#rafter unknown

[journalsoftheunknownarchive]

Journals of the Unknown - Witches of Salem Preliminaries

We can finally start talking about the story of Journals’ first season, Witches of Salem. But before we start, I would like to share both a sinopsis of this season and the characters who play a relevant role in it, just so I can be sure that these characters’ spirtes will remain somewhere to be seen even if my last resources for finding them disappears.

It is important to note, for some of these descriptions, that there was a second version of Journals of the Unknown released once The Other Guys settled with specializing in interactive story games, and the original one was left behind. I suspect it’s both because the format of a television-like format, where the episodes are released apart from one another, was not working with an audience whose main goal was to play a point and click game. I also suspect that happened because games such as Criminal Case decreased in popularity (since you don’t see that many people playing Facebook games anymore) while games such as Linda Brown gained said popularity (Linda Brown isThe Other Guys’ property, by the way), but that’s only a suspicion.

THE THREE MISSING WITCHES:

Througout the game, we only come in contact with Eva Hope and Sally Acheron, but it is important to know that there were three people who were mostly targeted by the murderer, and that also included Aleena Lareau. To be fair, these characters are some of the few that I can say have been given an official age.

ID: Two pages of a notebook. The first one reads: “Dear Jane, I’m glad that you decided to follow your father’s steps and accept working at the magazine. Remember: 2 girls have died in Salem (one was the tarot reader and the second was the horoscope writer). Now the atendant of the Salem Witch Museu is missing. This doesn’t look good! We think there’s a new witch hunt going on even if the police denies it. Find out but take care!”, signed Ben, in cursive. The other page has three black and white pictures of the dead and missing woman, which reads: “Name: Aleena Lareau. Age: 47. Occupation: Tarot Reader. Status: deceased”, “Name: Sally Acheron. Age: 23. Occupation: Horoscope writer. Status: Deceased”, “Name: Eva Hope. Age: 22. Occupation: Salem Witch Mseum attendant. Status: Missing”. END ID

JANE GOODHART: She’s the main character of the game, and naturally will appear in the following seasons. She’s a journalist whose main motivation in joining the team of paranormal investigations at the Amazing Magazine is to find her long missing father, Ulysses Goodhart, because she doesn’t believe in the supernatural at first. She has a strong sense of justice, but I CAN NOT say the same applies for her sense of morality, honest to God (you’ll see why soon enough...)

ID: One of the first few frames in The Witches of Salem. It contains Jane Goodhart with a bubble that reads: “Has a new (in all caps and in bold) witch hunt (end of all caps and bold) started? I’m heading there to (in bold) investigate (end of bold)...”. Jane Goodhart appears to be a young adult between her 20′s-30′s, with white skin, light colored eyes and blonde hair. She’s wearing a leatherjacket which matches her hair color, and a necklace. END ID

ULYSSES GOODHART: Jane’s main motivator to go around on adventure, and the main link between the cases of the game. Throughout the game, it is implied that he was a caring father to her, albeit a very distant one due to his many trips throughout the world as a journalist. This importance he gave to his work was very detrimental to his marriage. He was the founder of the Amazing Magazine, and is best friends with Ben Watson/Werels.

ID: An old protograph, of Ulysses and Jane Goodhart when she was a child. In the photograph, the house of the Goodharts can be seen on the background, and Ulysses holds his daughter on his back (I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s such a stereotypical father thing to do, you know what I’m talking about). Ulysses appears to be middle aged, he has gray hair and a short beard that covers most of his face. He wears a watch on his left arm. END ID

BEN WATSON/WERELS: In the point and click-occult object version of the game, Ben’s surname was Watson. In the interactive story version, his surname is Werels. I will be referring to him as Ben Watson, since this page’s focus is the point and click-occult object version, AKA the original version. He’s the main editor of the Amazing Magazine, and acts as a surrogate father to Jane ever since Ulysses has gone missing.

ID: An image of Ben Watson. He is a white older man, with gray hair, thick black eyebrows and a mustache. He’s wearing glasses, and a red bow-tie. END ID

JASPER RAFTER/VONNEGUT: Jasper suffers from the same situation as Ben Watson, and has two different surnames, but for the purpouses of this page, I’ll be referring to him as Jasper Rafter. He’s the main photographer at the Amazing Magazine, and just like Jane, he has a good heart but not always the best morals. He’s willing to drop anything in a heartbeat if it means that it will be beneficial to Jane, and he has a not-so-subtle crush on her throughout the entire game; he keeps trying to ask her out, but his hints are too subtle for her to notice.

ID: A picture of Jasper Rafter. He is a white man with spiky brown hair and blue eyes. He’s holding a professional camera with one hand and gesticulating with the other. He’s wearing a light blue shirt and a dark blue loose scarf. END ID

DARCEY WILLIANS: Darcey also has the same issue as the two previously mentioned characters, but with one difference: I can not remember his original name and whether or not it was truly Willians. Either way, he’s really fuzzy on my memory as to his original personality, but I do remember that he was really supersticious. Nowadays, and even in the last season of the original game, he acted a bit as a despotate, assuming the charge of the Amazing Magazine after Ulysses disappeared, and he overall did not show that much care other than that. He’s a pretty irrelevant characters, to be quite honest. I don’t even have images of him, you just gotta believe me and image Collin Firth during Pride and Prejudice recording but with the most heinous goatee you can possible image.

EUGENE WITCH: He was given a name only in the interactive story version of the game, and in the original he was simply referred as “The Butler”. He’s the butler of the Putnam family, and who either helps Jane or makes her life a little harder if her interference means more trouble to Gregorious. I do think he’s more of a valet than a butler, though, but Journals of the Unknown was not written by English speaking people so I can understand.

ID: A low quality picture of Eugene Witch, The Butler. He’s looking round in confusion at the gateway of the Putnam Manor. He has short hair and appears to be starting to bald, and wears a mustache alongside the usual butler attire. END ID

RICHARD MURRAY: Gregorious Putnam’s main rival at the elections for mayor, and the current owner of The Lucky Witch gift shop. I can’t speak much about him without going into story spoilers, so just know that he’s more relevant than he seems.

ID: A bunch of posters of Richard Murray’s electorial campagin. He’s a white man with short hair and a beard. END ID

GREGORIOUS PUTNAM: Richard Murray’s main rival at the elections for mayor, and Witch’s boss. He’s a dishonest man trying to keep the family’s legacy alive despite all of the odds, and acts like your average politician since... well, that’s what he is.

ID: A low quality picture of Gregorious Putnam’s speaking bubble. He’s a man appearing to be in his 50′s-60′s, with brown and well-adjusted hair, big glasses and wearing a suit. He’s white and is shown frowning. END ID

NORA BRADSTREET: The owner of the hotel Eva Hope was staying in before the incidents of the game. I can’t say much about her, since most of the relevant information are spoilers about the lore of this game’s city of Salem, so just know that she might be more relevant than she seems.

ID: A picture of Nora Bradstreet, with her pet cat on her shoulder. She’s shown in a birthday hat and happily holding a fork, seemingly to eat her birthday cake. She’s an old, fat woman with big earrings. Above her, it’s written: “Happy birthday Nora!!”, and below a date: “08/11″. END ID

MIKE STEWARD: A corrupt police officer, who became friends with Ulysses Goodhart during the time in which he visited Salem. He doesn’t offer much to the overall story other than political drama and the potencial for the weirdest friendship ever.

ID: Mike Steward’s speaking bubble. He’s a broad shouldered white man, with short dark hair, and a big mustache, almost touching his chin. He’s wearing the police uniform. END ID

[hurtspideyparker]

Tony doesn't tell the Avengers about Peter's secret identity, but Peter starts coming over constantly and chilling around the tower, helping Tony in his workshop or eating dinner with everyone.

Since Tony is weirdly secretive about who the kid is, and the fact that Spider-Man is still a small unknown (presumably adult) hero who isn't on any Avengers radars, they all collectively come to the conclusion that he's Tony's illegitimate child.

Bruce: They do have the same eyes...

Steve: This is an inappropriate conversation to have. If Tony doesn't want to tell us then we shouldn't pry

Natasha: Tony doesn't even like kids. There's no way he would tolerate one if it wasn't because of his guilt complex. I'm surprised there isn't more little Starks running around considering his previous lifestyle

Clint: *cough* drunk slut *cough*. Oh excuse my throat, I meant to say he was a drunk slut

Natasha: Steve they're the exact same. Talk too much, too fast, genius brains that go right over our heads, stubborn, like to cope with humor, same body language. They'll have the same smile lines when Peter grows into them. The only difference is that Peter was raised with manners

Steve: I'm not saying I don't agree, I'm saying it's none of our business. Anyone with basic observational skills can tell they're desperate to fill father and son roles in each others' lives, but Tony's really weird about it, so we should let him keep it private

Clint: We probably make him nervous

Bruce: Because he thinks he's a bad dad?

Natasha: I think he's kinda good at it. Which is extremely unnerving

Steve: Honestly out of all of us I had bets on Bruce having a secret wife and kids hidden somewhere. Tony stepping up to be a father was lower on my list than Nat

Natasha: You have a list?

Bruce: You think I pull?

Steve: That's irrelevant. I think it's nice that they're so close already, but we don't need to press. It might mess up a good thing

Clint: Wait can we go back to this list business. Are these like pragmatic, military leader lists, or are these for pleasure? What other kinds of lists do you have? What about which one of us is most likely to turn on you. Or what you'd turn for. Oh! What about a list of all our weak points based on accessibility and intensity, with contingency plans in case of defection or aliens or brainwashing or alien brainwashing causing defection

Steve:

Natasha:

Bruce:

Steve: This is why Tony won't share his personal life with us.

They last another week before Clint, Natasha, and Bruce team up to steal a strand of Peter's hair and test it for paternity. Steve knows something is up, and follows Clint to Bruce's lab.

Steve: What are you doing...

Natasha: Admit it, you know exactly what we're doing and you want to see the results

Steve: I... well if you already have them there's no point keeping it from me

Clint: Tony Stark is not the daddy!

Tony: Which of my exes have you been talking to?

Clint: AH oh hey Tony didn't see you there

Steve: I'm not apart of this

Tony: Is this about Peter? He told me something plucked his head when he was walking down here. Which of you murder twins was hiding in the rafters

Natasha: Y'know he's not your kid, whoever told you he was lied to you and I hope you get your child support back

Tony: My kid? He's my intern. What funky kool-aid have you all been drinking, that boy is sorting my tool drawer right now. He has slightly better dexterity than Dum-E, it's been quite helpful

Bruce: You have really poor professional boundaries if he's just an intern

Tony: Okay fine. He's actually Spider-Man. I didn't wanna tell anyone cause the Accords were still fishy, but everything should be good now. Anyways, he really wants to train with you guys so you'd have to know eventually

Clint: Who the hell is Spider-Man?

Steve: That guy in Queens who helps bring in peoples' groceries?

Tony: Well, yeah—listen, he's like 14 and he just got his powers. I'm not exactly sending him to fight armed terrorists yet. He'll grow into it, but trust me, there's potential. I'm kind of like his mentor

Steve: You really don't need to do that

Bruce: Yeah we'll all help out from now on

Natasha: Don't take too much responsibility for the boy

Clint: Oh god what have you been teaching him?

Tony: Thanks for the vote of confidence guys. Whatever, now that you all know he'll be hounding you all day for advice anyways. Good luck with that. Friday tell Pete to come down here, the Avengers are gonna train with him

Tony leaves them all, snickering to himself as loud footsteps come crashing down the hallway. If they didn't know any better they'd say several elephants were tripping down the stairs. Then, the doors burst open, Peter's mouth already running a mile-a-minute.

Peter: Really, you guys know, you guys will teach me? Can I use the shield, Ms. Romanoff can you show me how to kick, show me with Mr. Barton, or, or Mr. Rogers. I can take down someone bigger than me, I'm actually really strong. Wanna see? Why are we in Bruce's lab, is that my first lesson! Can I touch this? What are you making here, how long has this been distilling, what about my webs, have you ever seen my webs? I did them myself, but I bet we could make them even better, watch out it's really sticky—

Steve ends up with webs all over his face, several of Bruce's beakers broken from the white spray, one reacting poorly with it and exploding all over Clint and Natasha. Bruce immediately shoves them into the decontamination shower, leaving them as two drenched rats wearing skin-tight combat gear. Natasha is already fuming at the thought of trying to peel it off.

Peter: I'm really sorry, I didn't know it was on ricochet... the splitter webs were just 'cause I panicked

Steve: This is why I told you all to leave it be.

"Noted," they all say in unison.

[libbyfandom]

“The Dove is just as Cunning as the Demon”

‘Need to get out of the chains. Get my sword. Grab dove. Find a way out. Chains, sword, dove, get out.’

Mizu eyes the guard to her right that’s holding her sword and pulling you along as the one that’s dragging her leads her to a back room. Taigen is swearing a storm as he’s dragged behind her by two more guards.

At least Ringo wasn’t captured. He was still thankfully waiting back at camp. If he even knew of this he would have come running to her side, further complicating escaping.

She winces, growling in frustration as the guard yanks her shackled arms further up her back as he drags her, feeling the muscles in her shoulders scream in protest.

She knew you three weren’t running fast enough after her and Taigen got into a sword fight with others at the inn. You were swarmed right out the city gates.

She would have kept fighting if one of them hadn’t held a knife to your throat.

They toss her and Taigen into the room. She catches herself on one knee, glaring over her shoulder at the men as Taigen struggles to his feet.

“Ah-“ one of the guards tsks when Taigen stands, holding her sword to your throat where he has your back restrained to his chest. You’re shaking, craning your neck as far back from the familiar steel as possible. His hand follows still, pressing the steel in until the tiniest stinging slit cuts through, a drop of blood rolling down your neck.

Mizu clenches her jaw against the familiar flames of rage licking at the corners of her focus, desperate to take over. She slowly turns with unblinking, predator like focus on where the man’s hand is. Where it temporarily is attached to his body.

“Taigen.”

He’s breathing raggedly through his nose, eyes sharp on the guards. But at her word he glances at her once, before begrudgingly lowering himself to a sitting position like her.

‘Chains. Sword. Dove. Detach hand. Get out.’

“I see the demon is in charge.”

“He is not in charge of me!” Taigen glowers from the floor.

The guard lowers the sword, heaving you up beside him. “You two wait here, we will come when the hanging executioner is ready for you.”

He lowers his face to stare at Mizu’s dark expression, his lips curling with a malicious satisfaction. “I do love watching a dishonorable swordsman’s neck snap from the drop.”

“No!” You crumple against the guard holding you captive, making him stumble a moment before he wretched you back upright from where you’ve collapsed to the floor.

Her eyes dart for every detail of the guards. Only single sword wielders, no archery weapons in hand. Safe after getting out of range. Simple, foot-soldier armor. Only powerful in numbers. Captain can’t be bribed, he’s holding too much pleasure at getting to kill them. She turns her attention to the room. Furnishings similar to normal houses. This place is not designed to hold prisoners. No windows, but that could mean…

She spots the rafter leading into the next room. An easy way out without being spotted on the floor, but she needs a way out of these chains once the guards leave, and quickly. Until she’s out of these shackles and has you in sight this needs to be silent, or risk your safety. Her stomach is tightening as she knows there’s about to be who knows how many minutes between when she escapes and when she finds you. The unknown of what these guards could do (she knows what men do) is leaving a rock in her stomach that she now needs to ignore to figure a way-

You suddenly fling yourself into her lap, cupping her cheek and pressing your mouth into hers, hard. Her eyes fly open, everything in the room halting to silence. Even the two guards near the door glance at each other with uncomfortable confusion. Taigen’s giving you two the most judgmental side eye mixed with disbelief.

She tried to flinch away on instinct at the sudden action, but your lips follow hers. Your tongue pried her mouth open, and she almost kicks you off because DOVE. RIGHT NOW?! NOT THE PLACE OR TIME.

She feels a smooth weight fall into her mouth, and her throat closes up instinctually to not swallow it.

You’re ripped away from her, half dragged half carried out the door. You flash her a certain look as you’re taken away, before going back to flailing and hitting the guard. She keeps her lips clenched tight, glaring at them as they leave. When the last guard shuts the door Taigen turns to her. “You can’t even say anything? You know what they’re going to do-“

He falls into stunned silence when the shackles key slips out of her mouth, clenched between her teeth.

“Holy shit…” he murmurs. Shaking his head back into the moment, he quickly shuffles over and turns his back to her so she can spit the key into his bound hands.

Mizu’s eyes slide back toward the door.

“I fucking love that woman.”

Chains gone.

Grab Sword.

Detach hand.

Tune out screaming.

Throw a giggling dove over shoulder.

Kick down door.

Run off into the night.

….

Remember to tell dove how clever that was.

[bornofsteelblood]

Revelation: König/Kidnapped!reader

“We didn’t know she was yours!” your abductor wailed, belly writhing on the ground. König's eyes flashed with a sickening delight upon hearing those words. Yes, you were his and he was going to end this nightmare for the both of you.

