they moved next to LF, placeing a hand on the small of their back, something that always seemed to bring LF back to earth. Seeing the small smirk on LF’s face turn into a full smile quelled any fears that they might be subject to bad thoughts, the small touch turning into a hug from the back. Pressing themself into the softness of LF’s body, SF thinks about how lucky they are to have a friend so devoted to them as to follow them anywhere, always being here for them when they are needed, and understanding when space is needed. The caring between them was strong, so strong that to an outside observer it might appear that they were in a romantic relationship but in reality that is not the kind of relationship they had. What they had together was enough. 

Instinctively at the familiar touch of SF, LF turns in the hug so that they might return embrace with embrace, resting their cheek momentarily atop SF’s head before replacing their cheek with a kiss. 

“Good morning, did you sleep well?”

Straightening LF reaches to grab the mug they had been transfixed by moments ago, placing it next to a tin of SF’s favorite hot chocolate. It was from a small locally owned bakery, one that LF had never heard of and one that they had yet been able to find. The tin was black metal with the only branding for the bakery being a pink circle with a large toothy smile. 

“Floor”, the muffled voice of SF warm against LF’s chest.

Glancing around LF’s ribcage, SF spots the pink smile of their favorite hot chocolate, smiling as they return their face into the chest of LF squeezing a little tighter. SF has always been amazed by LF’s ability so seemingly feel when they were having an off or “goopy” day but SF knew how observant tends to be. So observant that they sometimes are blind to what is going on in themself but SF understood LF enough to know they have a process just like they had their own to work through things. They both had similar struggles in identity, mental health, and sexuality though none of these struggles were exactly the same for the both of them , they were close enough that discussing what they had learned, thoughts and feelings had good insights for their own experiences. One of the best things about LF was that SF always felt seen.

“Have you seen outside? It looks like how I feel right now” SF says, reaching a hand up to place on LF’s cheek, motioning for them to lower themself. The kiss SF plants on LF’s neck could be described as less “kiss” and more “prelude to biting” but that was normal for them. Kissing was something the two of them discussed, often both having different views on the action but were able to form boundaries from those discussions.

“Let me finish this” SF says motioning to the hot chocolate in progress, “could you go into my room and grab my macbook for me? I need to answer some emails before it gets any later .” Releasing LF, SF moves around them to finish the enticing warm drink. 

“Of course” LF says, placing another kiss atop SF’s head. Walking down the hallway into the blue pastel colored room LF immediately knew his task was going to be more difficult than anticipated. SF wasn’t what you would consider tidy but they are very clean so the mass of organized chaos hiding the macbook and charger LF is looking for is buried somewhere in this mass of clothes and blankets. Clothes baskets piled high placed at the end of SF’s bed, stacks of books flanking either side of the wooden desk near the window, sweatshirts and hoodies mixed with blankets covering the floor and bed, the room was disorganized to say the least but well cared for. Finding the charger was easy enough as it was plugged into the wall but following the cord into a bundle of blankets on the floor revealed no macbook. Collecting the charger and looking around, LF takes in all of the memories SF has on display in their room. They move over to the wooden desk picking up a framed photo of SF and LF cheek to cheek both with big joyful smiles, taken the day they had first met all those years ago.  Once again lost in thought, LF didn’t perceive the approach of  SF. 

Steaming mug in one hand and macbook held in the other, SF watches the watcher lost in thought again. Reminiscing about the past no doubt.

“I remember that day like it was yesterday, we were both so shy to finally meet each other but it took you so long to get comfortable” SF teasingly giggles before taking a sip of their hot chocolate. “ That day is a memory I will always keep close to my heart” SF says, putting their mug and macbook on a shelf next to them. Sidling up next to LF, SF intertwines their arms together placing a small kiss on the back of LF’s hand. “ It was a cloudy day like today and right after the picture it started to drizzle on us so we had to duck into that pavilion that was nearby. Being stuck in that rain like we were was one of the best parts of that day, listening to the rain fall around us while we talked about us, our dreams, the future, and just nurtured the bond we had. It was lovely.”

Returning the photo to its place on the desk, LF wraps their arms around SF for a short but meaningful and impassioned hug. “I remember crying a lot during that conversation in the rain. I was so used to watching that I didn't realize how good it would feel to be seen even though at first it was a little uncomfortable to realize I was in the spotlight for once but with you that spotlight felt safe.” LF tries unsuccessfully to hide the wobble in their voice as the memory of that emotionally charged moment washes over them as if to summon the emotions that were felt in the moment.

SF holds tight to LF for a moment before letting go to reclaim the items they had sat down on the nearby shelf but as they do their stomach gives off a low rumble, impressive for one of their small size. 

“Oof, I need to get something in me before Iend up eating you” SF says, jokingly to LF as they move to leave the SF’s room.

“I would let you eat me as long as I can watch,” LF says, wide smile on their face.

[opheliajupiter99]

Once Upon a Rapture Pt.5

A private bathysphere quietly docked in Olympus Heights, an area of Rapture mostly used for housing, though there were shops and such as well. Specifically, the pair of Frost and Kremy made their way to Mercury Suites, containing high end residential suites for the wealthy and influential.

Kremy's living space was private, unknown to most beyond Gideon and Twig, he felt it was necessary when he had so much competition in his field, and while he did indeed want to help Frost, he didn't trust him enough to take him there. Besides, he'd already checked it over for any indication of where Gideon might've ended up and found nothing. So instead, they travelled to Frost's residence.

Frost was what one would likely expect of a scholar of his stature; an enormous library stacked high with rare and ancient books, so tall that one needed a ladder to ascend to the highest peak, while his actual living quarters were a simple bedroll tucked off in the corner, and from the messy state of his desk, it seemed most days he didn't even managed to -get- to the bed before passing out in a mound of books.

The section of the house reserved for Gricko and Hootsie however were much cozier, a blanket fort constructed in one corner, string lights hung from the ceiling, stickers and toys scattered all over the floor, and crayon drawings of various adorable scenes hung up on the walls. Drawings that once made Frost feel hopeful, but now he found it difficult to even look at them.

The pair investigated Gricko and Hootsie's section of the house, since all that was really of note in Frost's section was empty EVE hypos scattered about and page after page of nonsense equations and deduction, most of which he didn't even recall writing. Gricko searched around the bedroom area for the pair, while Kremy was nearby searching through a small bookshelf, which mostly contained children's books for Hootsie. It was clear from just a passing glance at the room the man had focused almost all of his attention on his daughter, very little within the entire area that related to himself.

As Kremy glided his fingers over the spines of the books, he hummed in thought. He'd been mulling over something in the back of his head most of the ride here but wasn't sure the best time to get into it. He shrugged, deciding it was best to just get it out of the way now.

"Hey, Frost?" Frost looked up, having been just about to look under Gricko's bed for any possible clues. "Yes?" He said, his eyes looking as tired as ever, but now held a faint glimmer of hope, even if it was a drop in a vast ocean of despair.

"Look fella, ah don't wanna be rude, and ah ain't tryin' to imply anythin'...but ya don't gotta be a genius to see the state ya in, and with how much ya been tellin' me ya've been splicin'...is there anythin' ah should be worryin' about?"

Frost paused for a moment, frowning deeply. It certainly wasn't that he couldn't think of anything; of course, Kremy already knew about the rabid researching and illogical thoughts, but he knew he meant something more...dangerous than that.