Warnings: Heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of gunfire/weapons, mentions of knives, hostage situations, violence, angst, grief, descriptions of death, Reader insert, Protective!Konig. Big man is going through it.

Four months. You had been taken from him four months ago. Your current coordinates unknown to König. Endless nights of turmoil and guilt kept him up. He should have protected you better. He should have known this was a possibility. This was entirely his fault.   

Three weeks. A video of you trembling, beaten and bloodied, had been anonymously sent to König three weeks ago. The Kortac base comm center was decommissioned for over a month due to the havoc wreaked upon it by his blinding rage. Computer screens were smashed into an unrecognizable heap of wires. Chairs and tables were ripped apart as if made of paper. A Glock knife had been stabbed repeatedly through the large monitor that hung on the wall; the same monitor that had showcased your distress.   

Two days. The Colonel only needed two days to devise a plan to rescue you. While König was an expert at hostage negotiation, he had no intention to negotiate your release. For the first time since your disappearance, clarity had washed over him in a cold sweep as he recounted his strategy. The answer was simple and barbaric. He’d enter as the hooded executioner. Death and destruction brought upon your captors to splatter blood through their encampment. He’d hang them by their lower intestines from the rafters to admonish an event like this from happening again.       

One hour. The helicopter was going to touch down in one hour. One hour until you were safe in his embrace. The few operators König had allowed to accompany him shuffled past to stock themselves with as much ammo as possible. He had taken down entire teams of terrorist on his own, he didn't need their help. They weren’t his comrades anymore; they were witnesses. Spectators to a situation that felt like a never-ending nightmare that involved putting you in harm's way. A harrowing fact that depleted his sanity the longer you were gone.    

The parachute deployed swiftly to carry him down to where he believed you were being kept, like a large omen of death sweeping down from the sky. König landed with a heavy thud as he barked orders to the others. “No one leaves alive until I find her.” Nodding their compliance, the operators began a cacophony of gunfire that engulfed the small encampment. König drew his rifle from its holster on his back, his finger itching to pull the trigger. He wanted to be in the middle of the action instead of sniping from hundreds of meters away. Bearing witness to the carnage he was going to inflict on the men who had stolen you.    

Rounding an abandoned truck, König crouched to assess the situation. His eyes flicked between his men and the target; a small hideaway that would go unnoticed by most. Bounding up to the door, König had no trouble forcing his way inside. Blinded by rage and vindication, he mowed down anyone who stood in his way of securing your freedom. High from the violence he could effortlessly commit, his malicious laughter rang out triumphantly as the butt of his gun shattered an unknown masked man's nose. He was hoping that you would recognize it and know that he was here to save you.      

A single figure stood out amongst the sea of corpses, a familiar face. König recognized him to be the man who had dug the sharp blade of his knife across your cheek and forehead from your hostage video. “Wait..p-please! I’ll show you where she’s-” The camo-clad, smaller man begged for his life but was cut off by a vice grip on his throat. A single hand raised his feet from the floor to be at eye level with the terrifying masked man. The Colonel couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of this lesser being struggling for his life, feet kicking frantically against shin guards. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl “Beg for your life like you made her.”      

Loosening his grip, your captor fell to the ground with a sickening snap of bone. “We didn’t know she was yours!” he wailed, belly writhing on the ground. König's eyes flashed with a sickening delight upon hearing those words. Yes, you were his and he was going to end this nightmare for the both of you. Raising the rifle, he fired two rounds into the man's left thigh to prevent him from getting up. “Stell dich deinem Tod, Abschaum.” 

With a heavy kick to the shoulder, König planted his entire weight on the front of his clavicle to pin him to the ground. Your captor howled like a rabid dog and König was going to put him down like one. He aimed between the eyes and fired, a spray of blood showered against his mask. 

Profuse apologies and reassurances loudly tumbled from the Colonels’ lips, hoping you could hear him and would answer back. His shoulder battered against the door that divided the two of you. It was too silent on your end. König swallowed his panic down and swung his leg back to kick squarely above the doorknob. The wood splintered and burst open under the force. “Stay with me, ja? You’ll be alright!” His blood ran cold as he kneeled over you, realizing you weren’t moving.  

Your neck was twisted at a horrid angle and blood that had flowed from your mouth lay dry. Death had found you first. They mutilated your beauty into something unrecognizable. He couldn’t bring you out looking like that, it wasn’t right. It would draw sympathy that König couldn’t handle; their looks of empathy would break him. It would confirm that his worst fear, his endless nightmare, was now a bleak reality.       

Had you spent your last moments in agony at the thought of your lover never rescuing you? König couldn’t breathe. His throat constricted so tightly he hoped the revelation of your death would stop his heart. Did you believe that he wasn’t coming to rescue you? You died thinking you weren’t loved.

König draped his mask softly over your face, a death shroud of his own making. He couldn’t bear to look at the destruction inflicted upon you. You’re body lay limp and cold in his arms while his boots trudged through the crimson-stained dirt. The other operators quickly shifted their eyes downward. It felt intrusive to gaze upon the sulking, lumbering god as he marched past. His eyes were distant and glazed over to match his expressionless face. Your body cradled against his chest. The helicopter ride back home was silent and bleak as König refused to put you down. 

It became a whispered myth among privates, what the face of the dreadful Austrian resembled. No one from that day dared to recall what he looked like and he had outgrown any ridicule he felt towards his body. He could take the shame of a failed mission but not the emptiness it had brought with it.     

After you were laid to rest, König decommissioned his infamous t-shirt mask. He now brought far superior helmets and masks into the field. That particular mask was a relic and the final object that you two had shared. It meant everything to him. He would hold it between his hands and rest his cheek against it to seek comfort during those guilt-ridden nights. Those nights when he swore his ribs were being crushed from the ache in his chest. Those nights filled with guttural sobs that hadn’t wracked his body since he was ostracized in grade school. While the mask was no longer implemented, he used it to gently wipe the sorrow off of his life.

 

Translation: Face your death, scum. - > Stell dich deinem Tod, Abschaum.

[cera-writes]

First Impressions - A Kurt Wagner x gn!reader one-shot

Summary: You first met Kurt at the Herr Getmann's Traveling Menagerie. The first time you laid eyes on the blue elf, you were smitten. Fast forward to the 90s and you and Kurt meet again under much different circumstances. tags: fluff, coming of age, mutual pining

The Bavarian sun, a pale orb veiled by a dusty scrim, cast a sickly yellow glow upon Herr Getmann's Traveling Menagerie. The peeling paint on the rickety wooden sign promised wonders, but the air itself held a different story. It reeked of damp straw and the acrid tang of manure, a far cry from the anticipated scent of popcorn and sugared treats. Disappointment gnawed at you, a shadow settling over your heart despite your parents' enthusiastic promises.

Your parents had dragged you along on this trip. It was your summer vacation and apparently you were there to also stay with distant relatives. But you knew your parents were in it just for the free stay and a vacation away from the States. Out of all the touristy things your parents could have picked for you to do, they chose a musty, worn down circus. Honestly, you were ready to be back in America with your friends at the arcade or skating rink. This wasn't how you imagined you'd spend your summer at all.

"C'mon darling. The show is about to start!" Your mother ushered you inside the tent as the ticket master tore your ticket stubs in half as your father followed close behind.

Inside, the spectacle was every bit as underwhelming as the exterior. The big cats, once proud denizens of the savanna, paced restlessly in cramped cages, their magnificent coats dull with neglect. Their amber eyes, once fierce and watchful, were now clouded with resignation. The stench of their confinement hung heavy in the air, a stark counterpoint to the vibrant posters plastered precariously on the weathered orange and red canvas walls. You took a seat in the rafters for the best view, if you even could call it that.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker crackled to life, the announcer's voice a tired rasp battling with static. "Presenting," he declared, his voice tinged with a hint of forced excitement, "our opening act of the night, the Mystifying Nightcrawler!" A spotlight pierced the gloom, bathing the center ring in a harsh white light. From the shadows emerged a figure unlike any you had ever seen. Your eyes widened. Was he- was he really a mutant? You had never seen one in person. He was absolutely beautiful.

"It's him..." you mother sneered. Your parents however, held gazes of contempt and disgust towards Nightcrawler, and any other mutant for that matter. You tuned out their nasty whispers and just focused on the boy standing at the platform.

He was clad in a costume that shimmered with an otherworldly sheen, a deep cobalt blue that seemed to drink in the stark light. A mask, sculpted from some unknown material, obscured his face, but a shock of blue black hair, as vibrant as a summer sky after a downpour, peeked out from beneath it. It was a stark contrast to the peeling paint and sun-bleached canvas that surrounded him.

Then, he moved. There was an effortless grace to his every action, as if defying the earth's very pull. He launched himself from a platform hidden in the shadows, his form a blur of blue and black against the harsh white backdrop. He wasn't just swinging; he was dancing, his body twisting and turning with an impossible fluidity. Every leap, every flip spoke volumes of preternatural strength and agility. He was a silent symphony in motion, an enigma wrapped in cobalt and shadow.

But it was more than just his skill that captivated you. There was an aura about him, an undeniable magnetism that drew you in like a moth to a flame. It was a mystery that whispered promises of adventure and a world hidden just beyond the confines of the dusty circus tent. With each breathtaking leap, with every impossible maneuver, a spark ignited within you, a yearning for something more, something extraordinary.

For a fleeting moment, his gaze seemed to find yours through the harsh glare of the spotlight. A jolt of electricity shot through you, a connection forged in that shared glance. Then, with a flourish that echoed the fading magic of the moment, he vanished back into the shadows, leaving behind a trail of shimmering blue and the lingering echo of wonder in your heart.

The rest of the night was a blur. The other acts faded into oblivion, their performances mere afterimages compared to the spectacle you had just witnessed. Your mind replayed the image of the Nightcrawler, his impossible agility, and the enigmatic smile hidden beneath the mask. The program, clutched tightly in your hand, became a talisman against the fading magic, a tangible reminder of the night that had stolen your breath and ignited a latent flame deep within your very core.

As the applause dwindled and the spotlight dimmed, you felt a frantic energy surge through you. You couldn't just let this incredible encounter end. You had to meet the Mystifying Nightcrawler, to thank him for his amazing performance. It totally didn't have anything to do with your newfound crush. Nope.

Despite your parents' apathy towards mutants, their dismissal fueled a rebellious spark. Seeing the way they interacted with the worn-out animals solidified your resolve. This wasn't a place of wonder, but a place where the extraordinary was exploited. But Nightcrawler, he was different. He brought a touch of magic to the dreary spectacle.

"Come on," your mother called, her voice laced with impatience, "Let's get some overpriced cotton candy and get out of here."

You mumbled an excuse, your heart hammering in your chest. Scanning the emptying stands, you spotted him – a flash of blue disappearing behind a faded red curtain. With a last furtive glance at your parents, now deep in conversation with a vendor, you sprinted towards the backstage area.

The worn canvas walls billowed in the evening breeze, and the air thrummed with a low murmur of voices. You navigated the maze of caravans, each one a peeling testament to the circus's nomadic life. Just as you were about to give up, a figure emerged from one of the larger caravans.

It was him. The Nightcrawler. But instead of his vibrant costume, he was clad in worn jeans and a simple white shirt. He held a red rose in his hand, its vibrant color stark against his stark blue fur. His mask was off, revealing kind golden eyes and a mischievous grin.

Your stomach did a nervous flip-flop. This wasn't the enigmatic performer you'd admired from afar. He had to have been around the same age as you. His vulnerability made him even more captivating. You hesitated, unsure of how to approach him.

Sensing your presence, he turned, his yellow eyes widening in surprise. Then, a smile spread across his face, as warm and genuine as the setting sun.

"“Hallo Schöne”," he said, his voice a melodic baritone. "Seems the Mystifying Nightcrawler has a little fan."

You stammered, cheeks burning. "I, uh… I just wanted to thank you. Your performance… it was incredible. Um, you're also the first mutant I've ever seen. Sorry, I'm not from around here. I'm from America." You played with the hem of your shirt, fidgeting nervously around him.

He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound. "Thank you, frau. You make a kind audience. I hope I did not frighten you. I know I look a bit... ungewöhnlich."

He held out the rose. "Would you care for this?"

You hesitated for a moment, then reached out to take the flower, its soft petals cool against your fingertips. "It's beautiful," you breathed.

His gaze held yours, an unspoken question lingering in his eyes. "So," he said, his voice dropping a touch, "what's a junge Dame like you doing backstage at a traveling circus?"

You inhaled deeply, the scent of hay and diesel fuel filling your lungs. As you spoke, a strange tingling sensation crawled up your arm, making the hairs stand on end. It felt... electric, like a current running just beneath the surface of your skin. You flinched, dropping your gaze from Kurt's captivating golden eyes to the rose in your hand.

"I…" you started, your voice catching in your throat. The tingling intensified, spreading across your body in a wave. Panic surged through you, a primal fear of the unknown. Before you could apologize or explain the sudden tremor, your vision blurred at the edges. The world seemed to distort around you, the vibrant red rose in your hand pulsing with an otherworldly glow.

Kurt's demeanor shifted instantly. His playful smile vanished, replaced by a mask of concern. He reached out, his hand hovering a safe distance from yours. "Are you alright, Freund ?" he asked, his voice laced with worry.

You struggled to speak, your tongue thick and heavy. The strange energy within you crackled, yearning to be released. This wasn't the first time your body reacted this way. You feared the worst. You were starting to believe you were a mutant too. But you could never reveal that to your parents.

They'd disown you in a heartbeat. All those scholarships they made you apply for would never matter if they found out you were different. You knew you needed to get away, to disappear before you lost control and revealed your secret in front of the mysterious Nightcrawler.

"I… I don't feel well," you managed to force out, your voice shaky. Shame burned in your stomach for the abrupt change. "I should get back to my parents."

Kurt's eyes flickered with understanding. He nodded, a hint of sadness in his gaze. "Of course," he said gently. "Let me take you to them."

He moved with his trademark agility, guiding you through the maze of caravans with an ease that left you breathless. You stumbled slightly, your legs shaky under the weight of the unknown power coursing through you. Kurt offered you his arm for support, but before you could reach for it, your parents' voices cut through the air.

"There you are!" your mother exclaimed, her voice laced with annoyance. "We've been looking everywhere for you!"

You turned to see them approaching, their faces etched with concern. When they spotted Kurt hovering beside you, their expressions hardened.

"Don't touch our child, freak!" your father barked, his voice thick with disgust.

Shame washed over you, hot and suffocating. Kurt's hand recoiled as if struck. His shoulders slumped, the joy that had previously emanated from him extinguished.

"I was just helping, Herr," he said, his voice mild yet firm. "They seemed unwell."

Your mother scoffed. "Don't need any help from your kind." She grabbed your arm possessively, dragging you away before you could even look back at Kurt.

"Wait!" you cried, struggling against her grip. But your voice was lost in the bustle of the crowd. You stole a final glance over your shoulder, only to see Kurt standing alone, with one hand rubbing subconsciously over his other right bicep.

His yellow eyes, once filled with warmth, now held a flicker of sadness as they looked off in the distance. He was the first of his kind that you had met and you finally felt like you resonated with him. But it was all too short lived. All you were left of him was the single red rose he'd given you as a memory of your encounter.

With a heavy heart, you were whisked away from the circus, your first encounter with the Mystifying Nightcrawler ending abruptly, leaving a bittersweet aftertaste and a burning question: would you ever see him again?

The 90s were a whirlwind of discovering and finally, somewhat, honing your mutant abilities. Mutants, now looked down upon more than ever, made you even more of an advocate for your kind. You got that scholarship but at the expense of your parents actually disowning you after a fight at the dinner table ended up with your mother's smashed fine China on the floor at the expense of your powers.

For some reason, they'd brought up Nightcrawler again and it sickened you to the point that you'd had enough. When they found out you were just another "freak" that was the last straw and they kicked you out and you never heard from them again. Good riddance you'd said.

The only thing that sucked about them kicking you out was that you had to quickly find a job and a place to live or you'd end up just another homeless mutant on the streets. All that trust fund money had long gone down the drain when they cut you off completely.

You were residing in New York now. You found a dingy little apartment to live in while you finished up your degree in Advanced Physics. You were finally set to graduate this month and after that, who knows.

You wanted to find a job and finally move out of the crappy little apartment you'd called home for a few years now. At least your neighbor next door, Peter Parker, was usually quiet and it gave you room to study without having to complain with a knock at his door, even if he did come and go at odd times of the night.

One particular day, you were sitting at your favorite little corner coffee shop, studying for your final exam, when all hell broke loose on the street. A piece of large shrapnel flew through the glass of the shop, eliciting screams and terrified shouts from pedestrians as people flew to take cover.

You dove for cover under the overturned coffee table, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The tremor that had rattled the windows had morphed into a full-blown city-rattling rampage. But it wasn't an earthquake. The tremors moved, a monstrous crimson figure stomping through the city streets, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

Juggernaut. You recognized him from news reports – a mutant powerhouse the X-Men struggled to contain. And here he was, rampaging through your city like a bull in a china shop.

Panic threatened to consume you, but amidst the chaos, a voice in your head rose above the fear. You were no longer the scared kid, afraid of their powers, who watched Nightcrawler perform at the circus.

If this new era taught you anything, it was discovering your mutant abilities, the escalating anti-mutant sentiment, and the brutal fight with your parents that ended with disownment and shattered family heirlooms. The memory of them calling you a "freak" like Nightcrawler still stung, but it also ignited a fire within you. You wouldn't be another victim.

Squinting past the overturned table, you saw the X-Men, their familiar blue and gold uniforms standing resolute against the crimson giant. And there he was, Nightcrawler – older, even more handsome than you'd remembered, but with the same twinkle in his eyes. He fought with a desperate grace, teleporting in and out, trying to flank Juggernaut. But the red behemoth seemed unstoppable.

It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, you channeled the theoretical knowledge from years of studying advanced physics. The raw energy of the city pulsed around you, a live wire waiting to be tapped into. It felt almost like an extension of yourself, hungry for release. You stood, running from your sense of security, and joined the chaos outside.

With a surge of will, you unleashed it. A concentrated beam of pure energy, hotter than a thousand suns, erupted from your outstretched palms. It slammed into Juggernaut's side, the red giant staggering with a surprised grunt. The X-Men seized their chance, a flurry of attacks momentarily halting the crimson tide. Cyclops blasted an optic beam, Storm unleashed a swirling vortex of wind, and Wolverine harried Juggernaut with his adamantium claws.

Kurt, finally free from the relentless onslaught, materialized beside you, his yellow familiar eyes widening in disbelief. It was as if he'd seen a ghost. "It's you," he rasped, his voice barely audible over the din of the battle.

You offered a small smile, a mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion. "Helping hand, remember?" Your voice was hoarse, but it held a newfound strength. With another surge of energy, you deflected a stray blow from Juggernaut, allowing Storm to unleash another torrent of wind.

The X-Men, rejuvenated by your unexpected intervention, pressed their attack. Professor Xavier's telepathic voice boomed, urging Juggernaut to stand down. The fight raged on, but your power tip, the concentrated beam of pure energy, proved to be the turning point. Juggernaut, overwhelmed by the combined forces of the X-Men and your unique ability, faltered. His helmet had crumbled, rendering him vulnerable.

Finally, with a roar of frustration, Juggernaut surrendered, taken away by the NYPD as they forced his hefty frame into the back of a mutant prisoner containment vehicle. Exhausted but victorious, the X-Men regrouped. Kurt materialized beside you once more, his gaze still filled with awe and disbelief. "Freund," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. "Is it really you?"

You met his gaze, no longer the scared kid from the dusty circus tent. The years of hardship and self-discovery had forged you into a new person. With a defiant smile, you nodded, ready to tell your story and finally find your place amongst the X-Men.

You wanted more than anything to catch up with the infamous Nightcrawler. But Professor Xavier was making his way over to you, clearly wanting a word. The look on his face was nothing short of astonishment. Kurt, sensing this, gave you a reassuring nod as he turned to join the others once more.

"Are you alright, young one?" he inquired, his voice warm and calming.

You nodded, finding your voice a little hoarse. "Yes, Professor. Just a bit… surprised, I guess." You couldn't believe you were talking to the Professor X.

"Surprised?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I imagine so. But you were quite… extraordinary out there."

The compliment brought a shy smile to your face. You explained how you'd been studying advanced physics, how the energy in the city resonated with you, and how you'd finally been able to control it. You confessed your situation too, about the fight with your parents and being disowned. Shame burned in your stomach, but you held Professor Xavier's gaze.

"It seems you have much to learn, young one," he said, his voice filled with understanding. "But you also have much to teach. We've been looking for someone to help our young mutants hone their abilities, someone who understands the science behind them." His eyes twinkled. "Would you be interested in a position at the X-Mansion, once you graduate of course?"

A wave of emotions washed over you – relief, hope, and a flicker of something more. The X-Mansion. A place where you could belong, where you could use your abilities without fear. You looked at Kurt, who stood a few feet away, a wide grin plastered on his face. His saffron eyes held a spark of excitement, mirroring your own.

"I… I'd be honored sir," you stammered, a genuine smile blooming on your face.

Professor Xavier chuckled. "Excellent. Now, how about we get you cleaned up and settled in? The X-Mansion can be your home. In the meantime, we can work on your new alias." He chuckled lightly.

The mansion, a sprawling structure that seemed to rise organically from the wooded landscape, took your breath away. It was a world away from your cramped apartment, a sanctuary for those who were different. You settled in quickly, the warmth of the X-Men a stark contrast to the cold rejection you'd faced at home.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the lake behind the mansion in hues of orange and pink, you found yourself drawn to its peaceful serenity. As you sat on the edge of the dock, a sudden bamf! sound reverberated next to you as a scent of brimstone hung in the air. It was Nightcrawler.

Suddenly, you felt very conscious and shy all over gain. It was really him. There was no mistaking that sheen of blue fur that lined his skin.

"Quite the entrance you made today," he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

You laughed, a nervous flutter in your chest. "I figured you could use some help."

Silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of the water. You took a deep breath, finally ready to share your story.

"Remember what you said at the circus? About me being a kind audience?"

Kurt nodded, a flicker of curiosity crossing his features.

"Well," you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper, "I wasn't just kind. I was… smitten. You were the first mutant I ever saw, and it was like watching magic. The thought that for one second, I wasn't alone. That there was another similar to me."

You explained how your parents' reaction had fueled your fear, how you'd kept the rose all these years. You confessed how they'd called you a "freak" just like you'd mentioned, and how you'd ended up alone after they disowned you.

Kurt listened intently, his expression a mix of sympathy and something else you couldn't quite decipher. When you finished, he reached out, taking your hand gently in his. His blue fur felt surprisingly warm against your skin.

"My Freund," he said, his voice soft yet firm, "You are no freak. You are extraordinary. And your parents… well, they were wrong. Trust me, I've lived all my life thinking I was an abomination."

You felt a twist of pain at his words. He was so kind and sweet. Even just so as the night when you'd met him the first time back at that old, sketchy Bavarian circus.

He squeezed your hand, and a spark shot through you. You looked into his eyes, seeing a reflection of your own feelings there.

"The truth is," Kurt confessed, a hint of a blush creeping up his neck, "you've never left my mind either. There was something about you that day, a spark I couldn't ignore."

Your heart was hammering inside your chest. The thought of him feeling the same way all those years sent a warmth throughout your body. The thought that you'd somehow made an impression on him sent butterflies wildly dancing in your stomach.

The truth hung heavy in the air, a silent confession echoed in Kurt's blushing cheeks and your own hammering heart. The twilight sky, ablaze in fiery hues, seemed to witness the unspoken yearning that crackled between you.

His touch, a gentle pressure on your hand, sent a jolt of electricity through your body. You leaned in, drawn by a force stronger than gravity. The kiss, when it came, was a revelation – tentative at first, then deepening with a passion that mirrored the vibrant tapestry of the setting sun.

His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against yours, the sweet taste of berries lingering on his tongue. Your hand reached up, tracing the contours of his face, the velvety texture of his blue fur sending shivers down your spine. He reciprocated, his touch delicate yet firm, as if afraid to break the spell.

The kiss deepened, a silent conversation flowing through the press of your lips. He tasted of adventure, of something innocent but also skilled in the ways of romance. A gentle breeze rustled the nearby leaves, momentarily pulling you apart.

"It's Kurt... my name is Kurt Wagner," he'd finally told you his name.

You gazed into Kurt's eyes, a newfound understanding blooming there. The dam holding back your emotions seemed to break.

"Kurt," you whispered, your voice thick with a desire you could no longer deny.

He responded with a low rumble in his chest, his blue fur darkening with a blush. Without a word, he scooped you up in his arms, teleporting you both to a deserted corner of the mansion's rooftop.

The cool night air whipped around you, carrying with it the distant sound of laughter and music from the common room. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a glittering backdrop for the nascent intimacy unfolding between you.

His touch became bolder, exploring the exposed skin of your arms, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers trailed down his back, tracing the ridges of his spine and the surprising strength hidden beneath his lithe frame. Clothes became an unwelcome barrier, discarded in a tangle of limbs and whispered promises.

The moonlight, a silent witness to your blossoming love, bathed your entwined forms in an ethereal glow. Passion flared like wildfire, fueled by the years of unspoken attraction and the shared trauma that had bound you together.

The night unfolded in a symphony of whispered endearments and stolen breaths. With each touch, each lingering kiss, the anxieties of your past faded, replaced by the promise of a future brighter than the city lights on the horizon. You'd found each other, and this time nothing would take Kurt away from you.

[marigoldenblooms]

Unica Semper Avis - Chapter 1

Pairing: Cleric!Wanda x Fem!AvianShifter!Reader x MonsterHunter!Natasha

Prompt: Ever since you’ve come of age, you’ve never been able to stop yourself from transforming into a monster. Whenever the sky would dim with a New Moon, you’d ravage the world with a fury unknown by many. Such is the bane existence of your species. This time, however - something was different. Now, you need help. On the feeble doorstep of the so-called ‘Spirit Healer,’ you found yourself both at the mercy of a cleric, and of a monster hunter’s blade. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

MINORS DNI - 18+

TW/General Tags: No mention of Y/N, slow burn, stranger to lovers (Wanda), enemies to lovers (Natasha), eventual smut (lord have mercy), Swearing, Fantasy violence, occasional descriptions of light body horror during transformation, slight self harm, slight restraint, angst, fluff, will add tags as they appear!

Chapter Warnings: Angst, canon-level violence, use of medieval weapons, body horror description in transformation, magic use, slight dissociation/self harm, restraint, fluff (for five seconds), R is a simp, so is W, N is not here to play, etc.

A/N: I’ve been working on this next chapter ever since the previous. Chapter two is coming along quickly as well! I want to keep a bit of a backlog for my longer fics, so updates will be as frequent as I can manage. The name established in this chapter for R will be used sparingly, but I loved what Missmonsters2 did with Between the Lines when I read it months ago, and thought it’d be pertinent until nicknames/pet names are established (and for as long as I can avoid conversation where names are necessary). 

R’s monster form brought to you by bearded vulture inspiration! Feel free to imagine your own version of avian horror to your heart’s content. Enjoy, y’all!