He took a deep breath and let it out as a somber sigh. "I...I don't handle, blood well." He said in an ashamed tone. Kremy tilted his head. "Like...how ya mean?" He said confused; at first, he thought he meant he was squeamish, but why would he say it like that? Frost huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I...like it, too much...okay? I don't know if it's because of the ADAM in it, or if it's something...much, much worse...but sometimes I...crave it, I suppose you'd say. On occasion, when I'd be r-reading by books, I'd...look down and see I'd been chewing a-at my own hand for God knows how long, without even realizing."

Kremy blinked twice at that. "...Yeah. Yeah, think that qualifies as ah problem, fella. Ah want ya to know, ah ain't gonna do anythin' rash, ah'll try to snap ya out of it first. But if I can't?" They stared at each other for a moment. He didn't really need to explain further, Frost understood, giving a somber little ghost of a smile. "I understand. It's okay."

Kremy nodded, looking back to the bookshelf. As he did, Frost looked down, lost in his own sorrowful thoughts for a long moment. He was so lost, it took him almost a minute to realize there was an audio diary at his feet. They were specially built and created to be...well, audio diaries, tape recorders but much more complex, even able to display a small, but detailed picture of the person that recorded it.

He picked it up, the glint of the metal catching Kremy's eye as he turned to look as Frost hit play on the tape.

The tape itself was bad enough, but Frost was further stunned by the picture the audio diary displayed; a stout, bearded Irish woman with a bloodthirsty expression plastered upon her face. He recognized that face from the papers, the Tribune speaking of a serial killer that had been brutally butchering people across the city, her calling card being the corpses all being crushed with modified Big Daddy boots. Of course, it being a lawless city, the Tribune couldn't do much more than warn people.

"He....was being...s-stalked?" Frost stammered finally, blinking rapidly as his heart pounded. "W-Why didn't he tell me? And...h-how didn't I notice?" He took a deep, shaky breath. "H-Have I already gone that mad? That I couldn't notice someone like that breaking into our house, over and over?" He started to hyperventilate, Kremy standing and moving over to him swiftly, gripping his shoulders.

"Come on fella, stay with me! This don't gotta be bad, okay?" Frost glared at him for a moment, breathing heavily. "A'ight yeah, ah know how that sounds, but let me explain! If this lady's been stalkin' this fella, then she must know where he ended up, right?" Frost processed that for a moment, wide eyes staring into Kremy's for a long moment. Finally, his breathing started to get under control again, still a bit shaky as he gripped himself tightly for support. "Y-Yeah..." He mumbled.

"So, we find this lady, and we find Gricko, right?" Frost shakily nodded, Kremy offering the most comforting smile a shady fella like him could manage. "Good. And don't ya worry bout findin' here. For a fella in my line of work? Findin' a shady lady like her'll be no problem, ah guarantee it."

[minaelesia]

I'm about to be annoying as shit again

I love Hayabusa sooooo fucking much, dude. I have lots of favorite, but seeing him and Megumi Kudo is what blew away my initial expectations for what FMW is about. Beyond the off-the-wall deathmatch gimmicks and an atmosphere that Americans would see through ECW by 1995, it's some talented folks, and Hayabusa in particular has such a heroic aura towards him that I love.

He knows when it's necessary to slow it down. An opponent would be used to his mentally stable Sabu-esque high flying, but he's got a pretty damn good knack for mat wrestling. He lets the opponent know that he can and will outwrestle the shit outta you, pulling out the nastiest dragon suplex I've ever seen, being quick to wear an opponent down with various submission moves, and of course, pulling the trigger and inflict the most damage with his marquee flying moves.

One of the biggest regrets I have as a wrestler is not having discovered Hayabusa sooner than his demise on March 3rd, 2016. I was 8 months old, where Hayabusa had a bout with Mammoth Sasaki that would sadly become his final match. A botched Lionsault from his foot being clipped by the rope ended his career, and left him a paraplegic up until the 2010s, as he could walk on his own with some assistance from devices that keep his balance.

Regardless of his career being cut short, he left an incredible and arguably timeless style of wrestling that, even now, you can see meshing real nicely. If you are curious about wrestling and Hayabusa, PLEASE catch his FMW matches on YouTube, as channels like Bret FMW has plenty of his matches available, and many of which tend to be one of his best. And that includes the anus explosion match! :)

I will proceed to post GIFs of these four cool things he can do to get a somewhat general clue as to what I mean. When I get to a state I could throw down in FGs, I wanna get some stickers or any decor of his mask on my fightstick.

RIP, for your Phoenix burned the brightest among all <3

[theladycarpathia]

Empty Places Chapter 5 - Manifestation

Back to Chapter 4

“Steve?” Robin shouts and Billy echoes her call, their voices bouncing off the walls. Panic is starting to trickle in, the worry that Steve might not escape these walls. “Steve, stop fucking around! Steve!”

“Fuck!” Billy screams finally, and kicks at the wall. He’s exhausted and heart-sore and they were so, so fucking close. Steve isn’t answering, and that probably means that wherever he is, he can’t.

“Where is he?” Robin asks, looking on the verge of tears. Her hair is mussed and her eyes are bloodshot. None of them have slept or even really eaten for hours. “He was right behind me.”

“Something took him,” Billy mutters, pacing back and forth. Indecision and desperation to find Steve is clouding his mind. He doesn’t know what to do, save for tearing down every inch of this useless, crumbling foundation until he brings Steve back. Screw supernatural forces, he’s never once been without Steve and he’s not about to start now.

“But what? Henry or the other thing?” Robin asks, twisting her head back and forth down the dark hallway, as though she expects Steve to appear. But it's just dark there and it occurs to Billy that they should be keeping an eye on it, just in case whatever took Steve feels like a second and third course.

“Does it matter?” Billy asks in frustration. When he feels like this he wants to scream obscenities, rip down walls, and draw blood, but he can’t do that. Not with the ghost of Neil so fresh in his mind. He doesn’t want to become that. “It’s not like either one is a good option!”

“I’m just trying to figure it out!” Robin shouts, and that’s startling in itself. Robin doesn’t shout. She gets squeaky, she babbles, and her voice occasionally rises to a pitch only dogs can hear but she doesn’t shout. Unlike Billy, she lacks the tightly wound springs necessary for such an act…or she had, until today. “If we work out what took him and why, maybe we can get him back!”

“The ‘why’ doesn’t matter…” Billy starts to say and then stops. Maybe the why does matter. God, they’ve been such idiots.

“Hang on…” Billy says slowly. Something has clicked in his brain, the memory of the dank breath of not-Neil wafting across his face. He’s tried so hard to not think about it, because so much of it was about him. The weak parts of Billy that he doesn’t want his friends to see.

But there was something else that the thing had said. What was it?

“Repression out of the wazoo…” Billy says finally, the words slamming into him. He remembered them because they’d sound so odd coming out of Neil’s mouth. Robin stops pacing long enough to give him a confused look.

“That thing…” Billy explains hurriedly. Jesus, if he’s right, then the monster did take Steve for a good reason. “When it was wearing my dad’s face. It said you guys had your own problems, and then it said Steve had repression out of the wazoo. Those exact words.”

“And that’s important?” Robin asks skeptically, confusion written all over her pale face. Billy shrugs. They don’t have a lot else to work with. Just decades of death, violence and pain.

Or maybe that is something.