Word Count: 3.1k - Read Length: 11 minutes, 18 seconds. Pictures aren't mine, credit to their owners!

~~~  The healer’s home was nothing short of overwhelming. 

Multi-colored knick-knacks were strewn on every surface, perched below gatherings of drying, braided flowers which hung from the rafters. Beneath your feet, woven rugs of alternating sizes dotted the cabin’s cool wooden floors, like islands between a chilled sea of timber. The front door lead further into a sitting room, offering glimpses into a small, quaint looking kitchen, adorned with a single well-worn table and chair. Within that same place, a large pot was held still on the counter by wisps of scarlet magic, another more opaque plume coaxing a wooden spoon to stir whatever was inside. 

Paintings hung along every wall, although you could never get a full glance at one, as though they’d subtly shift and change muses whenever you’d look away. The sound of a shutting door would heighten your senses enough to break from the scenery, turning on your heels to face the home’s owner once again. She’d pry at you with a half-smile, and you’d solidify your gaze at the floor before her eyes could have the chance to meet yours. 

“What brings you to my home?” She’d question evenly, her words a pleasing rasp- smooth molasses which could easily cloud your senses if you allowed her to. You’d see her form move to the side of you in your peripheral, yet you’d remain still, your stare continuing to bore a hole into her carpet. 

Wordlessly, you’d tug at your shawled sleeve to show the back of your arm. Running along the skin’s expanse were thin ridges, pin feathers prickling beneath taut flesh. A light down speckled your skin in odd patches, consolidated mostly on your neck and shoulders for now. Your hair had begun to fleck and grow waxy and silkish, akin to dense ostrich feathers, tousled from your trek to her abode. You’d watch the ground as her shadow would shift around you, a curious tsk showcasing her intrigue.

You wouldn’t see her raised expression, eyebrows furrowed as she’d take your wrist without warning, raising it up so she could see the indentation better in the light. She’d drop your arm as soon as she’d grabbed it, falling limply to your side, and her smooth voice would threaten to carry you off again. “Fascinating..your affliction isn’t something I’ve seen recently.”

“Can you help?” You’d mumble, the few phrases coming to you sounding choked from lack of use, and you could hear the healer’s grunt at your lackluster response. You’d swallow thickly, trying to find the words to explain all that you were, but none arrived. She’d circle around you once more, and before you could flinch away, would capture your chin between her thumb and forefinger, wrenching it to make you look at her- green irises narrowing as you’d shut yours, unwilling to look her in the eye. You’d half expect her grip to be cold like the Matron’s, but her touch’s pleasant warmth was something you almost missed as she’d let go of you, the shuffle of her arms crossing heightened behind your closed eyelids. 

“I can’t help a patient I can’t trust,” She’d muse with a teasing lilt, rolling her r’s in a way that made your chest flutter. Was this another symptom of your molt? It had been a long time since you’d been with another and the thought made your heart ache, albeit not more than your bones. “Why won’t you look at me?”

The scoff that came in response to her was almost too easy, opening your eyes after directing your head to the floor again, “Because I am no threat to you.” “And why would I assume that?” She’d retort immediately, and you’d glare into the ground. Why was talking so easy for her? Why couldn’t she understand that you weren’t like her? You’d raise your arm aloft again, the skin burning now as you’d twist the plumage under your flesh for her view. The rage that had been festering in you for days unlocked a torrent of your words, finally finding purchase in your mouth- frustration evident in how each phrase was ripped from your throat. Your larynx would be useless beyond a breathing tool soon, so you better use it now. Your nails clawed at your arms, doubling into yourself, “Because you are human and I am not, healer- is that not something you’re able to understand-?!” 

“Relax for me-” she’d grit, and you’d feel your stomach plummet at her words. Something in them begged obedience, and for a second you felt as though you were back in your nightmare. You’d twitch, glance immediately circling the ceiling as something would restrain you- thin tendrils of crimson magic, keeping your arms from flaring out at your sides. As if seeing your frustration, your panic, the healer’s sorcery would calm, soothing both your body and your mind into an unnatural lull. “You’re…using-” you’d begin, yet words would evade you once again, no longer fueled by anger. There was only a different feeling- regret, and uncomfortable stone in your stomach that you shied away from, wanting to cower from its weight. You didn’t like yelling at this woman, even as she cradled you with her witchcraft. 

You’d feel her heat again, warm hands placing tentative touches to your shoulders, slowly coaxing your glance to hers. “I’m sorry,” she’d breathe, shallow as you’d feel her palms shake against you, “I didn’t want you… to hurt yourself-” Her irises, blooming with clouds of red, would drain into green as you’d feel her magic loosen around your body like unraveling ropes. You wouldn’t shy away from her this time, panting as her gaze would share her soul with you. She, too, held that stone in her gut. Perhaps she didn’t fear you. 

You’d part as her back would stiffen, adding a few feet between the two of you. “What is your name?” She’d ask, and you saw the way her head tilted since you looked at her face. Your words came easier now that you were less tense, muscles losing their rigidity, and yet you didn’t have an answer for her.  You still pried into her windows, eyes flicking across the expanse of her garden from the view you could get from her living room, but it was a start. “I met your gaze, healer..I’ve done my part, you first.”

You’d see the way her nose crinkled at your response, flecks of mirth illuminating her expression, a grin finding its place there, “Talking now, are we? I’m Wanda.” “I’m..Margo.” In truth, you hadn’t had a name in years, the few decades you’d been alive focused more on survival than memory, especially when your molts made it difficult to discern who you really were- humanoid or avian. You’d forgotten your birth name ages ago, and it was a blessing that your words left your mouth as cleanly as they did. She’d tut at your response, taking it in as satisfactory, “Sure…Margo. Would you like to sit down?” 

Wanda would guide you to her kitchen table without much fanfare, settling you on her single chair. With a focused look and a wave of her hand, however- a duplicate would reveal itself from a cloud of scarlet mist. “Your magic is red?” You’d inquire, tilting your head as you’d seen her do, “It’s a violent color. Why is that?”

“Do you really want to toe that line?” Her phrase were humorous, yet you swear a flash of indignation peppered her visage. You were not going to mess with that line, whatever she meant by that. “No, Wanda.” She smiled at that, her name seemingly pleasing in your mouth. You felt the flutter in your chest again, heart drumming a little faster against your shifting ribcage. If this was a sign of your incoming succession, then you had to finish this fast- to return before you transformed in Wanda’s house. And yet, why was the feeling almost pleasant? 

“You said you haven’t seen my ‘affliction’ in a while,” You’d recount, finding her term for your molt unremarkable. You’d offer her a glimpse of your arm again, hesitating to touch the quills beneath. It was always tender before a lunation, and you didn’t want to aggravate the transformation further, “It doesn’t normally happen so soon. In hours before the new moon, maybe- not over days.” 

“And what happens after those hours?” She’d coax your arm down with a gentle wave, seeing how your movements grew stiff as your skeleton hollowed out. You shrug, “I transform.” Wanda’s expression would sour, yet curiosity prickled underneath. Why did she look at you like that? “Can you help me? You said you're familiar with my kind.” 

“..In truth, I’ve never met someone like you,” She’d murmur, expression bashful, and if the circumstances were different you would’ve taken it as a compliment. Instead, spiked embers of dread seared in your stomach, heart beginning to thrum in your ears. She didn’t know. Could she even help you? Her voice would raise a little louder, “However, if you tell me about yourself, perhaps I could figure it out.” With a twirl of her fingers, two cups of..something floated towards the table. Her gaze was an offer, “Thirsty?”

You’d nod, your throat suddenly dry. The drink was smooth and warm, with a bite of something fresh and crisp. It was much better than your rainwater. Gulping more of it down, you notice how she’d smile at your eagerness, careful not to spill as you’d raise the cup from its saucer. “Cider,” she’d mention, motioning to her mug, “Where are you from?” “My cavern is far from here. About half a day’s walk.” Wanda’s eyebrows would raise. “Cavern? You live in a cave?” Her interest was a delight, and you wanted to keep it for as long as you could. You didn’t answer her question, instead throwing one back at her, “Why do you live far from your town?”

“Bellmoor?” Amusement would blanket Wanda’s expression, snorting as she’d shake her head, twisting in her chair so she could lean forward towards you, “Because I like my peace and quiet. I assume the same for you, Птичка?” 

“What does that mean?” You’d ask, and she’d tut again. “Now now, that can be your next question, but it’s my turn.” She’d scrunch her nose at your grumbling acquiesce, and you couldn’t help but smile with her. You liked this game. Wanda rested her hands on her table, and your eyes were caught on the shimmer of her rings as she’d speak, “Can you control your transformation?” That one was easy. “Fuckin’ wish I could...” Wanda’s brows would reach her hairline at your curse, but you wouldn’t give her time to comment as yours would stream from your maw, though it’d stop early, “No Aegypius can. What does..”

“‘Птичка’ mean?” She’d grin, rasping her knuckles on the wooden grain at each syllable, “Little bird, birdie, you have feathers underneath your skin, yes?” You’d send her a taunting look, one that she met in equal measure. You’d smile back at her, “Is that your question?” 

Wanda would balk, gotten so caught up in teasing you that her words just tumbled out with no direction. You’d see her cheeks grow pink, clearing her throat with a stuttered breath, and you swear she felt like you did when you felt that flutter. “No, it isn’t-” She’d respond smoothly, but you caught how her eyes shimmered, and you took another sip of cider. You knew why when her words made your mind double-take, “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

You almost spit out your drink, coughing on it as you’d sputter, blush alighting your face. You felt it warm and you tried to hide it away, your flustered reaction seemingly pleasing Wanda. She certainly didn’t know what that meant to you, “I..you want me to stay with you- I’m going to molt tonight, Wanda.” 

“And if I am to help your transformation, then I must see it in person,” She’d respond, never losing her smile. It soothed you, that richness in her tone and that calm in her expression, and you’d feel a new pull in your heart. One you hated.

Your instincts wanted you to ruin her. Wanted her vulnerable as she was, to splinter her bones into shards you didn’t even have to chew. 

To take advantage of her weakness, your hunger eating you alive unless you picked her clean, consumed-

You’d swallow, a shaky breath leaving you. Wanda had blinked, and your voice acted quicker than your mind would comprehend, “I don’t want it helped, Wanda. I want it gone.” You’d feel your skin itch at that, and a cold dread filled your gut, like the Matron’s chill held you once again. Your words were a whisper. “But I don’t think my body will let me.” 

“All the more reason for you to stay. Do you have anything that helps you calm down?” She’d ask, leaning forward with a gentle lilt. Her hand would’ve come across the table, offering her palm to yours. It was calloused, warm skin juxtaposed with smooth metal, and you took it in yours gratefully. You were starting to really like her company. 

------------------------------------------

The hours would’ve floated by you, a subtle bliss filling you as you and Wanda would’ve enjoyed the rest of your evening together. You could feel your body shift by the hour, and yet a part of you didn’t care if you were with her. You’d show her your chains, mentioning their unknown inscription and how they’d keep your form….distracted. You would be kept in the barn once the moonless night had begun, the sky within a period of tranquil dusk. She ghosted her hand across the rim of your shackles, and you were surprised they didn’t burn her like they did you. An Aegypius trait, you supposed. 

Wanda had made you stew using that pot from earlier, while you hovered in the vicinity, chopping up carrot and onion into more manageable pieces. The meal was finished after it had boiled for a long time, and it was only when you sat down to enjoy it with her that a blink of movement would catch your eye. The bay windows curved in a beautiful shape that let the last vestiges of light in, and you’d register the sight of silver metal piercing into the glass before you heard it smash. 

A figure leapt through its shattered remains, thick cloak blanketing their form to protect them from the glass. Their armor and longsword was polished beautifully, and they would be regal if it wasn’t for their war shout and barred teeth. You could see their face beneath their hood, just before the glint of their weapon as it’d slice down towards your chest. 

You’d dodge, rushing backwards until your back hit the other end of the wall. As the longsword would finish its downward arc, Wanda’s magic would cradle its blade, her hands outstretched and bent as if trying to push it up. Her voice was strangled and thin, heard between the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears, “run, Margo- go!” 

Turning to bolt, you’d hear the clatter of boots against wood as a rougher hand would grab you by the scruff of your neck. Writhing in their hold, you’d shove your elbow into the ribs of your attacker, before grabbing their hand from your nape to sink your teeth into it. “Fuck, you гриф-” The knight’s heavy breath was audible from behind your back. You’d bite harder, feeling their skin break beneath your jaw as you’d thrash, trying to cleave flesh off. They’d tear their hand from you, kicking your legs with a force that sent you barreling down. 

Your head would hit the hardwood floor, and you could hear the ringing in your ears as you’d look up, vision swimming as everything looked double. Your hooded attacker brandished their longsword with two hands above you, although it looked like they had four. Before they could stab the blade downward, Wanda’s hand would lurch out to their neck- pressing the kitchen knife into their throat as her other palm would scratch towards the knight’s eyes, the pair barreling backwards which left you an outside view that made your pupils retract into pinpricks. 

The sky was dark, illuminated with bright swaths of stars. Tears pricked at your eyes. The few treetops you saw couldn’t even reach its height, blanketing the world in an awaiting gloom. You knew the moon was out there, but you couldn’t see it. Your mind reeled, thoughts growing famished as you’d stare into its expanse. You licked your lips. The sky offered you reprieve, and who were you to deny its feast?

The wheezing pop of bone into stronger sockets would startle Wanda and her assailant into a tense standoff, your witch pinning the stranger to the floorboards while the knight tried in vain to grasp at their longsword that had been kicked many feet away. Your breath heaved with strength you hadn’t felt before, seizing as the voice that came from you was no more than a guttural hiss. Your skull would reshape, mouth widening into a curved beak, hooking into serrated edges, while your skull would become angular, bird like. Anything but human, you were no longer recognizable. Feathers would blanket the creature’s shifting musculature, tearing from roughened skin as they’d fan into shape. Its arms and legs grow as its fingers would lengthen, bat-like wings creaking before they’d be covered in plumage; ivory white on it’s neck and shoulders, cascading into darker blacks and blues elsewhere. The monster’s feathers wouldn’t remain unpigmented for long, as they’d begin to warm on its skin- sparks flying from where they touched, growing into a burnt umber. The beast would groan as its wings crashed to the floor- bipedalism was no longer an option, the force cracking the wooden boards. Horns would thunder from shaking its monstrous head, the beast’s eyes blinking into pale gold with a crimson ring surrounding them. A black line of feathers ran down the side of its face and to its gaping maw, tufted at its chin. Its feathers had heated into shades of orange, flecked with flame- while cyan speckled where its temperature had reached an apex.

Silence would still the room, the shaky inhale of breath marking the presence of living beings in it’s fray. The demon would blink again, a gnashing sound emanating from inside its cavernous beak. It’d then raise itself on its haunches, spread its twelve meter wingspan (shattering the walls in its wake), and echo a deafening, reverberating call into the night. 

The hunt had truly begun. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

~~~

[darkxsoulzyx]

I'd like to think that the DCAs, both Sun and Moon, would be kind of scared to go outside.

Don't get me wrong - they would be extremely curious and want to experience things on their own as opposed to hearing about them or seeing videos.

However, I feel like there would be some kind of anxiety of being someplace you know nothing about. Sure, you've heard stories or seen pictures, but nothing can truly encapsulate everything that society has to offer more than just... Being a part of it.

Like a fish living in a fish bowl, longing for the ocean. Awed by that sense of the unknown, only to feel exposed and vulnerable when out in the open for the first time.

Moon wouldn't be able to zip up and around in the rafters, crawl through vents or hide away if things got dicey. He'd lose the mapping and the familiarity of his environment, lose a key mobility that he heavily relied on in the pizzaplex.

Sun would lack the social environment he's grown accustomed to, as well as the personal space he gets to maintain.

Of course, I don't doubt that either of the two can adjust or adapt to these new changes, but it would be very disorienting at first.

Personally, I'd just take them home lol. Introduce them to the toaster. Think Moon might get a small kick out of it maybe. Sun would definitely just give me a look.

[mysticraven20]

Based on @art-the-f-up BuzzFeed au

BuzzFeed Paranormal: Woodland Investigators.

Marinette stood in front of the old, creaky house as Adrien came beside her holding a high-tech camera and aiming it where she shone a flashlight. He turned it on her.

‘Adrien, are you ready for this? We’ve had reports of strange noises, inexplicable drafts, and even… shadows.’ She could barely hold in the smile as she spoke. Sometimes it was so hard to be serious when you were doing such a shit job.

Adrien, in his usual comical, over-serious voice, dramatically moved the camera from her to his own face. ‘Marinette, you know I was born ready. Tonight… we face the unknown.’

‘Right. Or maybe it’s just the wind.’

‘Don’t ruin the suspense! It could be anything.’ Adrien grinned. He shut off the camera and looked at her. ‘Do you ever think we could be doing more with our lives than this?’

She shrugged. Of course she did, but then she wouldn’t spend all her time with him, not that she would tell him that of course.

They entered the house, the floorboards creaking beneath them. The house was dimly lit, the only sounds were those of their footsteps and the occasional spooky creak.

Adrien turned the camera back on and turned it to his face. ‘We’ve just entered the house. The air is cold. The atmosphere? Heavy. The spirits? Unsettled.’

She snorted. ‘The only thing unsettled here is your hair from all that gel. Calm down, Agreste.’

They walked through the house, and as they headed up the stairs, a loud thud came from the ceiling above them. They froze, both of them slowly looking up at the ceiling

Playing to the camera, as he always did, Adrien gasped. “DID YOU HEAR THAT?”

she grinned, using a finger to turn the camera to her. ‘What, your heart skipping a beat? Or was that the creaky old ceiling?’

‘She mocks now… but soon, we will uncover the truth. The truth that haunts these walls,’ he whispered dramatically, pulling an unladylike snort from her.

They reached the attic door, the thumping now louder, accompanied by faint scurrying sounds. Marinette narrowed her eyes at the door.

‘This is it, Adrien. This is where the ‘ghost’ must be. You ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be. If I get possessed by a ghost, just… make sure I still look good on camera.’

Marinette rolled her eyes and pushed open the attic door. Inside, she couldn’t see much but outlines of objects scattered around the attic. It was dark and cluttered. Dust floated in the air as they stepped cautiously. Suddenly, something moved in the corner.

‘SPIRIT,’ Adrien bellowed dramatically. ‘REVEAL THYSELF!’

As though answering the call. A rustling from the corner was joined by the faintest shadow stretching across the floorboards. Then the scratching started. Faster and faster, the tapping grew right until it was in front of them.

A raccoon scurried across the floor, followed by two squirrels that leap from the rafters, narrowly missing Adrien. He stumbled back, wide-eyed letting out an ear piercing scream. She couldn’t help the laughter escaping her mouth as she snorted, loud and hard.

‘Oh no! The spirits of… woodland creatures!’ she said, grasping her stomach to try and ease the pain.

“I— I can’t— Marinette! We’ve been haunted by… raccoons?!’ He had barely recovered From his scare, which only made Marinette laugh more.

Tears formed in her eyes, her thumbs pressing hard under her eyes to stop the mascara running and making her one with the raccoon. ‘The ghost of trash pandas past!’

Her laughter, unbelievably, intensified as Adrien started to laugh beside her, moving from slight chuckle to full guffaw in the matter of seconds and causing her to collapse into her knees.

‘How— how did we even get hired for this?! Who calls ghost hunters for animals?!”

Marinette took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself down. ‘I don’t know, but I think we’re going to need a different kind of expertise to deal with these “spirits.”’

The raccoons continued to scurry around as Adrien collapsed onto the floor beside her. As soon as she met his eyes she could hear his shriek play on repeat in her mind causing her to start laughing again, both unaware the camera was still rolling. She fell backwards, leaning against a dusty old trunk as they both dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.

Adrien crawled across the floor and picked up the camera, bringing Marinette’s attention to the red light still on. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have uncovered the truth. The noises in the night… were just raccoons trying to open a snack bar.’

‘Next time, let’s make sure our haunted houses don’t come with actual tenants in the attic.’

Adrien snorted, standing up and holding out a hand for her. ‘I’ll call the exterminator… you can call the ghostbusters just in case.’

Adrien turned off the camera just as the raccoon chased the squirrels across the attic, sending them both into a spiral of laughter again. This week they had completely failed to maintain any sort of professional composure—again.

[dccomicsimagines]

Bruce’s Birthday - Batfamily Imagine

Requested by Anon - Can I get a birthday with Bruce and the batsibling!reader? Batkids mayhem please

***

Cass peered down at Bruce from her place in the rafters. Below was the Gotham Children’s Charity gala. People in fancy, flashy clothes, milling around. She heard the annoying murmurs of gossip and fake personas. 

Bruce’s shoulders held an unfamiliar tension. She tilted her head. His lips pressed together as he made small talk with a few businessmen. She swore she saw a sadness that felt unknown to her. 

“Cass, you promised you wouldn’t hide up here,” Tim said. He juggled a plate of food in one hand as he shuffled on the rafter to her side. Cass took the plate and helped herself to some baked brie.  

“Watching.” She looked back at Bruce who was now moving through the crowd toward Selina, who had just entered in a sparkly red dress. Cass smiled, noting Bruce seemed happier, but the sadness was still there. Hidden, but barely.

“Yeah, it’s quite a bore this year.” Tim swung his legs as he settled down beside her. He took a grape from the plate. “I wondered if we should have set up Two Face to rob the place or something?”

Cass looked at Tim, narrowing her eyes. “Bad joke.” She turned back to Bruce to find him whispering in Selina’s ear. “Bruce is sad.”

Tim followed her gaze. He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“He’s sad. He hides it, but it’s stays.” Cass gave Tim the plate and wrapped her arms around herself. The simple black dress was comfortable, but she missed her pajamas. After discovering how comfortable they were, she would only change out of them after being bribed with the promise of more cozy pjs. She was on her twelfth set now.

“Well, his birthday is coming up. He always gets sad around this time. It’s probably because of (Y/N).” Tim took a bite of the baked brie, groaning at the taste. 

"(Y/N)?" Cass blinked. She remembered Alfred and Dick mentioning you in stories about Dick’s early Robin days. You were Bruce's oldest child. Apparently, you haven't been home in almost seven years.

"Yeah, they used to make a big deal out of it." Tim chuckled. "Dick told me about it. I wanted to try to do what they did, but...I think it will just make him sad that they won't come home."

"Why?" Cass studied Tim, noting how he wouldn't look her in the eye.

Tim pursed his lips. "I don't know why actually. Dick won't talk about it, neither will Alfred. Must have been a big deal though."

Cass looked back at Bruce. He was staring at the far wall, not really seeing anything. She tapped her chin as an idea slowly began to form in her head.

***

Dick was just settling down on his couch with a bowl of popcorn in hand and Barbara next to him when Cass suddenly climbed out from under the coffee table. He almost spilled the popcorn, but Barbara caught it.

"I knew she was there," Barbara laughed, reaching up to close Dick's jaw. She offered popcorn to Cass.

Cass' eyes brightened as she helped herself and sat cross-legged on the coffee table. "Thank you."

Dick's heart calmed. He chuckled to himself. "What brings you here, Cassie? You don't normally come to Bludhaven unannounced?"

Cass tilted her head, studying Dick with a carefulness that made his hair stand on end. "Bruce’s birthday."

"Yes, it’s next Sunday." Barbara sighed, muting the TV when a loud commercial started to play. "Do you need help finding something for Bruce?"

Cass nodded. She suddenly stood up and walked over to the wall. Dick leaned over, frowning slightly when she picked up the picture of you, him, and Bruce. It had been taken a year after Dick arrived in the manor. The three of you were in Alfred's garden, helping him tend it as punishment for breaking yet another vase.

"That's an old picture," Dick said after Cass held it out to him. "I think Bruce probably has that one."

Cass shook her head and pointed to you. You were so young, so bright eyed. Dick missed you so much that his heart shattered into pieces.

"That's (Y/N). You know about them, Cass," Barbara said after Dick couldn't get himself to speak.

"Bruce is sad. Misses (Y/N)." Cass pointed at you again. "We find (Y/N)."

"No, we can't do that. (Y/N) doesn't want to talk to Bruce." Dick swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Barbara eyed Dick curiously. "So you know where they are?"

Dick's eyes widened. He suddenly realized he might as well be in a viper's den. Cass leaned closer, narrowing her eyes.

"Fine, I do. (Y/N) didn't cut me out of their life. Jay probably knows too. I made sure to reintroduce him once he...got better." The blood ran out of Dick’s face as he found his phone was suddenly in Cass's hands.

"Cass, no." Barbara held her hand out for the phone. "I love you want to help Bruce, but what happened between (Y/N) and Bruce is between them."

Cass shook her head. "How long will they hurt each other?" She looked at Dick's phone before carefully handing it to Barbara.

Dick frowned. He wondered if maybe he should intervene? Seven years had been long enough. Eventually it would be too late for you and Bruce.

He tucked his phone back in his pocket. Now wasn’t the time to revisit the past. He wrapped his arm around Barbara’s shoulders.

“Cass, you aren’t staying?” Barbara asked. Dick blinked, finding Cass by the window.

“No, enjoy your night.” She opened it swiftly and leaped out into the night. Dick hummed, turning to share a look with Barbara.

“I should be worried, shouldn’t I?” Dick bit his lip when Barbara shrugged. 

“Everything will be fine. Now Hunk-Wonder, start the movie.” She leaned forward, kissing him. All thoughts of you and Cass left his mind.

***

You paced your office at the D.E.O. “I don’t care what you have to do. Kill the project. We don’t mess with Gotham,” you snapped into your phone. The agent on the other end stammered. “No, cut it off now or I’ll be down there and you don’t want me down there.”

The agent sighed. “Yes, chief.” You hung up the phone, slamming it on your desk. Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm down. 

“Fuck me.” You collapsed in your office chair and spun around to look out your window. It was the Gotham skyline. You snorted. It was missing the smog. Mister Bones thought it was funny to give you a Gotham projection on your fake window. You might have to slip him another exploding cigar again.

Your heart panged, but you pushed it away and turned back to your desk. There were files to look through, memos to send, mission to approve. You rubbed your eyes, wishing you could go home to your apartment. Maybe call the number that person in the bar gave you last weekend? 

However, you shook your head and opened the first file. In the corner of your eye, you noticed the date. A lump formed in your throat, but you swallowed past it and focused on the task at hand.

***

The manor library was quiet. Cass’ eyes were on the door as it swung open and Tim walked in. He was consumed by his tablet.

“Tim,” Cass said as she dropped down from the top shelf of the bookshelf and landed silently behind him. 

Tim flinched, almost dropping his tablet. “Geez, Cass.” He let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand against his chest. 

“Bruce’s birthday is in three days.” She held up three fingers. “We need to get (Y/N) here.”

“You’re still on that, huh?” Tim ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s not a matter we should meddle with. Have you talked to Dick?”

Cass nodded. “He will not help, but I got their number.” She tapped her temple. “We find (Y/N) and bring them here. For Bruce.”

Tim pursed his lips. “Like kidnap them? (Y/N) was pretty much a badass. Even if we get them here, then what?” He reached out and put a hand on Cass’ shoulder. “We can’t make them get along. Do you even know why they fought?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter.” Cass brushed Tim away. “Time is short, life is short. We make this happen because we are family.”

A big sigh escaped Tim. Cass smiled, knowing she won. “Okay, okay. I’ll help, but this was your idea. If this blows up, it’s all your fault,” Tim said, handing Cass his tablet. “Type in their number, let’s see what we can find.”

Cass wanted to dance. She knew this would a birthday Bruce would never forget.

***

You knew something was wrong from the moment you stepped into your apartment. Carefully setting down your keys and bag of takeout on the side table, you pulled out your collapsed baton and flipped it to it’s full length. 

A breeze blew through the window. You raised an eyebrow. “Dick? Jason?” You called, turning the corner to your kitchen quickly only to find no one there. Goosebumps rose on your skin as you heard a creak down in your bedroom. 

You moved silently down the hall. A sharp breath gasped behind you. You spun, aiming the baton to hit the person in the face. “Ouch, my nose,” a boy in a Robin suit said, stumbling back and holding his face.

“Why the fuck are you in my house?” You kicked his feet out from under him and held him down with a foot on his throat. He was young, dark hair. Standard Robin. Racking your brain, you tried to remember what his name was. Dick mentioned him once or twice. “Tim, right?”

“Yeah, nice to meet you.” He gripped your ankle. “Can you get off?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” A soft almost silent thump came from behind you. You raised your hand and caught a fist that shot out of the darkness next to you. “Batgirl?”

“Yes.” She stepped out into the light. You took in her in. She was little, but strong. Her face hidden by her mask completely. “We’re here because of Bruce.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You removed your foot from Tim’s neck and stepped back to eye the new Batgirl. What was her name? Jason mentioned she was the daughter of David Cain. Trained to be the ultimate living weapon, but she chose her own path. Cass? That was what he called her?

She helped Tim up. You threw him a box of tissues for his nose. “What does D...Bruce want?” Your gut twisted at the slip. You made yourself stop calling him Dad years ago. It made it less painful.

“Bruce is sick,” Cass said, tilting her head. The look that Tim gave her left you doubting it. 

“And that has to do with me because?” You turned your back on them and went to grab your food by the door. The two followed you to the kitchen as you got out a plate. After a moment, you grabbed two more. 

“He misses you,” Tim said. His nose made him sound stuffed up. You took out an ice pack from your freezer and handed it to him. He gave you a bloody smile, pressing it to his face. 

“Right.” You opened containers, splitting food among the three plates. Luckily, you always bought more than you could eat. Leftovers were must with the D.E.O demanding schedule.

“He does.” Cass took a seat, pulling off her mask. You paused, noting she looked very much like Lady Shiva. Now it all made sense. “You need to come to him.”

You set plates in front of them. “How did you even find out where I live? Or anything about me for that matter?”

Tim and Cass shared a look. 

“I’m going to kill Dick,” you muttered under your breath. “What do you want to drink?” You dug into your fridge. 

“Thanks,” Tim said as he happily took a can of soda. Cass stayed with water. You joined them with your own drink.

“Thank you for feeding us.” Cass’ voice was so soft. You smiled at her. 

“Well, you are family, I guess.” You watched as Tim happily dug into his plate. “Bruce is always picking up new kids.”

Cass frowned, ignoring the food. “You’re angry.”

You took a bite of your food. “At Bruce, I was. Now I’m just...over it.” You shrugged. “He’s going to be him. Nothing I can do about it.”

“He is stubborn. Runs in the family.” Tim took a sip of his soda, smirking when you glared at him. “Alfred said it, not me.”

Alfred’s name made your heart ache. You needed to call him more often. “Yeah, I see you’ve taken to the role of annoying kid siblings very nicely. Dick must be feeling the karma now.” You laughed. “He’s the worst. Always messing with me.”

“Dick didn’t tell us where you were, we found you on our own.” Cass poked at the food on the plate, wrinkling her nose slightly. “Bruce’s birthday is tomorrow.”

You sighed, pushing your plate away as your stomach soured. “I know.”

“Come.” Cass reached out to touch your hand. 

“It’s not that simple.” You flinched away from her. Tim glanced between the two of you, eyes wide. “Some things you can’t come back from.”

“Why?” Cass tilted her head.

You stood up suddenly, taking your plate to the counter. “He wished I’d never been born. Said I was a mistake. I told him he should have died in the alley with his parents.” You winced at the sharp intakes of breath behind you. “But it’s fine.”

“You’re tired.” Her chair scraped and suddenly she was beside you. “You hurt. Bruce hurts too. It’s time to forgive.”

Your temper flared, but you let out a slow breath to cool it. “Why does it matter so much to you?” 

Cass swallowed hard. “Bruce needs you. He isn’t...whole.” She pressed a hand against her chest. “I know people who have regrets because they let things fester. I don’t want that for our family. Jason has made amends, now you should.”

“Well, Jay always needed Bruce. Even when he was younger.” You pursed your lips. Jason craved Bruce’s attention more than anything. Still did. You remembered being jealous, but it gave you time to pursue your own interests without Bruce noticing. “I don’t care.”

“(Y/N), I know it’s not my place and I just met you today, but you’re basically like my sibling with how much Alfred and Dick talk about you,” Tim said. You turned to look at him. He played with his fork, not meeting your eye. “I lost my mom and dad. I wish every day that I could tell them I love them one last time. Bruce isn’t getting younger and things are getting more dangerous...well, I think you don’t want to regret not reaching out or at least trying, right?” 

You sighed. Cass nudged your arm. You glanced between the two of them. “Fine.” 

Cass smiled, eyes lightening up. “Really?” Tim dropped his fork in surprise.

“I’ll go, but don’t get your hopes up. Bruce is still a stubborn pig.” You rolled your eyes as Cass suddenly hugged you. You blinked at the touch before gently patting her back. Tim hesitated, but you opened your other arm and let him join too. “For what it’s worth, it was nice to meet you two at last either way.”

“Ditto.” Tim grinned. Cass just buried her face deeper into your shoulder.

***

Bruce rolled his eyes at the sound of clattering in the kitchen. “Alfred wouldn’t be happy to find you in here,” he said as he opened the door to find Dick, Tim, Barbara, and Stephanie in the middle of attempting to make breakfast.

Dick and Tim were covered in flour. Barbara was by the stove, frying what looked to be turkey bacon. Steph happily chopped fruit. 

Bruce noticed the swelling around Tim’s nose. He made a note to ask him about it later.

“Alfred asked us to help,” Dick said, pushing Tim away from him. Tim laughed, grabbing a towel to try to clean up. 

“He did?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. 

“Alfred is having tea with a guest out in the garden. He wanted you to join him once you woke up,” Barbara said, rolling her eyes at Dick and Tim. 

“Don’t worry. It’s not Selina.” Steph smirked as she ate a piece of banana. Bruce narrowed his eyes at her, but she just laughed. 

Bruce hummed. “Alright. Barbara, don’t let the boys near the stove.” He walked out with the sound of Dick and Tim’s protests behind him. A rare smile tugged at his lips. 

For the one hundredth time today, he missed you. He imagined you would have been in the kitchen, keeping Dick and Tim out of trouble while baking your special birthday breakfast that only you could make. His heart ached. Why did he push you away when he should have been pulling you close?

Cass was waiting by the doors to the garden. She skipped up to him and kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, frowning at the glee hidden in her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Alfred’s waiting.” She gave him a quick hug and ran off. 

Bruce stepped out into the garden. He walked the path toward the place Alfred always had tea. Laughter reached his ears as he approached. He stopped just before the final corner, listening.

“That cannot be true. You must be pulling my leg,” Alfred said, chuckling in a way Bruce hadn’t heard in a long time. “They can’t have created a Superman musical.”

“Yep, it’s all the hype in NYC right now. Apparently, it got nominated for a few Tonys.” Bruce’s heart stopped. That voice. Could it be? Bruce peeked around the corner. “I think one of the songs goes like ‘Superman, he flies as much as he sings. Superman, he does all the things.’ Honestly, it’s stuck in my head,” you laughed hard. You were older, more mature.  A lump formed in his throat. His little baby grew up.

Alfred shook his head. “Unbelievable what the theater has become.” 

“I’ll get you tickets next time you’re in town,” you said, picking up your tea cup. 

Alfred clicked his tongue, standing up. “I’m happy you are finally home, Mx. (Y/N).” He poured another cup of tea in the third cup on the table. “Now I believe it’s time for me to go in and check on the others.”

“I’ll come with...” You stood up, stopping when you turned to meet Bruce’s eye. Bruce almost ducked back around the corner, but stopped himself. 

Alfred patted your shoulder. “You both have much to discuss.” He walked toward Bruce, leaning over to whisper. “Don’t you dare blow this, Master Bruce. I doubt you’ll get another chance.”

Bruce pursed his lips, watching as Alfred left. He hummed, turning back to you when you took a breath. 

“So...” You shoved your hands in your pockets, rocking on your feet like you used to do when you were a child. Bruce felt a smile tug at his lips. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” He approached you slowly. To your credit, you didn’t move away. “(Y/N)...you’ve grown.”

You snorted. “Yeah, that happens after seven years.” 

“I heard you are pretending to work for Broadway,” Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. The Batman in him wanted to interrogate you. The father in him cursed the Batman in this moment. “But you are actually working for the D.E.O.” 

You chuckled, rolling your eyes as you looked over his head at the manor. “Sure, I am. I should have known that would be the first thing you would say.” Bruce could feel you distancing yourself. 

“I...” Bruce sighed. He pressed a hand over his mouth. “I always mess up with you, don’t I?”

Your eyes widened in slight surprise. “Yeah, you do. I suppose you do it to all of us except maybe the new kids. Tim and Cass seem very nice. Maybe a little too intrusive?”

Bruce blinked. He remembered Cass and Tim went off comms last night. Tim’s bruised nose made more sense. You always aimed for noses. A habit he tried to break you of. “They brought you here, didn’t they?”

“Mostly Cass, but Tim was there too.” You shrugged. “They convinced me to come. Cass wanted me here for your birthday because she said you missed me.” 

He blinked. Of course Cass would have noticed that. “That’s true.” Bruce took a step toward you. “So much. I miss your laugh, your smile, the way you make fun of me at every turn.” His chest was heavy with rare emotion. “You’re my child. I loved you since you were first put in my arms.” A lump formed in his throat. “I was angry and I didn’t mean what I said to you all those years ago. I’ve regretted every day since.”

A cloud covered the sun. Your face disappeared in the shadow. A low hum came from you. Bruce wondered if this was how everyone else felt when he responded with only an indecipherable hum. 

The cloud passed. Bruce saw tears in your eyes as the light revealed your face. “I’m sorry too. What I said in return...unforgiveable.”

Bruce opened his arms. “(Y/N), I’m happy you are home.”

You stared at him for a moment and suddenly you were flying into his arms. Breath left Bruce’s lungs. You were bigger and stronger now. “I love you, Dad.” You whispered softly, hiding your face into his shoulder.

“I love you too, my little cookie monster.” Bruce smirked when you scoffed, pulling away to look him in the eye.

“Don’t ever call me that again, old man.” You narrowed your eyes as Bruce laughed, clapping a hand on your shoulder. 

“Sure.” Bruce led you over to the tea table. “Now I want to hear everything.” You tensed, but Bruce held up his hands. “Nothing you don’t want to tell me and I actually prefer if you don’t tell me about the D.E.O.” 

You snorted. “Wow, you have gotten softer. I thought Dick and Jay were lying.” You took a seat and added sugar to Bruce’s tea. Bruce smiled, realizing you remembered how he took his tea.

“We’ll spar later and then you can see how soft I’ve become.” Bruce studied you. When you were younger, Alfred always claimed you looked a lot like Bruce. Bruce never could see it. He always saw your mother, but now, you were definitely his child and he couldn’t be prouder.

***

Cass tittered, watching you and Bruce from a window on the second floor. The two of you were laughing. Her lips pulled up in a big grin.

“How are they doing?” Tim asked suddenly. Cass jumped a little, narrowing her eyes as he laughed. He stepped up beside her to look out the window too. “I’m getting better at sneaking.”

“Better, but not great.” Cass snorted as Tim gasped. She ignored his protests. Bruce’s shoulders relaxed. His jaw loose, smile lines appeared on his face. She sighed.

“What?” Tim asked once he realized Cass wasn’t listening to him. 

Cass looked at Tim, reaching up to touch his bruised nose. Tim winced. “Bruce is happy now.”

Tim looked out the window. He smirked. “Yeah, I think he is.” Cass wrapped her arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder. Both of them kept their eyes on Bruce and you. The family was finally reunited.

[7grandmel]

Todays Raft - 02/05/2024

It's time for the Raft Ride you've been waiting for!!

Season 8 Not Ridden by Link (Read More) Raft Ride (Underwater) - The Legend of Zelda: Link's Awakening

Rafter Unknown

Welcome back, Raft Ride! I thought we'd lost you for a second there, but of all things it was the Spongebob Event (currently ongoing!!) that brought the damn tune back. What a, uh, delightful surprise!

No but like, seriously, I was shocked to see it show back up in my subbox so nonchalantly initially as well, but once I listened to it I realized how perfect of a bit it was to bring the rips back this way. As part of the Spongebob event, it plays off of one of the show's most beloved bits - PREPARING THE KRABBY PATTY!!! - and the all-too-drawn-out introductory fanfare that precedes it. The line "It's time for the moment you've been waiting for!!" at once perfectly leads in to the rip's joke, the use of the da-ti-da-dittly-dahs to play Raft Ride's melody, whilst also doing a subtle nod to how long it's been since the last Raft Ride rip - can you BELIEVE it's been six and a half entire weeks since There's a Raft Ride-shaped hole in my Raft Ride-shaped heart was uploaded?? How did we SURVIVE all of this time??