The thing had said that Robin didn’t have enough to push down. Robin is an open book, always blissfully, freely herself. She’s gay and, unlike Billy, at ease with it. She wears her quirky clothes, and adores her niche brand of cinema, indie music and queer fiction. She says every word that passes through her mind and loves and hates indiscriminately. She doesn’t push any of it down.

Billy, on the other hand, spent years hiding who he is. He puts on masks as easy as breathing and some days it feels like he’s a Russian nesting doll, a mask hidden under another mask. He hides his identity from Neil and tries to pretend to himself that it doesn’t bother him. He lets boys put their hands down his jeans, steals his mother’s lipsticks, and sticks rainbow stickers over his laptop. He hides, but apparently not enough to be of true interest to the spirits residing in this house.

“I think it feeds off repression,” Billy says, and it’s like puzzle pieces slotting into place. He thinks back to every death he’s ever heard of happening here and thinks that maybe he’s not wrong. Robin’s face still doesn’t untwist and he hurries to explain it to her. “No, listen. It didn’t come after you. Just me and Steve. I get why me, but it seemed really interested in Steve. It said Steve had it as bad as I do.”

“Oh?” Robin says, and doesn’t catch Billy’s eye. Something sinks in Billy’s chest.

“But it’s Steve,” Billy says, in disbelief. “What the fuck does he have to repress?”

“Maybe more than we think,” Robin says quietly. “He doesn’t have to tell us everything, you know.”

Something sharp pierces itself right through Billy’s heart. Whatever it is, Robin knows. She knows, and they both kept it from Billy.

It’s fine. He knows that she and Steve have a slightly different relationship. It’s his own fault, back from the days when Neil was being an absolute shit and he distanced himself from them. Somehow, without him, Robin and Steve had grown together in another way and it shouldn’t hurt so much as it does.

“Right. Fine,” Billy says, stung. He turns his back on her and turns his own torch down the dark, empty hallway. “Let’s go. We need to find Steve.”

“Billy,” Robin pleads and he can hear her hurried footsteps chasing him down the corridor. “It’s not my place to tell!” Billy snorts.

“I said, it’s fine,” he snaps. Which of course means he’s as bad as he can be, trapped in this house, with his best friend missing and keeping secrets from him. There’s always a chance for jealousy with the three of them. Three best friends still leaves an opportunity for someone to be a third wheel.

He just didn’t think that it would mean they’d keep shit from each other.

“Billy, please…” Robin pushes, sounding genuinely upset. “Billy, I don’t mean to…Jesus Christ!” Billy slams to a halt, mere inches before he plows right through the little ghost girl that’s appeared in front of them. He swallows heavily, willing moisture back into his mouth.

“Shit, kid, give us some warning,” he says shakily. He’s never going to get used to how Alice isn’t there one minute and is the next.

Alice merely tilts her head curiously at him. Billy exhales and takes a small step back, choosing to let Robin deal with the dead kid. She may be benevolent but Billy’s pretty done with supernatural things.

“Can you help us?” Robin asks, crouching down to look the little girl in the eyes. “Our friend is gone and we need to find him before we leave.”

“She doesn’t talk, Ro,” Billy says, because he’s not going to count on a ghost to help them get out. For all they know, she could be leading them down to be monster-chow. Steve vanished right after they went down into the tunnels that she directed them to, after all.

“She does!” Robin protests, looking annoyed. “She spoke to me before. I just don’t think she has the energy for it.”

“Ghosts don’t have batteries,” Billy says wearily and checks over his shoulder. Something slinking up behind them in the dark would really be horror movie material. But everything is black and still, no spiders on the walls, no ravenous teeth glinting off the torchlight.

“I don’t think it’s that,” Robin says, sounding thoughtful. “I think she’s being pushed down by the other spirits in here.” To Billy’s immense surprise, Alice nods and Robin beams.

“When did you become the ghost whisperer?” Billy asks curiously. But Robin has turned her attention fully onto Alice, bouncing a little on her heels.

“Do you know where our friend has gone?” she asks eagerly. “Is he still down here?”

A beat. Billy holds his breath. He’s pissed but he wants Steve back. More than anything.

Alice nods and points down the corridor. Robin looks past her ghostly figure, looking apprehensively into the space not lit by their torches.

“What’s down there?” Robin asks and then looks up at Billy. “You were down here before. Did you see this bit?”

“I wasn’t in this section,” Billy says, frowning. The basement appears to be much larger than the house above and he wonders if that’s by design or by some strange dimension twisting logic. He doubts very much that it was down to Andrew Newton. But he certainly didn’t encounter this particular tunnel earlier, and he doesn’t even know for sure if it connects to the original basement. “I don’t know where this leads.” Robin pulls herself up and takes a deep breath.

“I think we’re going to have to find out,” she says.

XXX

Steve wakes up and immediately regrets it.

“Fuck,” he groans and tries to lift his head. Whatever he’s got his face on is cold and slightly damp and smells like the back alley behind Family Video.

He manages to roll over, his head thumping with every movement. Finally, he’s able to lie flat on his back and just breathe. The air here is slightly musty and faintly stale. There’s an odd metallic tang to it, something familiar that Steve just can’t place.

He was in the basement. He climbed down the ladder with Billy and Robin. They were going to get out. But then someone had called his name from the blackness behind them. Something determined to not let him go and he hadn’t been strong enough to fight it.

He lifts his hand and gently probes at his forehead. While doing so reveals a large tender lump, his hand doesn’t come away covered with blood so he feels a little bit better about that.

Eventually his vision stops swaying and he’s able to focus on a familiar rug, fraying at the edges. He’s in the dining room of Creel House.

“What the fuck?” Steve asks blearily. How the hell did he get back up here? He was in the basement and now he’s staring at the old wood paneling that surrounds the room. He’s lying on the same patch of rug he tripped over earlier, just under the portrait of the Creels.

He peels himself off the floor, stopping to lean against the table when his head spins. He breathes in deep through his nose, ignoring the rank smell that he inhales when he does so. Fuck, did something die up here while they were running for their lives? It hadn’t smelled like that earlier.

“Billy?” he tries, his voice coming out as a dry croak. He coughs and tries again. “Billy? Ro?”

No answer.

Steve curls his fingers around the edge of the wood. This isn’t good. It feels like another trap somehow. He gets the vague feeling that trying to get back to the kitchen and the trapdoor again won’t end well for him.

“Alice?” Steve tries, hoping that their little guide can at least hear him, even if his friends can’t. But there’s no sudden ghost appearing in front of him, just the silence of an empty house.

Shit. He casts an anxious look back over his shoulder at the portrait, like he half expects the eyes of Henry Creel to be watching him. He’s going to have to do something. He can’t stay here.

That’s when he notices the other portraits.

Previously, the only portrait in the room was the sole one of the Creels - obnoxious and terrifying, taking up a large space directly over the dining table. But now every available section of space on the walls has been filled. A variety of frames of age, design and size scattered across every wall.

The one to the right of the Creels’ portrait is of a beautiful blonde woman. Her hair is curled around her heart-shaped face, her huge blue eyes sweet and sad. She’s wearing an old fashioned dress of a pale pink color, the collar neat and prim around her long neck.

The portrait to the left is of a middle-aged man with thinning red hair. He has brown eyes and a birthmark over his eyebrow. He’s wearing a brown velour suit that looks like something Steve’s dad had back in the seventies. When Steve looks around the room, every other portrait is the same. Some pictures are photographs, some black and white, some in color. Other frames hold actual paintings, like the one of the Creels. Most of them contain only one person but every so often it holds a couple. One closer to the door has a stern looking man with a burn across the hand that he drapes around his wife’s shoulder. Another has two similar looking women with matching dark skin and full mouths, possibly sisters.

Frowning Steve turns his head back to the portrait of the blonde woman and notices the faint inscription at the bottom of her frame.

Peggy Schaffer, 1948.

Steve’s legs hit the table as he takes a hurried step back. To anyone else that name might mean nothing. But Steve has spent weeks researching Creel House, stared at every newspaper and every name of whoever had once lived here. And in late 1947, the Schaffer family moved in with their teenage daughter, Margaret. She was known as Peggy and she later slit her wrists in the bathtub. She left the water running and the bath had overflowed with red water all the way down the hall.

Open-mouthed, Steve stares around the room. There are so many. The house has existed since the late eighteen hundreds but clearly not every case has been documented. As he wanders around, taking in every name, for every one he recognises there are least two that he doesn’t. He knows the Newtons, Elizabeth, Peggy and Richard. But he’s never heard of Chandra and Meera, Payton and Harry, Luisa and Andrew.

It’s like a strange sort of graveyard, portraits labeled with names and dates of death. Because that’s what this is - the blood that spilled over and over in Creel House. Andrew Newton in 1888. Elizabeth Strand in 1919. Peggy Schafer in 1948. Sebastian Hayes in 1975. Alice Creel in 1986. Isobel Reyes in 1997. Over and over, every person who ever stepped into this house.

Okay, fuck this. He’s getting out.

He bolts from the dining room, intent on reaching the door this time. He doesn’t care what might get in his way.. He’s going and when he’s out, he can open up the cellar door to the basement to find Billy and Robin. He’s pretty sure that they’re still down there, maybe wandering in the same labyrinth that caught him before. They don’t have much in the van that could help but there are tool sheds out back that must have something in that he can use.

But he slams to a halt in the hall. He can hear voices carrying clearly from the living room.

It’s another trick. An illusion. He’d know Billy and Robin’s voices anywhere and these ones definitely aren’t the sounds of his friends. But he goes to look anyway, gripping tightly to the doorframe as he peers around.

It’s Christmas. Before the room had been derelict and dusty and now it’s gleaming with twinkly lights, a massive fir tree taking pride of place in the corner. The mantlepiece bears four stockings, all trimmed with faux fur, and the people that sprawl across the floor passing presents back and forth are the same ones that left and never looked back.

Steve reels. Okay, he definitely hit his head. He had to have done and now he’s suffering from some weird concussion induced trauma that’s giving him hallucinations. Because he knows these people. Their photos are still stuck to every wall.

A pretty Korean woman, with her long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, digs under the tree for another present. Her husband - a tall man with curling brown hair and wire glasses - sits on the couch, watching his son run a toy train across the floor. It’s the kind of disgusting family scene that Steve never really had. The matching family slippers. The dog chewing on a toy bone on the rug. The hand painted ornaments on the tree.

“Open this one next,” Mrs Packard says, handing the gift to her daughter as though she can’t see Steve lingering in the doorway. Maybe she can’t, and this really is just Steve’s twisted hallucination.

Their daughter tears into the wrapping paper and judging by the names stitched onto the stockings, her name is Emma.

Emma rips through the wrapping paper the way that kids do, until it’s shredded in pieces on the carpet. But when she tugs open the box, the inside squirms and ripples like a pulsing heartbeat. For a minute, Steve doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. But then something small and shiny crawls out onto Emma’s hand.

“Fuck!” Steve shouts, because no one else seems to notice. Mrs Packard is still looking for presents under the three, the little boy runs his train back and forth across the rug. Emma just stares as the mass judders and spills over the cardboard box and her tiny fingers.

Emma turns to face him and to Steve’s shock, her eyes are as black as the shiny shells of the cockroaches. One skitters up her neck and vanishes into her dark hair.

“You’re all going to die in here,” she says simply, and Steve runs.

He’s dreaming. He has to be. He must still be lying in the fucking basement with a concussion and that asshole playing tricks with his head again. None of this can be real.

When he finds Neil Hargrove in the kitchen is the moment he knows for certain that it’s all in his head.

It’s still the Creel Kitchen, strange and caked in dust, sunlight rippling off the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, but Neil and his new family sit around the table, passing over plates of bacon like nothing is wrong. Susan Mayfield sweeps a dead spider off the table top and then sticks her knife in the butter. Steve feels bile rise in his throat as he sees the curled dead legs clinging to the butter on her knife before she smooths it across her toast.

Little Max, Billy’s stepsister, reaches for the ketchup bottle. Steve’s only ever seen a picture of her, all wild red hair and fierce blue eyes. She’s wearing shorts and a striped t-shirt, neat red plaits down her shoulders. She shakes out the bottle and clots of blood ooze down onto the plate instead. Like her mother she doesn’t notice, smearing a piece of bacon into the blood before placing it in her mouth.

Neil sips from his coffee cup before he even addresses Steve. It says a lot that Steve doesn’t feel any fear looking at this man. Billy might, but all Steve has is hate.

“You can’t fix him,” Neil says abruptly, and Steve curls his fingers into a fist. He’s always hated Neil, even before he knew what that asshole was doing to Billy.

“I’m not trying to fix him,” he snarls. As far as he’s concerned, Billy doesn't need fixing. He’s not something that can be fixed, no matter what Neil says.

“He’s not going to fix you either,” Neil says mildly and this time Steve seriously considers stabbing him with one of the knives on the table. This probably isn’t the Neil that Billy saw but this is the one that Steve remembers. The passive aggression, the snide comments, the badly veiled disdain. The man kept his temper in front of guests but only just. Even Steve’s father never spoke to his wife the way Neil spoke to Abigail.

“I’m not asking him to,” Steve says, because that’s not how this works. He has no illusions about it, that being with Billy isn’t going to fix all of their problems. It won’t mend Billy’s trauma, won’t vanish Steve’s insecurities. Relationships don’t work that way, and they shouldn’t.

Neil wrinkles up his nose. For a moment, his hand with the cup in tilts and Steve gets a glimpse of the strange black liquid within. It’s not coffee.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Neil says, sounding bored. Susan takes a bite of toast, ignorant of the dead arachnid that is mulched into the butter. “You’re all going to die here.”

“You keep saying that!” Steve spits in frustration and Neil smiles.

“But it’s true,” he points out. “You’re never going to get out of this house. You walked willingly into this web, like all of those before you. We’re not going to let you go. You can thrash and fight to escape all you like. But you put your foot down onto the silk and woke us up and now you can’t get out. And you know why, don’t you?”

Steve swallows and it feels like knives all the way down, his mouth is so dry. With a sinking feeling, Steve suspects that it has been true ever since they walked through the front door. The spiders, the door, the tunnel…it all fits.

Which means that it’s all Steve’s fault.

Neil crows in delight and claps his hands, a slow, sarcastic applause. Steve looks down at the stained floor and feels a bitter sting come to his eyes. Fuck. It’s been him all along. He’s the reason that they didn’t get out when they tried the first time.

“Stupid boy,” Neil says, disdainfully. “You’re too far gone. You’re not going to escape. We’re hungry and love makes you weak.”