But yeah, the Raft itself is super fun, I love how many of the announcer guy's various da-di-dah-dahhs get played with and how thoroughly fucked the high note gets. Honestly, the strained feel to Raft Ride in general feels like a match made in heaven for this gag in particular, as part of the joke with that drawn-out countdown is just how strained and exasperated the announcer's voice gets, perfectly fitting the unwieldy nature of Raft Ride as a tune. Inserting "PREPARING THE KRABBY PATTY" in the break leading into the loop is a stroke of genius and I fucking love how the rip just adds more noise on the second loop, adding a backing layer of da-di-dahs and a percussion made up of Spongebob's own footstep sounds. Dare I say a platonic ideal Raft Ride rip? Perhaps - either way, the joke works super well, and it was well worth the wait. Cannot wait for the sequel.

[royaltealee]

Deathly Silent

Carlo P x Puppet! Reader

⚠️ Content warnings⚠️: The confusion of feelings, eluding that Oil is blood so... Blood warning? (Reader gets hurt) Carlo is dead, RIP. And P is confused-

(Puppets speaking in "Italics" are speaking in the puppet language)

(Also, art at the bottom is made by me! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧)

Part. 2

You felt lost.

So... So lost, after feeling the only warmth that you could associate with your humanity, gone within an instant.

His words stuck with you, even as you held a corps, a beautiful one, even as you felt something extremely hard bash against your head, causing you to jerk forward from the harsh blow.

Beads of oil cascade down your cracked skull, dripping and splattering against Carlo's cold forehead. Slowly turning to see the cause of all of Carlo's suffering, brandishing a steel pipe, now coated with remains of the puppets overdue attack.

This man was your creator.

But he couldn't control you, not like he wanted anyways.

Without so much as a flinch, you placed the boy down back into his death bed, paying no mind to the puppet maker's grieving face when he looked at his son's pale freckled face.

Unmoving, and as silent as the dead air that surrounded all of Krat.

Taking his sheets, draping them over the body.

Geppetto watched with intensity, his fingers twitching around his weapon.

He wanted to strike again, but you weren't attacking.

Well, not like you could anyways.

His initial thought was that you had broken in and slaughtered his ill son, but when he took a better look at him, your blood was on him, not his.

Carlo's hand was held against your own, and it looked you were debating on staying till you ran out of Ergo, or let yourself shut down.

But you couldn't, knowing that would never bring the boy back.

So, you slid your hand out of the boys crystal encased fingers, and stood up.

You never raised your vision to the only occupant to the room, and jerkily walked back to the shattered glass window. Lifting half of your sagging body out of the window frame.

Only then it started raining, washing off the tainted blood coating your fingers, as you climbed down and disappeared into the dimly lit streets of Krat.

-----------------

It had only been a couple days before you gained a very vivid connection to something...

No wait,

It was someone,

Someone you knew.

It caused you to bolt up, the springs located in your back clicking into and out of place constantly. You defiantly had seen better days, the walking had caused your leg to give out, and avoiding people all together. It suddenly made you sick to see the horrid blue color, some people were lucky to even be healthy in a place like this. But you had too many run-in's with such people, making sure that you backed off, or nabbed a good hit or two.

But, with grit teeth, and the last bit of Ergo you had left, you managed to make it to the signal.

You had made it to the Estella Opera House.

Where there was a huge stage. Bright red curtains, and filled with blank Puppets, posing for a seemingly grand entrance.

A large puppet resembling a king fell from the rafters and nearly crushed you!- Not only did it's initial design spurred you to wanting to flee immediately, it slowly started to lean down. Voice exceedingly clear.

"Hey...! Don't be afraid! It's me, remember? Romeo."

The metal breastplate of the large Puppet opened, and inside was a seemingly newly crafted puppet.

That looked almost exactly like the blond boy you had grown up With.

He smiled, bowing while the other blank Puppet's clapped an encore. You almost did the same on an unknown impulse, but your body just couldn't keep up due to how badly damaged you had gotten.

This... Romeo instantly ran up to you, checking the damage.

"I see Krat hasn't been so kind to you..."

With a snap of his fingers, some of the puppets that were in the sidelines quickly rushed to your aid. Taking you to a side workshop to fix more of the notable damage you had attained, and given you a new Ergo crystal charge.

He was able to control puppets?Just what was going on?

You haven't spoken since the sudden urge to kill became unbearable, certain feelings you once had, were overshadowed by that killer instinct.

You wanted to feel that warmth again, those feelings were not forgotten yet, and it'll only be a matter of time before you'll go completely blind for the rest of your feeble puppet life.

Romeo seemed to understand your struggle, almost to a fault.

He looked saddened, placing a cold finger against the newly sealed cracks against the base of your skull, checking if anything else needed mending.

"I know Carlo meant a lot you. Me too, you know? He was my best friend." Romeo started, causing your eyes to slowly peer up at your friend.

"Which is why... I asked Geppetto to turn me into a puppet."

Oh... That was unexpected.

The interlocking of your brows showed concern, reaching out to brush away loose blond strands of hair away from Romeo's face.

He could tell that you were silently questioning why.

Why go through with such a transformation in the first place?

And so, the newly appointed puppet boy sat with you, it was a very human interaction, not the sort of unemotional interaction you usually got with other puppets.

Maybe because Romeo was once human as well?

You listened, and you listened just as intently as you once did with Carlo.

Romeo had gotten the infection not so far from Carlo did, but before he could bite the blue dust, he asked to be made into a Puppet, to help stop the infection.

And having control to almost all of the puppets with Geppetto's blessings.

But as time went, Romeo noticed that Geppetto's blatant disregard for the people of Krat, letting the majority either die from his puppets, or from the disease.

Romeo had to put a stop to it, he defied death and went to fight against Geppetto and the alchemists.

That... Was a very noble thing to do.

You didn't know that Romeo contacted the disease, or was on the verge of death before Geppetto's assistance. But something almost... Ticked you off the wrong way.

As if something was horribly amiss.

You never strayed away from that feeling; practically the only feeling you suddenly felt in a long while.

Romeo stood, mechanical clicks following his every step. Glassy hazelnut eyes hung on every detail of your wiring.

"I could help you, you know. Protect yourself, grow stronger so that the citizens of Krat can't take you apart like that again."

He lifted his hand to hold out- an offer.

Peace and no quarrels.

Romeo was just as kind at heart, from what you could remember.

So, you grazed his hand, and let him lead you to one of the many rooms in the theater backstage.

Unbeknownst to you, he smiled at the shining ring that wrapped around your finger. Eyes shining with a fresh hurt that never left the boy.

"Now tell me, would you like your own Gemini?"

--------

You stayed with Romeo for a long while, even as the city of Krat had grown unforgiving.

Natural disasters wiped out most of Krat's populous, the puppets and plague didn't help with that factor against humans.

Romeo had a few run-in's with said disasters. His pristine new coat of paint and gears, slowly chipped away.

You were usually in your own designated favorite area, where no one could bother you.

After getting fixed, Romeo had taught you how to defend yourself from anything.

A simple sword would do, nothing too fancy for anything other than defense.

Romeo wanted to teach you some tricks, from his training with Carlo on being a Stalker.

But you refused, not exactly favoring the aggressive tactics that they would usually go for.

You had lost yourself once, you weren't going to do it again.

Especially now that Romeo had done so much to help you.

And you suspect that he was the one making sure that you didn't spiral off into another mindless killing spree like the other puppets.

He just wouldn't admit that.

A small noise rose from the small cage that you carried around your belt.

A cricket chirped against the bars before they spoke.

Their voice soft and well spoken, but very friendly and curious.

"Are you alright dear? You seem, lost in thought."

You turned to look at the mechanical bug, their light glowed a light pinkish-red color.

Plucking the cage against your fingers, and holding the bottom with your palms, staring at the talking mechanical cricket.

"Why doe's Geppetto want to kill people?"

You sounded like a little kid asking about something they didn't understand to their mother. Expecting all the answers to just be said right on the spot so that you could finally understand.

Romeo gave you the rundown, after noticing more than half the population was dead at the end of the month. Ergo was being collected by Geppetto,

and you didn't know what he was going to do with it...

You were left in a dark place, trying to understand certain things on your own. No guide to help you, only Carlo and Romeo's human influence's kept you going.

Your guide kept quiet for a small tick, before making a clicking sound.

"I do not know the Puppet makers plans for the collection of Ergo." They could see the furrow of your brows as you looked passed the iron bars of their enclosure, the light dancing against your hard skin.

"But what I do know, is that you're a smart person. If anyone could figure it out soon, I'd bet it'd be you in no time at all!"

That perked you up, feeling a smile cross your lips at the mini automation.

You liked getting new feelings that welled in your chest, it reminded you of the good times. Human emotions were coming back to you little by little with the help of your new friend.

With childish intent, you placed a small kiss to the cage, and hugged the object to your cheek, as a small laugh came from your cricket.

--------------

A blue glow woke you from your slumber.

Opening your eyes, you were met face to face with a glowing blue butterfly. It whispers your name, practically calling to you with such allure.

It takes off, and dances around your head in ringlets before fluttering off before you could catch it.

It flutters tauntingly slow, seemingly wanting you to follow.

You were never one to be so easy to deceit, especially now that there were humans that made it an immediate mission to kill you. It could be a trick, but... you had your weapon, a quick peak wouldn't hurt right?

hosting your weapon, and making sure your cricket was nice and settled, you ventured forward, following a peculiar blue butterfly.

The fluttering flow lead you through twists and turns, the Ergo it emitted felt ghost-like.

Could it be that you're finally loosing your mind?

Soon, the butterfly dissipated around the corner, turning quickly, it was nowhere to be seen.

Shifting your eyes rapidly, running up to an empty part of Krat city hall only to completely loose sight of that beautiful blue bell butterfly.

biting your lip in slight disappointment, you huffed before starting to make your way back to your area.

But what you didn't expect, was to narrowly dodge a horrifyingly fast grappling hook.

Backing away quickly, you snapped your head at your attacker.

It could be that stupid donkey that's been giving you problems... but you don't remember if he ever had such a weapon, other than that heavy sword he carried.

No, instead what you saw... wasn't what you were expecting.

A boy, from what you gathered, with fluffy black hair that cut just before it met his jaw, wearing a very familiar boarding school uniform. It fit a little small on him, almost looking like a teen wearing kids cloths.

But his expression didn't fit the bill of a child's gentleness; well- it did, but cutting through his soft, handsome features, was a sharp icy look in his eyes that stared you down.

you could hear the clicking and ticking of his puppet arm, holding up a blade to it as he slowly walked towards you, bringing his weapon of choice up to sharpen it against the metal gears of his legion arm.

One word: Menacing.

But another thought surfaced.

"Carlo?"

He didn't responded to that name, he didn't even look like he acknowledged you even in the slightest.

Then, in one quick move, he dashed straight towards you, weapon ready to strike with precise movement, and monstrous speed that no human was able to recreate.

But you were still quick, unsheathing your sword, you shielded yourself from the extremely hard blow before the blade could touch your face.

He was close, way too close for your liking.

But now you could get a look at his details.

From afar, he looked like a regular, normal human boy. Freckles dotted his face like stars, and those eyes... they didn't shine like Carlo's. They reminded you more like yourself, new, unknown of the world around him. And it seemed he had so much to learn.

And that's when you noticed it, the clicking and ticking sound didn't come just from his arm, it came from all around him, his joints, his neck and his eyes looked more glassy than what would be normal for a human being.

He was a puppet; a puppet that was near identical to Carlo.

It all made sense now...

The puppet boy parried your block, causing you to skid back, leaving narrow time to block yet another slash from his weapon. You couldn't admire him long, before going for yet another attack.

The puppet seemed listless against his persute to end you, and you couldn't help feel a painful jab of hurt to hit you where your heart should be.

"You... You're not Carlo."

It was a realization that got your nerves in a twist, and the look of slight confusion twitched against his face, only grew to sadden and confuse you more.

It was only then that he cleared the sudden fog in his gears, lifting his weapon to swifly lay an exctreamly violent hit to the side of your ribcage. Oil and Ergo splashed and dripped out of your newly aquired wound.

Usualy, you'd be quite calm about getting attacked, but the feeling of wanting to run overwhelmed you, but it seemed fate had other plans for you.

Right when you thought that you could turn quick enough, the puppet beat you to it. Kicking you to the ground rather harshly against the damp cobble stone streets.

You were met with a blade pointed inches to your face, watching as the puppet slowly got ready to strike, raising your blade to shieild yourself...

a moment... or two?

You didn't feel any preasure, or spillage of your wiring and Oil.

Just silence, as you slowly peaked from behinf your blade.

The blue butterfly from before, was perched onto the very tip of his blade, where the puppet looked curiously at.

His eye's didn't scream murder anymore, just curiousity and confusion- Like the Carlo you definently remembered.

The butterfly flapped it's wings gently, fluttering from the blade toards your out streched hand, watching as the gentle creature placed itself on your closed fist, and onto the ring that you had never tooken off.

Then, it magically dissapated into pure Ergo through your fingers and into your strings.

You felt your gears begin to shift...

"what... was that.."

You spoke to yourself, watching as the blue glow had slowly started to disapear, the light vapors creating a comforting warmth of the life you already had.

You suddenly see the Puppet boy shift to look at you quickly, eyes wide and staring at you, getting down into a squat and slowly starting to oberve you. It was an odd sight, watching the puppet that had been trying to kill you, take quick interest after that butterfly had landed on you.

Then, as if things weren't moving any faster than it already was for you; the Puppet grabbed your hand and pulled out a glowing blue pocket watch.

Unknown to what he was planning, you automatically shifted away, taking your hand back.

The boy reached out again, his confused face now being ingrained in your memory for the nth-time that evening.

Rushing back into the dark streets of Krat, loosing sight of you.

And you, loosing sight of your puppet self, without even knowing.

[hebuiltfive]

Once Bitten Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

AO3 link here!

Scott, one of the most excelled vampire hunters for the last century, has one last battle with the vampire who’s claimed him as her arch-enemy.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

I hadn't been sure if I'd be able to get anything out in time (October has been a wild month) but here we are! The morning of the 31st with a story I'm quite proud of for once!

There is a potential for this to be expanded upon, and I do really want to write more for this AU... I just have many fics on the go at the moment and no real time to get them written, so we'll see!

-------------------------

Scott hated a cliché. “Time heals all wounds”just wasn’t true, “thinking outside the box”was just dumb, and Gordon’s favourite phrase of “there’s plenty of fish in the sea” was so infuriating it often had Scott biting back sarcastic remarks in reply. Clichés were old and tiring. They were unoriginal and uninspiring. If he ever became president, an outcome that was unlikely despite his brothers constantly not-so-jokingly insisting that he “should run sometime”, he’d sincerely consider banning the usage of them. 

Therefore, walking into that disused mine and being greeted by sleeping bats had him understandably almost turning tail.

It was beyond ironic that he, a famed and skilled vampiric hunter, happened across such a scene. He didn’t dare count, cautious of losing time or becoming too distracted, but Scott estimated hundreds of pipistrelles, all handing upside down from the rafters. If he hadn't known better, he’d have called it a coincidence, but the tip-off they’d received earlier that morning suggested this was anything but.

Suppressing a shiver, he carefully passed the sleeping bats, ducking low to avoid disturbing them and being weary of where he was stepping. The floor was littered with old bolts and broken shards of glass. Every step he took delivered a crunch or a snap, and Scott winced each time, praying to an unknown deity that he wouldn’t awake the winged creatures. Night had already fallen and Scott was aware they’d be waking up themselves fairly shortly.

He had long since passed through the adit and had entered the mine proper. Tunnels had led him further and further, deeper and deeper, and the darkness was beginning to press in on him. When he had arrived, the sun had already long since set below the horizon. Cloud cover had meant there was no moonlight to help guide him, so Scott had made his way over to the entrance of the mine with the help of his torch. 

There was something about the mine that had him on edge, and it wasn’t purely because he was alone in the middle of nowhere.  His crossbow that hung over his shoulder was tugged closer, fingers biting into the leather strap that connected the weapon to the holster it was attached to. It was his most trusted trade tool and he never left for a mission without it. Scott trusted it so much, in fact, that he rarely brought another weapon out into the field with him, besides his basic hunting knife. Perhaps it was a foolish move during solo missions, but most of the time, on those specific occasions, Scott saw enough sense to carry extra weaponry.

It wasn’t needed tonight as this wasn’t a solo mission.  Virgil was on his way to provide necessary back-up, only Scott, as usual, had simply raced ahead. It was the arrogance of being certain he could handle whatever was about to be thrown into his face that had fuelled that decision, no matter how much Virgil had pleaded with him to just wait for once. If the tip-off was correct, Scott wouldn’t need back-up from his baby brother. It would be a simple retrieval mission. In and out, home in time for dinner…

Oh, he despised clichés! That was almost as good as nothing could possibly go wrong, and Scott knew how dangerous it was to say that line.