“It’s not making me weak,” Steve insists, because while loving Billy has made him a lot of things, it’s never once made him weak. “I’m not sure if you’re Neil or that fucker that was in my head earlier but it doesn’t make you weak. And you wouldn’t know because I don’t think you’re capable of it.” Neil, or Henry, or whatever else lives in this house…they’re all the same breed of monster in the end. The kind that Billy fears he’ll be and the kind that Steve knows Billy could never be. Incapable of love.

Neil’s mouth splits open and there are too many teeth crammed in behind his lips. There’s something familiar about the cold, dead look behind his eyes and that’s when Steve knows for sure. This is the creature that’s already been inside his head. This is the spider advancing on the fly bound in the web.

“Love isn’t power,” Neil continues, the cup slipping from his fingers. The black liquid inside seeps across the table and whatever it is, Steve doesn’t think that it’s safe to touch.

The fork suddenly clatters out of Max’s hand and she turns her head to look at Steve. Neil’s face has taken on an expression of fury, like the scheduled program is not going as he would like. Steve isn’t quite sure what’s going on until he gets a good look at Max’s face.

“Run,” Max says, and Steve doesn’t hang around.

It’s only when he’s racing back down the hallway that he realizes that he doesn’t know where to go. He can only go around and around in this house of horrors. And if it’s a dream then he’s really fucked. He doesn’t know how to get out of a dream.

But whatever happened back there wasn’t meant to happen and he remembers Alice trying in vain to keep him on track back in the tunnel.

The living room is empty again, the Packard’s one and only Christmas in this place wiped clean. Steve goes for the stairs, even though he’s not sure what nightmare waits for him up there.

He stumbles into Robin’s bedroom.

“Oh fuck,” Steve mutters, as he stares down at the three of them from four years ago. Robin in a pilfered sweatshirt, fast asleep on the bed, Cheeto dust still clinging to her fingers. Down on the floor, lying side by side on the spare mattress, is Billy and Steve. The TV flickers on whatever DVD they’d left in, now no longer being watched by any of the occupants in the room.

Mesmerised, Steve steps forward. Billy looks so young here, the faintest hint of a fuller face, before Billy had grown up. His hair is already starting to get longer, the curls clinging to the back of his neck. He’s half asleep, lashes fluttering against the curve of his cheek.

Steve had felt so raw that night. So unbalanced. They’d been friends for eight years at that point and he’s still not sure what it was about this night that made him start to look at Billy differently.

Steve turns to look at the younger version of himself and he can already see it on his face. He knows that it’s going to be a long, hard fall from here but he can’t stop watching fourteen year old Steve stare in awe as Billy breathes.

“I’m going to find a way back to you,” Steve promises his sleeping friends. Because he got them into this mess in the first place. They would have been able to walk out of the front door without Steve and his stupid head. He’s kept it all hidden for too long and he never should have let it get this far. He was afraid of losing Billy and it kept him from even trying.

He should have. He should have rolled over and kissed Billy that first night at Robin’s. He should have kissed him under the mistletoe at Nancy's party two years ago. He should have stopped today after he faced down the fake one and told him that Steve is too far gone on him.

Because that’s the thing. There’s no coming back now. He knows in his heart that he’s going to love Billy for the rest of his life. The fall has been too deep, too absolute. Every laugh, every time Billy fell asleep on his couch, every time he fought with Robin over his lipgloss. His sudden stormy moods, his unwavering loyalty, his incredible spirit. Steve is totally and incredibly in love. Being friends just isn’t enough and he knows it.

“You should remember that for later,” comes a voice and Steve looks up to see the gleam of Robin’s eyes in the dark. Even though she didn’t wake up that night, something has made her sit up now with that grave expression, a puppet pulled by someone else’s strings like Max down in the kitchen. “Don’t let go of it.”

“I won’t,” Steve promises, taking one last glance at this chunk of his past. He knows where he has to go next.

The room across the hall is also occupied but Steve steps in anyway.

“I suppose you meant it earlier when you said it was all fake?” Steve asks, waiting in the doorway. Henry looks up from his drawings. Steve can see from here that they’re the same horrid pictures that Robin found, smears of black ink and red pen across the page. The boy himself isn’t much better than the painting. There’s something strange about the pallor to his cheeks, the discontented twist of his mouth.

“It is,” Henry says flatly. And Steve is inclined to agree, the lie of a portrait of the happy family and the son who wished for nothing more than their deaths. It would have been better for all of the Creels if Henry had been drowned in a bucket after birth. He may not have murdered them but it was still his hand behind their deaths in the end. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“Maybe,” Steve agrees. Maybe that was another part that Henry was picking up on, the one similarity between themselves.

Alice sits on the floor, her legs tucked beneath her pale blue dress. She pays Steve no mind, drawing something in a bright pink crayon. So far, Steve has only seen the painting and the ghost versions of her. This one is painfully real, from the runs in her tights to the flush in her cheeks.

“You killed your sister,” Steve says, repulsed. They’d known it before but they never stopped to consider just how evil of an act that it was. It’s all too easy to see - Henry pulling his sister from her bed, smothering her screams for help, dragging her down into this dark space and slicing her open. A sacrifice, a bargain, an offering.

“It was the price to pay,” Henry says smoothly and the coldness of it all strikes Steve down to his core. “It wanted proof of my loyalty…and that I could follow through on my desires. A trait that you seem to lack.”

Steve grinds his teeth. This creature has chased him all around the house, wearing different faces, and he’s had enough of it. The only thing stopping him from punching Henry Creel right in his smug face is the thought that this is just another illusion.

“Well, I’m glad that you have some restraint,” Henry drawls, his eyes glittering. He looks half mad, this small boy with the intense eyes. Steve’s not really one for believing that whole ‘windows to the soul’ gibberish but he thinks that these eyes are definitely showing something. Like the glint of a predator’s eyes in the dark.

“Did you just read my fucking mind?” Steve spits, a little horrified. He should have guessed and the slow, pleased smile spreading across Henry’s face is enough to prove it.

“Did you think I just killed my sister for nothing?” Henry asks. Alice continues coloring and Steve is pretty sure that this one is just an illusion. Just another ploy by Henry, like the Packards, like the Mayfields.

“No, I got a little something out of it,” Henry continues, as though Steve’s presence barely matters at all. “I told you before. Power is what matters. Not love.”

Love had meant nothing to Henry. Maybe he’d never cared for his sister. Maybe he had and slitting her open in front of the demon was the sacrifice he’d had to make. But Henry has been doing the dirty work for the demon ever since 1989. Playing with people’s heads, learning their fears and desires, and driving them right into an open maw.

If there was indeed a spirit that existed in Hawkins before Andrew Newton ever thought to build a grand manor here, then the demon was trapped by the concrete walls, the slabs of modern steel, all of the brick and mortar. Andrew constructed a trap without ever knowing what he had done. But it didn’t matter. The demon didn’t need to leave anymore, not now that food was being delivered right to it.

Some probably took time. Peggy killed herself a mere seven months after she arrived at the house. If the demon was limited to where it could go in the house, then its influence took longer to get inside Peggy’s head. It was the same for the Strands. It took a long year before Winston snapped and murdered his wife. But after the remaining Creels left the house, the time frame for every occupant got shorter and shorter. Isobel Reyes in 1997 lasted three months. Terry Hatcher survived eight weeks before he threw himself onto the iron railings below. The Packards lived here for five months before they fled. That's a long time to survive with a demon living beneath your feet, with a monster trying to tug on your strings, waiting until you’re ripe. Henry is the anglerfish, the siren luring men into rocks with their songs, the woman in white waiting by the side of the road.

The entity in this house has made Henry the perfect tool. He can pick out every dark thought in someone’s head and then use it to manifest their fears, their desires. It would either propel them to act on their repressed thoughts or eventually drive them mad.

A deeply disturbed boy, obsessed with the murders and spiders, must have been ripe pickings for a demon. They’d lived here for a few months before the disappearances. Did the demon whisper to Henry every night? Trickle sweet nothings in his ear, like poisoned honey, promising him blood and power if he would just drag his sister down to the basement and spill her guts before a demon?

“You’re not wrong,” comes a bemused voice and Steve jerks his head up to the large bay window. Before it had been empty, sunlight spilling in across the faded wood.

The man in front of him doesn’t look much older than Steve. He’s maybe a decade older, long and lean with sharp wrists and high cheekbones. There’s something about his blonde hair, the glint in his eyes as he stares at Steve that’s also familiar. It isn’t until the man tilts his aristocratic chin that it all clicks.

“Henry Creel,” Steve says, stunned, and the man gives him a flash of teeth. Steve turns his head back to the young Henry on the floor. The boy is still dragging thick black lines across the page. There’s something familiar about it and Steve recoils. It’s following him, that same black ooze.

“Well done,” Henry says, and it drips with condescension. There’s still something of the dour little boy in the man standing in front of Steve, but he can’t quite believe that this is Henry Creel all grown up. Henry should be older, a man in his fifties at least. But this man is youthful, with fresh skin and shiny hair, and it sits all wrong in Steve’s belly. It could be another part of his dream but somehow, he doesn’t think that it is.

“How are you…?” Steve begins to ask and then stops. “You never left this house, did you?” The horrible truth is that he already knows, and has started to suspect since Robin came down with that metal box in her hands. Two little children vanished from their beds one night in 1986. They were never seen again until 2022 when three amateur ghost hunters wandered into the Creel mansion. Alice looks exactly the same as she did when she lived here and that’s because she never left.

Henry didn’t either but for completely different reasons.

“So no portrait in the attic then?” Steve asks, and Henry smirks.

“I told you that there were benefits to this arrangement,” he says calmly, wandering a little closer to Steve. He looks like any man you’d meet in the street, with tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt. His polished black shoes click across the concrete and Steve shuts his eyes. He’s not sure what’s worse.

“That’s fucked up,” Steve hisses. Steve would never…could never. Not for whatever twisted immortality that Henry has.

“And instead of being devoured by it, you were the only one to make friends with it,” Steve says and opens his eyes. Henry watches him with interest. There's satisfaction there, and a little bit of hunger. There shouldn’t be such an expression of bloodlust on any human.

“Close,” Henry admits. “I was always different. That’s why we moved here. They thought that a nice little town like this could fix me.”

“Can it fix psychopath,” Steve bites out, unable to help voicing the thought that skitters across his brain. Because there’s something very not right with Henry, something that was rotten long before he walked across the demon’s path.

But Henry chuckles. He looks amused by Steve’s venom, and that doesn’t mean anything good for Steve.

“You failed a little,” Steve probes. “Your parents got out.” But there’s a look of grim satisfaction on Henry’s face.

“Not far enough,” he chides. “And not for long. They both died not long after. Quite honestly, I think that they knew what had happened. It wasn’t something that they could really live with.”

No, they couldn’t have. They’d have known what their son was capable of and they’d never have been able to shake their suspicions. It had swallowed Virginia whole and Victor not long after. The guilt. The regret. The grief.

“What about my friends?” Steve asks, because he has to know. Billy was visited by either Henry or the demon…and if Steve had to make a guess, he’d presume the demon. Billy had wandered right into its hunting ground, and he could guess at what thoughts could be skimmed from Billy’s head. The kind of thoughts that would have made it so easy for it to wear Neil’s face.

“They’re around,” Henry says, looking at his fingernails. This is all routine for him, luring people down to be used as food. He’s more demon than human himself now, never aging, able to pick out people’s deepest desires from their hearts. “We really only needed you. If they’re smart, they’ll leave.”

Steve swallows, suddenly very aware of the lump in his throat. They wouldn’t leave. He hopes to God they have but he knows them. They’ve been a package deal all their lives. They wouldn’t leave him behind.

“Why all this?” Steve asks, gesturing to the room, the children, the dream. “I know it’s not real.”

Henry gives an easy shrug and then waves his hand. The children vanish, young Henry and Alice fading away like smoke.

“Why not?” Henry says, like it’s all a game. That this has just been fun for him, seeing how far he can push Steve. “Besides, I don’t think you want what’s real.”

“So how does it work?” Steve asks, trying to ignore the goose-flesh on his arms. The temperature in the room has dropped, a strange dank air moving through the room as though someone left a window to hell open. He’s on borrowed time now. “I run around this stupid dream version of your house until you eat me?”

“I’m not the one eating you,” Henry says dryly. The bedroom door slams behind Steve and he flinches, before grabbing furiously at the handle. It rattles uselessly, even though he knows there’s no escaping anyway. This is Henry’s domain. Steve has no power here.

“No, you don’t,” Henry says coldly and when Steve turns around Henry is right there, a hand shooting out as fast as lightning to push Steve back into the door. It’s a dream, but he can still feel the press of the handle into his spine, the sharp sting of Henry’s nails against his throat.

A hand curls suddenly into his hair and Steve tries to jerk back but can’t. Henry’s fingers are cold and stiff, a familiar feeling from when he’d worn Billy’s face earlier and caressed Steve’s face like a lover. The fact that this time he knows that it’s not Billy, something not quite human, doesn’t help. His blood still pounds with fear as Henry leans over him.

“It’s been a good while since I was able to use these powers,” Henry confides, still gently stroking Steve’s hair like he doesn’t have his other hand gripped around Steve’s throat. “This was what I wanted after all, what I was promised. Before I was ordinary, human, weak.”

“Get out,” Steve gasps, having to fight for each word against the pressure of Henry’s weight. Henry just smiles, his face horribly close to Steve’s and that’s when Steve realizes that he can’t move. Steve automatically squirms but Henry just laughs and it’s by far the worst sound that Steve has ever heard.

“Would this be easier for you if I looked like Billy again?” Henry asks and Steve shudders.

Henry grins, mouth stretched wide and curls his fingers deeper into Steve’s head. They feel longer, bonier, than any normal digit should, each one like an ice pick against Steve’s scalp.

“I hope you don’t mind me having another little look,” Henry croons, before Steve tips his head back and screams.

Onto Chapter 6

[popthirdworld]

Chapter 3 - The Street

This is a Christmas story told in 25 parts – with one chapter released each day of December ‘til Christmas. Enjoy!

Keya was one of the many people in the city running last-minute errands on Christmas Eve. The young girl had just picked up presents for family and friends from a fancy boutique and was heading to the car where her father, and his speechwriter, were waiting. This should have been a simple task. Unfortunately, it was disrupted by a panicked boy, looking over his shoulder at whoever was chasing him, racing towards her at full speed.

PLOOMPH!

George crashed into Keya. Both kids tumbled to the ground, with his backpack and her gifts left strewn across the filthy street.

“My presents!” Keya cried as she surveyed the damage.

George had landed on something lumpy and when he pulled out the item from under his butt, he was sorry to discover …

“My phone!” the girl cried with even more anguish.