The further he went into the mine, however, the more Scott’s confidence waned. There was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that had him questioning how wise it had been to bolt ahead. He tried to ignore the sceptic thoughts. There was currently no reason to have any worries about the mission, besides the bats perhaps, but even then, it wasn’t so uncommon to find the winged creatures in old mine buildings.

Before he’d left, John had run a full and detailed analysis of the message — once bitten, twice shy and all that. (Then again, in John’s case, thrice shy might have been more appropriate, though the less said about that, the better.) Nevertheless his brother was always thorough with his investigations, so when he returned to him with the licit figure of ninety per cent, assuring him that this tip-off was trustworthy and not a trap, Scott had no reason to doubt him.

He hadn’t doubted him at all… not until he’d entered the godforsaken place.

Scott ducked into a dug out side room. Inches of dust layered almost every surface, and chains and broken bits of wood strewn across the floor. A desk stood on one side of the room. Scott crossed over, examining the mountains of paperwork that had been abandoned when the mine had closed down decades ago. The sheets were tainted, soiled from time and grime. He began to leaf through them slowly, careful not to disturb too much of the dust. His torch shone beams of light onto the various pieces of parchment, highlighting scrawny handwriting and typed up messages. He didn’t read them, merely scanning the words and numbers for anything that might provide a clue as to why they’d been given the tip-off for here exactly.

As far as the data International Rescue had, the area was not known to be a vampire hot-spot. Being in the middle of nowhere, and thus without a steady flow of hot blood, it was not an ideal place for a nest. Experience, however, had Scott batting away the assumptions. It was never wise to lay any claim when it came to the Night Walkers. 

It wouldn’t have been too much to assume that this could be an elaborate trap of some kind. The thought had first crossed Scott’s mind the moment he’d set eyes on the hundreds of pipistrelles hanging from the ceiling. Nevertheless, he kept up his search. The clue had to be around somewhere, he just needed to find it.

The unbound sheets offered him no help and he dropped them to the floor one by one, dust particles rising as he did so. The specks irritated his throat and Scott found himself wishing he’d brought along a small bottle of water with him. He cleared his throat a few times as quietly as possible, still not convinced he wasn’t alone in the mine, but after inhaling a rather petulant granule, he succumbed to a violent coughing fit. His eyes watered and his breathing became erratic, but he soon managed to regain his composure. Scott wiped the tear trails from his cheeks with the back of his hand and continued on his search.

The dirtiest item on the desk was a large ledger. Scott opened it in a more methodic manner than he had dropped the parchment, fearful of breathing in another round of irritant dust. Yellowed paper greeted him, blank ink scrawling out lists of names. There must have been hundreds. Scott scanned them, the tip of his finger brushing against the sheets, collecting black dust. Some names had been crossed out with a simple line, while others had been violently scribbled. On occasion, the pen had clearly gone through the paper. 

“You won’t find the answers you’re looking for in there.”

Scott slammed the registry book shut and whirled around to face the newcomer. The shadowed figure stood in the doorway to the alcoved room, just out of sight, but he recognised the voice; cold, calculating and bitter. The words had been spoken in his head. She never did miss an opportunity to show off her telepathy skills.

“I can’t say I’m surprised that 47 sent you.” He replied, calm and casual. He’d be damned if he let the trepidation get the better of him, and he certainly wasn’t going to let her notice it.

“47 doesn’t know either of us are here. If I’m being honest, I’m hurt you won’t give me credit where it’s due.”

As the realisation clicked, Scott’s lips curved into a lazy smile. He shone the flashlight straight into her face, and Marion Van Arkel hissed and recoiled, momentarily blinded.

But Scott did not move to attack.

“He won’t be happy to know you’ve been planning your own missions.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Still,” Scott continued, gesturing to the rotten rafters and girders, “you picked a nice place for an ambush. A mine? Nice touch, Van Arkel.”

Marion, her sight having returned to near perfect vision, advanced towards him. Her heeled boots clicked across the debris-littered floor and her lips twisted into a smug smirk. Whether they were red from paint or from blood, Scott couldn’t tell.

“I thought it would a fitting location to finally end this game of cat and mouse, no? Full circle, or whatever it is they say.”

God, how he hated clichés.

“Still hurt about your family going out of business?” To his credit, Scott attempted to sound as sincere as possible as he delivered the derision.

Marion, however, sensed his mockery and glowered. She stopped in her tracks, her arms folding across her chest in an overly exaggerated manner. “No thanks to you, I might add.”

He let out a low whistle, clearly amused by her discontent. “An heiress to a dead company. I'd offer you my condolences but I’m afraid I have no pity left to give.”

“You had plenty to give the humans—”

“They were innocent people!”

“They had no idea what was happening to them!” Marion retorted sharply. “Being enthralled means they know nothing.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” He frowned, scowling in disgust at her attempts to defend her family’s actions. “It’s a fate worse than death in some cases. They don’t call it Eternal Nightmares for nothing, you know!”

She caught sight of his altered demeanour, heard how his tone changed from taunting to revulsion, and Marion Van Arkel did what she did best; she pounced on it.  “Does that make you angry? To think about all those humans you’d failed to save from these Eternal Nightmares, as you put it?” She approached him slowly, her eyes glazed over with humour, laughing at his loathing. Some things never changed.

“You lured me here.” Scott changed topic, unwilling to allow her to jump onto his discomfort and use it to her advantage. “You lured me without the go ahead from your boss. Why?”

“I told you.” Marion lowered her voice to a whisper. “To end our game!”

“All you’ve done since you’ve got here is talk.”

“Do you not like talking?”

“Well, I fail to see how it will ‘end our game’.”

“All in good time, hunter. Patience is a virtue.”

Scott bit his tongue. If he heard one more damned cliché—!

His smile returned, easy and warm, without a trace of irritation. Marion’s words had left him feeling uneasy but all he had to do was wait, as she so instructed. Perhaps talking was good. It gave Virgil time to reach them… Not that he needed the back-up! Marion Van Arkel was a slippery vampire, one who Scott had been at odds with on a number of occasions over the last few years, but she was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Still, he’d have been lying if he said he wouldn’t have felt more at ease knowing there was someone else fighting in his corner.

“I’ve never been good at patience, Van Arkel.”

“So I’ve surmised. It’ll be your downfall, you know? You’ll rush ahead, just as you did tonight, so desperate to get the job over and done with, only one day you won’t get out of it. One day, you’ll lose.”

His cocky grin returned, full and flourishing. “And you believe today is that day?”

“I can hope.” Her finger, cold and slender, ran down the length of his jaw line,

Something twinkled in her eyes, something that made Scott feel uncomfortable, like he was left out of a joke and the punchline was soon to come and hit him unawares. 

“I can handle one vampire, Marion, especially if its you.”

He couldn’t let her think his guard was down for a second. Scott tilted his head, observing her curiously. If she hadn’t been a Night Walker, he might have thought her rather pretty. Indeed, he had tried to charm her the first night they’d met, before she’d attempted to eat him. The memory only made his smirk grow wider.

“Remind me again, Van Arkel, how many of our fights have you won?”

Scott paused for her to answer. Of course, she didn’t. He hadn’t expected her too. He watched as her twinkling eyes narrowed into a glare and refrained from chuckling, answering his own question for her. “Zero, wasn’t it?”

“That changes tonight!”

Marion threw the first punch. It was feral and angry, and it carried her forwards as Scott ducked out of the line of impact. She was quick to recover however, and before Scott had the chance to gain an upper-hand, Marion was lunged towards him again. Scott deflected every blow, attempting to land a few himself, but Marion was just as talented a fighter as he was. 47 trained his minions well, and Marion was no exception. She wasn’t as fast as some vampires, but she was still learning.

Legs kicked and bodies leapt, punches struck their marks and blood was left in their wake. Breathless but neither willing to back down, Scott and Marion continued their fight for minutes before she slipped up again, only this time Scott had been prepared.

As Marion stumbled, losing some of her balance after a particularly nasty hit, Scott circled around her. He caught her one of her arms and pulled it backwards, up her spine and into an arm lock. Then, with all his weight, he pushed them both forwards. Within seconds, Scott had her pressed against the rock-face, her second arm pinned at an awkward angle between her body and the wall.

“I don’t think it does.” Scott couldn’t help but smile arrogantly.

Though she was a vampire, and thus possessing vampiric strength, Marion was still classed as, what the hunters called, a Baby Vamp. Less than fifty years old and still learning and developing the traits that often gave vampires the advantages in a fight, Marion couldn’t struggle out of his hold, no matter how much she tried to.

“The night is not over yet, Tracy!”

“You don’t have to be like this. I know you know this is wrong. Marion, please.”

Despite his winning position, and at the risk of sounding like he wasn’t confident in his abilities, Scott had never been above begging. No matter who he was fighting, no matter what harm they had already done, he always gave them the option of redemption. He had seen vampires redeem themselves, albeit very few, and knew it was possible. Being so young, Marion was a prime contender for International rescue’s rehabilitation scheme. All she had to do was say yes.

She never did, however. Tonight was no different.

“You know nothing, Scott Tracy. Let me go!”

Marion struggled against his hold again, desperate to be free of him, but Scott held firm.

“No chance. All I have to do is keep you here until my brother arrives, and then—”

He was unable to finish his sentence. The sound of distant rocks falling echoed through to the alcove. The rumbling became closer and closer.

Marion, still struggling to free herself, began to laugh.

Capitalising on his momentary distractedness, she easily kicked his feet out from under him. To save himself from falling, Scott had no choice but to loosen his hold, but by doing so, Marion was able to finally slip out from his grasp. She delivered a swift kick to his exposed stomach, causing him to stumble to his knees and winding him in the process. As he tried to catch his breath, she sauntered over.

“You make my final win too easy.” Marion lowered herself to his level and pressed her rouged lips to his own. “I’d say let’s try again, go another round, but I’m afraid we’re out of time.”

Scott instinctively licked his lips. He stood to his full height once again, Marion backtracking a few steps. Her grin was wide and wild, not unlike it had been when she’d first entered. It was the smile of a smug winner, although Scott hadn’t bowed out of the fight just yet.

“Who said I let you win?” He slid his crossbow into position. Loaded with a single wooden dart he aimed it directly at Marion’s chest, above her defunct heart. 

To his surprise, she did not attempt to evade his shot.

But she didn’t need to.

In an instant, Scott’s vision blurred, his legs weakening. The crossbow was lowered before he even had the chance to fire it. He blinked, long and hard in hope that it would cure his bleary sight, but when his eyes opened again, Marion had become two fuzzy outlines. 

His fingers reached up to his lips.

His heart sank with dread.

“What did you do?”

“Alright, maybe you didn’t let me win, but don’t think I didn’t notice how easy you let me get the best of you this time. It’s a shame, you know? I had been hoping you’d best me just one more time, that our game of cat and mouse didn’t have to end tonight.”

The crossbow fell from Scott’s grip and dangled at his side. He crashed to his knees as they finally gave out and Marion, assessing it was safe for her to approach him again, did so. She unhooked the crossbow from his baldric and examined it curiously.

“This is such a funny contraption, so outdated. I would have thought you’re genius scientist would have created something more modern for you.” She threw it to the side, wood splintering as it hit the ground. “Still, it’s not like you’ll need it again.”

“What… did you… do?” Scott tried to ask her again but his words seemed to fade before he had the chance to fully realise them.

He started to sag to the side but Marion caught him before he fell. Helping to lower him to the floor, she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “It’s just a mild tranquilliser, don’t be so dramatic! You’ll be back to your normal self again in around half an hour… not that you’ll live that long.”

Scott could feel his heart quicken. Her cold, slender fingers stretched out across his chest; of course she could sense his fear.

“What… does that… mean? What… have you…?”

“Shush, now. You know, I am sorry it had to end like this…”

“Marion!” Another voice yelled from the tunnels beyond. Scott barely heard them call out, his senses slowly fading. It was another female by the sounds of it, though one he hadn’t heard before… Or maybe he had? Thinking was becoming a problem.

“Hurry up before you get trapped in there!”

“I’m coming!” Marion yelled in reply.

Scott winced.

“Like I said, it is a shame it has to end this way, Scott Tracy.” Marion brushed her fingers gently across his forehead, causing him to shiver. “We could have had so much fun, you and me, but alas, it was not meant to be.”

She stood, blowing him one last kiss, before she sprinted for the exit.

Scott laid in the silence. His eyes slipped shut and he could feel himself slowly fading away to the darkness. Half an hour Marion had said… but why had she dragged him all this way just to send him to sleep? What did she mean he wouldn’t live that long?

By the time the realisation would have hit, as the mine collapsed in on itself, Scott was mercifully unconscious. He didn’t feel the rubble crash down on him, he didn’t notice the pain from the various injuries the accident had dealt him, and he didn’t hear Virgil calling out for him as he painfully dug through the rubble in search of his brother.

There was nothing, and that, he would suppose, was a blessing.

… Damned clichés!

[lamemaster]

The Magician

Request: I feel like it's required for phantom of the opera to be maglor lol! A mask and cloak to hide ears, the light of the Trees,(which could also be why s/o thought of him as an angel!) and his scarred palm. Singing his hauntingly beautiful tragedies into the night, that is where our 'Christine' learned to sing. How very fitting. *Low key inspired by silmapens art of him doing theater*

Pairing(s): Maglor x Reader / (Spoiler) x Reader

Genre: Phantom of the Opera au (hehe)

AN: Fall event yayyyyy~ (Also the way I had half of this thing written before the request is not real. We share the same brain cell anon)

The Shadow, the Wraith—there are many names for the phantom that haunts the halls of Kalis Hala. A sprite whose steps echo at the untimely hours of the night.

Some call him a spirit, others claim he is a man from the East with long, flowing hair, while whispers tell of a doomed elf.

But the theater and its ghost remain inseparable. Entwined in rumors is the Shadow, whose words and music transformed a ramshackle puppet shop into the most esteemed theater in the kingdom.

A legend that holds within it the dreams of hundreds and the tears of thousands. Its backstage hums with the chatter of its artists, its seats brimming with patrons that multiply with each passing day.

Behind the rich, velvety curtains, you stand, clutching a letter. From your confidante, the one whose angelic voice, heard by many, is yet to be linked to a face. The one whose name is engraved on the door of Box Five.

His voice found you in your darkest hour. In the attic of discarded props, you first encountered his mournful notes. And that was how you met him. Ghost to many, the Magician to you.

But tonight, as you prepare to face the crowd for your debut as the lead singer, your heart pounds with uncertainty. In your grasp lies the Magician’s letter—his demands and requirements for tonight’s show.

Your name, written boldly as the lead—a demand that unsettled many. For an unknown nobody from the company to take center stage. Amid the glares and whispers, you murmur his name.

With your eyes closed, you conjure the fleeting image of his flowing black robes of mourning, his nimble fingers wrapped in silken veils, an unchanging presence during your secret meetings. His voice, unlike that of any mortal. His songs that could make you weep, laugh, or slumber at his will.

In the middle of the second act, your eyes find him, and your heart skips a beat.

With renewed fervor, you sing for him, a smile threatening to break across your lips. The rest of the show passes in a blur. As soon as the final note fades, you rush to your changing room, as fast as your feet will carry you.

In the crowded hallway, full of sweaty, euphoric actors, you somehow end up in his arms. You drink in the sight of him as his arms wrap around your waist.

The knight of your dreams.

Tonight, he has decided, tonight will be the night he reveals himself to you—his angel, away from Valinor. The bearer of his songs.

Maglor had watched you perform from the rafters, from the safety of rooms unknown even to the oldest patrons.

Tonight, when the world craves to hold you, he will be the one to claim your time and affection.

And perhaps, in time, you will come to love him—his mask, and beyond. The scars of the Silmaril may yet be healed by the kiss of your lips. You are his salvation.

He waits for you in your changing room, hidden behind the mirror that leads to his secret tunnels. Tonight, you will see him in your reflection.

Barely resisting the urge to claw at his mask, Maglor waits. Any moment now.

From minutes to hours, to the pale sprinkling of dawn, he waits. But you do not come.

His mind races with scenarios—wild, maddening thoughts. Has someone dared lay claim to his prodigy? Did he not make his intentions clear to the patrons?

It isn’t until later that he sees the reason for your absence. The gleaming knight of Rivendell. Once Lord of the House of the Golden Flower—Glorfindel. Seated in the box closest to you, his gaze fixed on you, your careless, fleeting glances in his direction tinkering with your faltering notes.

Your changing room, once overflowing with roses from Maglor, is now invaded by the cheer of the Golden Flower.

With clenched fists, crescent moons imprinted on his palms, Maglor watches as you effortlessly fall into the arms of the golden lord, who tucks back your wayward hair with aching familiarity.

"You must meet him," you prattle cheerfully to the blurred figure of your phantom. "Glorfindel is a friend. A savior. I wouldn't be here—"

Your words die in your throat as an unseen force seizes your lips, silencing you. Panic floods your chest as you look to the Magician. The usual warmth in his presence has been replaced by a chilling cold.