Keya yanked her mobile from his hands and mournfully inspected its cracked screen and damaged pink case that she had lovingly decorated with stickers of Christmas emojis.

George got to his feet as Keya berated him. He stammered an apology but it was lost amid her furious yelling. This yelling went on for quite some time before Keya noticed something odd. The boy was not looking her in the eyes as she reprimanded him. He was looking at her mouth. George, she realised, was trying to read her lips. Keya went quiet. With the girl’s mouth no longer moving, George’s eyes flashed up to meet hers. He saw a confused expression on her face that he had seen on strangers a hundred times before - George was deaf, the girl had just figured this out and she was taking a beat to process it.

That beat offered only a short reprieve. When George reached out to help collect her presents from the pavement, a hand gripped his arm and roughly swung him around. It belonged to a man who immediately began shaking him and screaming irately. George deduced that this was the girl’s father. 

The only word pouring from his mouth that the boy could decipher was “thief”. George’s arm was in pain; the man was squeezing it too tightly with no signs of letting go. George was not going to take this. He could not get a word in but could kick the man’s shins. He swung his foot back and took aim but this, it turned out, would not be necessary.

“Get your hands off of him!” Sister Roula shouted as she raced over to George’s side.

“Who are you?” the man barked.

“I’m his guardian”, the nun replied. “Hands!”

The man released George, but was not about to back down.

“This maniac of yours tackled my daughter and tried to steal her things!” 

“George wouldn’t do that. He was …”

“You should be more responsible than letting this brat run loose!” the man exclaimed, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“Listen, you have no …”

Sister Roula paused. This time, she had cut herself off. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the man’s face.

“Mayor Paul?” the nun said.

“Yes”, he responded stiffly. The man had temporarily forgotten that he was a public figure. He was glad that his press secretary was not there to see him lose his temper at a voter, let alone a nun. The optics of this situation were terrible.

His temper, however, was soon to be eclipsed by that of Sister Roula. The nun puffed up like a bear about to strike. George and Keya could see that something about the mayor clearly enraged her. They took a step back.

“I’m Sister Roula from the Kangula Youth Shelter”, she announced, seething.

A look of doom came over the mayor’s face.

“I have been calling you, emailing you, begging you for months to give us decent funding to repair our building.”

“We …”

“The roof leaks, the dishwasher’s dead, the plumbing doesn’t work. It’s not fit for a rat to live in, though they’re making a go of it in our walls!”

“The budget is tight”, Mayor Paul responded curtly. “Your request made no financial sense.”

“Baloney!”

As everyone was distracted by the fiery argument, Lolly emerged from her hiding spot under a nearby bus stop bench. She had been waiting there for some time after chasing Sister Roula for multiple blocks. The elf crept over to George’s backpack, which lay by his feet, and placed the globe inside. She then slipped in herself, zipping the bag closed behind her.

Lolly was wedged between a smelly jumper, a photo of George hugging a mate, and a spotty banana looking past its prime. While they hid in the backpack in silence, Santa busied himself by wiping the words “FOLLOW THAT NUN” and “SNEAK US IN BAG” from the glass on the inside of his globe. 

He was surprised to find the word “SANTA” staring back at him. The word was written in giant letters, bigger than Santa himself, scribbled on the side of an envelope pressed up against the globe. Santa was perplexed. He wondered, is this why George was out so late? To send me a letter? Santa pondered the contents of the envelope on the other side of the glass as he popped the tiny nub of candy cane left of his make-shift pen into his mouth and crunched away.

“This is not the place for this discussion”, Mayor Paul said evasively, turning away from the nun. “My office will be in contact with you about the shelter after Christmas.”

“No!” Sister Roula snapped. “Now. Explain to me why now.”

The mayor took a deep breath.  He turned back to face Sister Roula. 

“Very well”, he stated. “The shelter’s permit will be cancelled in the new year.”

“W… What?”

“The funding has been cut off because there’s no point repairing a building that will soon be demolished. Developers are offering good money to transform the space. Valuable real estate like yours in the middle of the city is better off in private hands. As I said, our office was going to inform you after Christmas.” He then turned to his daughter. “Keya, pick up your things. We’re going.”

Sister Roula stood there, numb. As she watched the mayor and his daughter disappear into the crowd, she thought about the years that she had spent keeping the shelter afloat. She wondered what would happen to the kids, escaping troubled homes and life on the streets, who relied on this refuge.

George had a hard time following what had been said, but could see the shattered look on Sister Roula’s face. He wanted to say something of comfort but nothing seemed adequate.

“I’m sorry I broke the pipe”, he offered feebly.

Sister Roula cast her eyes down at him. George braced for her response. The nun knew that she should be furious - he had run out at night, damaged property and made an enemy of the man controlling their future. She had no fight left in her, though. She also did not have the energy to try and bridge the gap between her inability to sign and his so-so ability to lipread. Talking to George was tricky. 

“We can discuss it later”, the nun replied. “Just tell me - why did you run away?”

George averted his gaze, pretending not to have seen her ask the question. He was not one to say much even at the best of times. Sister Roula sighed, grabbed George’s backpack and slung it over her shoulder as they made their way back to the shelter.

Inside the bag, Santa eyed the undelivered envelope. He suspected that the answer to Sister Roula’s question lay within. Whatever George was asking for this Christmas must have been worth all of this trouble.

[betwwencleaning]

The Comprehensive Guide to Post Construction Cleaning: Essential Steps and Best Practices

Post construction cleaning is a crucial phase in the building process that ensures a newly constructed or renovated space is ready for occupancy. This specialized cleaning service addresses the unique challenges presented by construction debris, dust, and residue. This guide covers the key aspects of post construction cleaning, including its importance, detailed steps, and best practices to ensure a thorough and effective clean.

Why Post Construction Cleaning is Essential

1. Removes Construction Debris

Post construction cleaning is essential for removing debris left behind after the construction or renovation process. This debris can include scraps of materials, dust, and other waste that can be hazardous or unsightly. Removing this debris is necessary to prepare the space for use and ensure a safe environment.

2. Improves Air Quality

Construction activities generate significant dust and airborne particles that can affect indoor air quality. Post construction cleaning helps to eliminate these dust particles and other contaminants, improving the air quality in the newly completed space. This is crucial for the health and comfort of occupants.

3. Enhances Aesthetic Appeal

A thorough post construction cleaning enhances the aesthetic appeal of the space. Dust, smudges, and fingerprints on surfaces can detract from the overall look of the construction or renovation. Cleaning these areas ensures that the space looks polished and ready for its intended use.

4. Ensures Compliance with Health and Safety Standards

Compliance with health and safety standards is a key reason for post construction cleaning. Construction sites can leave behind hazardous materials and substances that must be cleaned up to ensure the space is safe for occupancy. This includes removing any leftover chemicals, paint splatters, and other potentially harmful substances.

5. Prepares the Space for Occupancy

Post construction cleaning is the final step before a space is occupied or used. It prepares the area for its intended purpose, whether it’s a residential home, commercial building, or office space. A thorough clean ensures that the space is welcoming and functional for its new occupants.

Steps for Effective Post Construction Cleaning

1. Conduct a Preliminary Inspection

Before starting the post construction cleaning process, conduct a preliminary inspection of the space. Identify areas that require special attention, such as heavily soiled surfaces or hazardous debris. This inspection helps in planning the cleaning process and prioritizing tasks.