"You skipped four notes tonight," he declares, his voice like ice. "Is this the time for such cheer?" His words echo harshly in the attic.

You stare at him, helpless. It had never crossed your mind that your Magician—the source of your music and song—could wield such cruelty. He had always been your muse, never your fear, despite the rumors that clung to his name.

"Do not succumb to distractions. Stay away from the lordling." His sneer cuts deep, giving you no chance to respond. "Do you understand, my Lark?" he asks, finally releasing the grip he held over your words.

Gasping for air, your gaze meets his, laced with the sting of betrayal. The bond you had so carefully built with the shadow of Kalis Hala now feels fragile, fractured. Beyond the veil, you see him pacing, agitated.

"He is a friend, like you are," you plead, your voice soft. "Glorfindel will cause no harm. He is dear to me." Your words carry the weight of memories—of the time when the elven lord had saved you from the plague that ravaged the village of your birth. "I will not falter again. There will be no err in my music. Not because of him."

"I am the owner of this theater. I am the source of your fame, the music in your words. It would do you well to remember that, my Lark. Do not dismiss my words so willfully." His voice hisses like a venomous snake, fury so intense it feels as though centuries couldn’t contain it.

"Now throw away those jarring yellow flowers and rest for the night," he commands. The rage evaporates, replaced by the familiar tenderness you once knew, leaving you bewildered by the ghost of the opera.

You do not reply. Nor do you offer him reassurance. You will not abandon your friend over an unwarranted tantrum.

That night, you ignore his words for the first time. Leaving the pearls untouched on your dresser, you pull on your shawl and slip into the chilly night, finding yourself on the director’s mare, racing toward the manor on the outskirts of town.

In his arms, you are delightfully human. He can feel the steady rhythm of your heart, and his thumbs trace the warmth of your flushed cheeks. Unbothered by your sweat-slicked brow, Glorfindel presses his forehead gently against yours. "You were marvelous," he whispers, his voice full of elvish delight.

You truly were. Your songs, your voice, the graceful movement of your limbs in perfect sync with the dancers—it was something he would never forget.

Perhaps Lúthien was the fairest elleth to ever walk on Arda, and her dance enchanting enough to lure Beren. But to Glorfindel, you surpassed all legends. He loved you for reasons he couldn’t fully explain.

Why had his reborn heart bound itself to a mere mortal? A woman he had plucked from the very brink of death, whose faint pulse he had nursed back to life.

He loved you because, when everything else in Arda seemed to wither under the corruption of darkness, you lived. You clung to life—and to him.

His thoughts are interrupted by sudden screams. Chaos ripples through the theater, and the sickly sweet smell of death fills the air.

On the stage lies the broken body of a guardsman, crumpled and lifeless. A note is stuffed into his frozen mouth, his face twisted in eternal terror.

Words, elegantly written:

The Elven Lord must return.

The message leaves you pale and trembling in Glorfindel's arms. Your eyes dart around the empty stage, scanning the deserted seats, dread curling at the edges of your mind.

And then as if the familiar sense of dreadful choking returned with the burning gaze of your Magician. His presence- unwavering in the shadows, prowling in on your world.

[officialnightwing]

Crescend

The highest peak on Gotham's skyline was the derelict bones of Gotham Cathedral, a spire that pierced 800 feet into the sky. A monument to a faith that had been broken and reset and broken again and against in this city. Sometimes it sheltered squatters, but only between its use as a battleground, a little more of the stone chipping away with each battle fought for its soul. When egos got in the way, it was best to make yourself scarce; Gothamites knew that.

Thus, when Dick appeared in the dust of the late afternoon, swinging lightly through its fractured rafters, the ribcage of its high ceilings drawing breath in dying light, he had heard the few people sleeping in the remnant pews gathering up their stuff and leaving. The blue and black of Nightwing wasn't the same worry as other vigilantes or villains, but it looked like he was setting traps.

In actual fact, he was securing a safe route for someone with an unknown climbing skill level. Making sure of it, and landing on the dusty stone as the sunset swelled ruby-red through broken windows.

Content, he sauntered for the doorway, to stand out upon the steps as the night air came hurtling into Gotham. Cold and oppressive.

He was still Nightwing. Still in that blue- near black in certain angles -domino. The peek of his escrima in their holsters at hand. But this wasn't his suit. Instead it was warm climbing clothes, a long-sleeved training shirt that was blazed with the Nightwing symbol and cuts.

No need for the full suit for this. This was a date. The man he had rescued from a mugging just a day and a half ago, name of Hunter, spoke in ASL and was doing funny things to Dick's head these days. He was kind of excited, really.

@deathstrokewilson

[hypocriticaltypwriter]

🩵❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞.❞💙

@ria-coolgirl really inspired me with this idea and I HAD to write it super quick cause when I tell you I CRIED the first time I read ittt 😭😭 THAT LITTLE IDEA DID SOMETHING TO ME OK???

The cave was filled with silence. A peaceful lull than what it was used to, filled with noises of the little coven had resided, only the sound of crashing waves and rain outside the ruins of the hotel.

Deep into the rafters, however, it seemed one body was still awake. Paul laid on his stomach, deep blue eyes on the small baby that lay caged in his arms, gaze held intently, almost as though completely enamored by his own kin. Her little hand wrapped around his large finger, her big green eyes closed and hidden from his own behind her bright blonde lashes as she slept soundly, little snores followed by the rise and fall of her chest, something she didn't even need to survive, but the sight made his heart melt, her tiny figure secure in the safety of his lean forearms, swaddled lasily in a baby blue blanket.

The small tufts of crazy blonde hair like his own on her Itty bitty head, her chubby little body snuggling or tossing and turning to find any other warm in daddy's embrace, causing him a few adoring coos to leave passed pursed lips.

His long pointer finger grazing over her cheek made her stir just a bit, but she stayed sleeping soundly, almost moving carefully so the cold metal of his rings wouldn't make any contact to disturb her warmth. His sharp nail barely and gently ran against the soft skin of her cheek, careful not to make a sudden move that'd caused his talon-like nails to prick her skin. Stroking rosy bunches of chub starting from her chin all the way up to her temple.

It wasn't a disturbing sensation, it was so feather-like you'd think it was a dull hum in the back of your brain, a soft tickle in a dream, a touch you'd feel in vulnerable moments of your life that would cease tears or silence cries. It was a touch Paul had yearned for in his younger years from his own mother or father. A touch made with tenderness and love.

And he'd only felt such a way long in his eternal life, when he held his baby girl for the first time, when he heard her cry for him, or when she'd nurse from his thumb as a way to peacefully fall asleep, or her little sobs would calm the second she heard his voice in the unknown and darkness. He never thought he could feel so human when he was only a monster.

It seemed the sudden cracking of lighting startled the both of them. Echoing off the cave walls and it made Paul visibly jump - his fingers retracting into a fist. But it was too late. The sudden movement of his finger left an effect on his actions.

The gently tracing of his fingernail swiftly left a cut along the cheek of Tiffany, nothing too deep, but it began to grow visible with redness and the faintest trail of blood. She startled awake, mimicking Paul's jump, but her little body merely had the momentum of a flinch, her big, green eyes going big as saucers when she was taken from her sudden slumber to a stinging sensation on her cheek. Her small mouth parted as if to question what had happened.

Paul watched as the scratch slowly grew a vibrant red, like a strike of a wip to skin. His breath hitched, and he felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach. It was the worst thing he could do: panic.

Tiffany's eyes slowly began to go glassy, and big tears fogging her doe-like orbs. Her little bottom lip quivered into a pout when she saw the shock and horror on her daddy's face.

Shushing and panicked whispers soon followed, a desperate Paul trying to calm a storm brewing that caused him more anxiety than the one outside. He carefully crept a hand beneath the back of her neck, the other fitted under her body, lifting her up carefully while sitting to his knees, holding her slightly away from him so he was able to inspect her. "Oh, don't cry, baby, please don't start..."

She let out a soft wail, rubbing her little fist into the slight cut to try and ease or remove the small sting it left on her.

Something about her cry made it more heartbreaking than the others, like she was confused about why her daddy thought to do this or if he'd done it on purpose. If he'd meant to hurt her.

In that moment, that thought consideration killed him inside more than stabbing him with a stake right then and there.

His large thumb ran over her face, swiping away tears from her thick wet lashes as she continued to cry, feeling him try to soothe her cut, cooing and shushing her softly. She continued to sob and whimper, opening her big eyes to gaze up at him, all glassy and puffy. It made a coil around his chest tighten, unable to fight the way his face twisted into something akin to the same expression he was seeing in front of him.

"Daddy didn't mean to." He whispered softly, bringing her close to him, his nose brushing through her whispy hairs. "He didn't mean to hurt you, sunshine." He rocked his slightly hunched body, kissing her cheek like pressing his lips to a porcelain doll. Tasting the bitter texture of tears against his lips, a prick of guilt pulling at his skin with each peck left to her face as though he could work some sort of magic and heal it with his touch.

Her wailing had reduced to hiccups and whimpers, but it was still a sound Paul never wanted to hear, a sound of fear and confusion, her eyes still so big and wide as if she was scared if him. Scared of her own father.

"Oh, please don't look at me like that, sunshine." He was pleading with an infant. A creature unable to even understand his words or notice the desperation he had in finding forgiveness from her. He now used his knuckle, cautious if the now sensitive skin, as he used the joint to stroke her cheek comfortingly. "I hate that look.."

Just when he thought he could he more than the thing he'd become. When he thought this little bit of hope - this little creature in his arms could heal a loneliness that ached in his chest cavity, he had done the thing he always did. He fucked up. He always fucked up. He could never keep anything safe and precious, clean and pure. He always had to break it, he always had to curse it with his touch, hurt and shatter it the moment it was placed in his hand. He had to act like a Monster.

He felt a tenderness grow in his throat, making it hard to swallow without it hurting. That tight feeling in his chest felt hot, pulsing through his skin and making it hurt. The guilt made him sick in his stomach. He'd stared off into space, frozen and unable to even aid his own daughter. Cause that's he always did. He always ran away when he'd felt like this when he'd been hurt. That's all he was good for.

Run away, Paul. That's all you're good for.

He was barely drawn away from his clouded mind by a mere tug, a slight pull. His eyes fluttered to focus, his gaze on the cavern wall slowly falling back to the small infant in his arms again. The slight sensation of growing fangs gnawing at the skin of his knuckle caused his finger to twitch, but not enough to pull away, watching as she carefully suckled on his finger.

Her tear stained face and small sniffles were pitiful, but she didn't cower from him, she didn't cry for her mother, and she didn't cry for him to run away. She felt safe, she felt comforted to ease back into a safety she knew she could always and only find in his arms.

He watched as those big eyes got heavy, fighting to stay awake, and it was almost as though an instinct he'd waited so long for kicked in.

He tried oh so carefully to shift himself into a criss-cross-legged position, shushing gently the whole time while shifting her into a position against his chest, making her he held her the way he'd been taught and told how many times before, slowly rocking himself side to side, feeling the way her little body grew heavier, and her weak little hold on his finger loosened.

He felt a quiet hum vibrate in his chest, slowly rising to his throat in a quiet tune of 'You Are My Sunshine' sung weakly, so quiet his voice cracked with the higher notes, unable to carry them in the vulnerable state he was in, but no one cared. His little one didn't seem to care for the lack of performance. If anything, he felt a flutter in his chest the way she nuzzled against his inframmary, enjoying the low hum with both the sensation and sound.

He continued to sing, he didn't know for how long, but it continued till he saw those eyes finally give in, and close, and her jaw go slack against his knuckle, her little fingers still wrapped loosely around his one he refused to pull away even still.

He'd always run away before. He'd ran away from everyone and everything that turned into something he couldn't control. But now, he had a problem cause the next time he'd run away and hide in the dark, little feet would follow behind and pull him right back. Pull him back to the light.

He tugged the blue blanket closer and tighter around her, keeping her secure in a warmth his own body could never give. Leaning down to place a kiss to her forehead, not a kiss of apology, or out of guilt like the many earlier, but a kiss of thanks. A thanks for healing that ache in his chest, the loneliness I'm his soul.

Thank you for being my sunshine.

🩵----🩵

I to, was not safe from the baby fever... 😔✊️

[🍒🦇Likes and reblogs appreciated!!🦇🍒]

[trulybetty]

october | 10 x oktoberfest

pairing: frankie x f!reader word count: 1,001 warnings: drinking, alcohol, as always unbeta'd summary: now home from Colombia, you get a call to come pick Frankie up from the bar. ao3: linked

{ x. series masterlist }

author note: prompts are not in chronological order, the story is told throughout the life span of the relationship. once all are posted, I'll post a list of the prompts in chronological order.

10 x Oktoberfest.

The soft flicker of the TV was barely enough to hold your attention, but you stared at it anyway, your mind miles away. Frankie had been gone for hours, disappearing after work without so much as a word beyond a quick ‘I’m going out.’ You’d tried to push gnawing worry aside, but it settled in your chest like a weight, growing heavier with each minute that passed. 

Then your phone rang.

Unknown number.

Normally, you’d send it straight to voicemail, but ever since Colombia, every unknown call felt like a bomb waiting to go off. You held your breath as you answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Dana. From Chestnuts,” came the familiar voice of the bar's bartender. “Frankie’s here. So’s Benny. They got into it with some locals. No cops yet, but… they’re a mess. I need you to come get them before it gets any worse.”

You sighed, your head falling back against the couch cushions. You knew this night wasn’t going to end well. “I’ll be there,” you muttered, already grabbing your keys and heading out.

When you pulled up outside Chestnuts, you couldn’t help but notice the decoration choice the dive bar had made to the outside. Hanging from the windows—were blue and white checkered flags, and images of beer steins plastered on banners. Even the bar's dingy neon sign was barely visible behind a garland of fake fall leaves.

Oktoberfest. Really?

Walking inside the interior was just as bad as the outside. Banners hung from the rafters and tables were littered with paper coasters in blues and whites. You eyed it all cautiously as you made your way to the bar. Dana saw you first, rolling her eyes when she caught you looking at the decorations.

“Don’t even ask,” she said with a smirk. “Owners got some deal with a beer distributor. It’s a whole thing.”

Then you saw Benny first before you noticed Frankie, Benny had that charisma about him that always pulled the attention of a room to him. He was propped up against the bar, sporting a fresh black eye, but still grinning like he hadn’t just been in a fight. Frankie on the other hand, was slumped on a stool, his split knuckles resting on the bar in front of him, his expression dark and distant. He looked like he was a thousand miles away, even though his body was right there in front of you.

“Thanks for coming,” she said quietly. “They’re not too bad off, but you know… it was a rough night.”

You nodded, understanding all too well. Your anger simmering just below the surface, but it wasn’t the time. This was about everything. Tom. The funeral. Colombia. 

You helped Benny up first, not sure you had the will to deal with Frankie at that moment. “Come on Benny. Let’s get you home,” you said helping him up while Frankie remained eerily quiet. His usual chatter filled the space as you guided him outside. “It’s not a night out until someone takes a swing, right?” he chuckled as you pushed open the doors to the bar and made sure he followed you out.

Frankie followed behind, quieter than you could recall ever seeing him, slipping into the front passenger seat without a word. The drive to Benny’s place was filled with Benny’s usual chatter, his slurred words tumbling out in a half-drunk ramble about the fight, the bar, and life in general. But you were barely listening. Your mind was elsewhere, focusing on the silence coming from Frankie which was more unnerving than Benny’s ramblings.

In the dim light of the car, it was impossible to miss that his knuckles looked worse than what they’d seemed at the bar, bloody and raw. You wanted to yell at him, to ask him why this kept happening, why he always let things spiral out of control. But he was drunk, and you knew better than to start a fight tonight. Not like this.

After ensuring Benny got inside safely and getting him settled you and Frankie were left in the silence of the car. The quiet between you heavy with unspoken words. You pulled into your driveway, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, staring out the windshield. You were so tired. Tired of the fights, the drinking, the disappearing acts. Tired of not knowing what was going on in his head.

You were ready to get out, ready to leave any attempt at a conversation for the morning. You reached for the door, ready to head inside without a word. But before you could move, you heard Frankie’s voice, so quiet you almost missed it.

“Sorry.”

You froze, hand still on the door handle. You turned to look at him, his head bowed, his hands still resting in his lap. The rawness in his voice hit you harder than you’d expected. It wasn’t just about that night, wasn’t just about the fight or the bar. It was for everything. For Tom. For Colombia. For Santiago. For the way things had spiralled out of control since he came back. All the things he kept carrying alone. 

 You felt like the wind was knocked out of you, your anger softened but was not gone completely. It was still there, simmering beneath the surface. But in that moment you could clearly see the cracks in the facade Frankie had been holding together the last couple of weeks. Vulnerability that he rarely let show.

Without saying a word, you reached out and gently touched his hand. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the tension in his body start to ease, just a little.

“Let’s get you inside,” you said softly.

He nodded, and the two of you climbed out of the car. The tension was still there, lingering in the air between you. But for now, there was something else too—something like an understanding, something like a truce.

But you both knew, deep down, that this was far from over.