2. Remove Large Debris and Trash

Begin by removing large debris and trash from the construction site. This includes pieces of wood, metal, drywall, and other materials left over from construction. Properly dispose of these items to clear the area and make way for more detailed cleaning tasks.

3. Dust All Surfaces

Dust accumulation is a common issue after construction. Use a vacuum with a HEPA filter or a microfiber cloth to dust all surfaces, including walls, ceilings, and baseboards. Pay special attention to corners, light fixtures, and vents where dust often accumulates.

4. Clean Windows and Glass

Construction can leave windows and glass surfaces covered in smudges, stickers, and dust. Use a glass cleaner and a squeegee to thoroughly clean all windows and glass surfaces. Ensure that both the interior and exterior of windows are cleaned for a streak-free finish.

5. Wipe Down Surfaces

Wipe down all surfaces, including countertops, cabinets, and appliances. Use appropriate cleaning solutions for different materials, such as a mild cleaner for wood and a degreaser for kitchen surfaces. Remove any construction residue or marks left on these surfaces.

6. Clean Floors

Post construction cleaning of floors involves removing dust, dirt, and stains. For hard floors, sweep or vacuum the area before mopping with a suitable floor cleaner. For carpets, use a vacuum cleaner to remove dust and debris. Depending on the level of soiling, a professional carpet cleaner may be necessary.

7. Sanitize Restrooms

Restrooms require special attention during post construction cleaning. Clean and sanitize all surfaces, including sinks, toilets, and showers. Use disinfectants to ensure that these areas are hygienic and ready for use.

8. Remove Paint and Adhesive Residue

If paint or adhesive residue is present, use appropriate solvents or scrapers to remove it. Be cautious to avoid damaging surfaces while removing these substances. Ensure that all residues are thoroughly cleaned to leave the space looking pristine.

9. Final Touches

Perform a final inspection and touch up any areas that need additional cleaning. This may include re-cleaning spots, adjusting any misaligned fixtures, or addressing any remaining dust. Ensure that the space is fully cleaned and ready for its intended use.

Best Practices for Post Construction Cleaning

1. Use the Right Equipment and Cleaning Products

Using the right equipment and cleaning products is essential for effective post construction cleaning. Invest in high-quality vacuums, mops, and cleaning solutions that are suitable for the types of surfaces and materials in the space. This ensures a more thorough and efficient clean.

2. Follow Safety Protocols

Adhere to safety protocols when performing post construction cleaning. Wear protective gear, such as gloves, masks, and safety goggles, to safeguard yourself from dust and hazardous materials. Ensure proper ventilation in the space to reduce exposure to cleaning chemicals and dust.

3. Consider Professional Services

For large or complex construction projects, consider hiring professional cleaning services. Professionals have the expertise, equipment, and cleaning solutions to handle the demands of post construction cleaning effectively. They can ensure a thorough clean and address any specific issues that may arise.

4. Schedule Cleaning After Construction is Complete

Timing is important for post construction cleaning. Schedule the cleaning after construction work is complete and all materials and equipment have been removed. This ensures that the space is fully ready for a thorough clean without the risk of additional debris or disturbances.

5. Communicate with the Construction Team

Maintain communication with the construction team to understand any specific cleaning needs or concerns. They can provide insights into areas that may require special attention or materials that need to be handled with care.

6. Document the Cleaning Process

Document the post construction cleaning process by taking before and after photos. This helps to track the progress of the cleaning and provides evidence of the thoroughness of the work. Documentation can be useful for verifying the quality of the cleaning and for any future reference.

Conclusion

Post construction cleaning is a vital step in preparing a newly constructed or renovated space for use. By understanding its importance and following the detailed steps and best practices outlined in this guide, you can ensure a thorough and effective clean. Whether you choose to handle the cleaning yourself or hire professionals, proper post construction cleaning will help to remove debris, improve air quality, enhance aesthetic appeal, and ensure compliance with health and safety standards. A well-cleaned space not only looks better but also provides a safer and more comfortable environment for its occupants.

[insurgoservices]

Builders Cleaning Services

Builders cleaning services are a critical step in turning a construction site into a beautiful, hygienic and welcoming environment. They are also vital for preserving the integrity of the building during the defect period and final clean.

In the past, builders would conduct a builders clean themselves. This typically involved removing protective coverings, vacuuming joinery and wiping bench tops.

Cost

Builders cleaning services are a necessary part of any construction project. They help to eliminate high levels of dust, plaster, paint splatters, wood shavings and other debris. This type of cleanup is different from normal house cleaning and involves more intensive work. It may include scrubbing walls, wiping down appliances and countertops, and cleaning hard-to-reach places such as behind shelving units. It also includes sweeping, vacuuming and sanitising surfaces and removing scuff marks from door frames, window sills, and trims.

The cost of Builders cleaning services can vary significantly depending on the size and scope of the project. It can range from $0.30 to $1.40 per sq ft. The cost can also increase depending on the amount of dusting and scrubbing required. Some contractors include rough cleaning and final cleaning in their prices, while others charge extra for this service. In addition to the actual cleaning, you may need scrubbing brushes, brooms and dusters, trash bags and cleaning products.

Equipment

A builders clean is a more in-depth cleaning service than your usual domestic or commercial cleaner. This is because it involves removing all trash and messes left behind during construction and renovation work. This includes everything from scrubbing kitchen appliances to washing windows and floors. It is a much more thorough job and it can be difficult to do without the right equipment.

Professional cleaners have access to high-quality cleaning products and tools that are specifically designed for post-construction cleaning. These include brooms, vacuum cleaners, mops, scrub brushes, disinfectants, and microfibre cloths. They can also use ladders and stools to reach hard-to-reach areas.

The cleaners will also wipe down all surfaces, including cupboards and cabinets. They will also clean all sanitary ware and mirrors, and wash windows to a smear-free finish. They will also remove any stickers and labels from kitchen appliances and other items. This is a good way to ensure that the property is ready for handover and move-in.

Canopy Cleaning

Kitchen canopies and ductwork should be cleaned on a weekly basis to avoid a grease build-up that could lead to a fire. In some cases, a visual inspection can tell you whether your canopy is due for a clean. If the ductwork is contaminated with grease, it should be professionally cleaned in accordance with BESA TR19 guidelines.

The right cleaning equipment makes this job easier and faster. In addition, professional cleaners have the experience and expertise to ensure that your kitchen meets all health and safety standards. They also know how to use different types of cleaning products that are suitable for a variety of surfaces.

Otherwise known as entry, move-in or after-build cleaning, builders cleaning services transform your premises from a construction site into a fully functional building. This is a thorough clean that includes all areas of your property. This process is a great way to get rid of dust and other pollutants that are generated during construction and renovation.

Kitchen Cleaning

Construction and renovation work results in dirt and dust throughout the Industrial cleaning services. This can be difficult to remove and can impact the finished product. However, a professional builders clean ensures that all the mess is removed before handover. This will make sure that the final project is ready for its new owners and tenants.

A builders clean is usually done in two stages – an initial builder’s clean and a final clean. The first stage gets rid of the dirt and dust caused by construction work. This stage includes a deep clean of all surfaces including the insides of cupboards and white goods. It also includes wiping high-level fittings such as light fixtures and extractor fans.

Builders cleaning services include cleaning the kitchen area, removing debris from the floors and vacuuming the carpets. In addition, they clean the ducts of kitchen appliances and washrooms. They can also help in removing scuff marks from baseboards and walls.