#by cutting out really itty bitty pieces of paper and putting them in the eyes and i think it helped quite a bit! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pftones3482 · 3 years

Text

Commission for @crazyfanatic97. Thank you for your support!

Set sometime in the future, post canon. Under a cut for length!

If Marinette pricked herself one more time, she was going to throw every single thimble that she owned out the window and light them on fire, because honestly, what was the point of a thimble if she still kept stabbing herself every 45 seconds?

Marinette sighed and pulled her hand away from the hem of the dress, shooting it a critical eye to make sure that she hadn’t accidentally gotten any stray blood on it. Finding it still clean and immaculately white, she stood from her cushion and walked over to the first aid kit that she had propped open on her desk. It had been getting a lot of use the last few days, so it hadn’t been closed and the Band-Aid box on top was still wide open.

She shook one out and ripped the paper off, meticulously wrapping the cotton around her finger and chucking the crumbled wrapper into the trash. Marinette took the moment to step back and stare at her handiwork. Not that she really had much time left to work on it anyhow – she lifted a hand to her head to make sure her hair was still pulled into it’s perfectly done half-up half-down do.

From what she could see, the hem finally looked even. She’d been trying to get it right for the last two days, but it was always just a little bit crooked no matter what she tried.

Marinette brushed her hands nervously against her thighs and shrugged out of her sweatshirt, tossing it on the back of her chair and then brushing her bandaged fingers against the bodice of the dress. “Okay,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone, though she knew Tikki was watching quietly. “Okay.”

The silk was cool in her fingers, and felt too nice against her dry and pricked skin as she shimmied into it. It hugged her hips perfectly, and she sighed in relief at that – she’d been anxious about that area. Hips and waists were never her strong suits when she was sewing. The sleeves draped over her shoulders nearly perfectly – she’d have to see if she could tuck them back a little. “Tikki, can you get the zipper?” she asked, hands struggling to reach the itty bitty piece of metal at her lower back.

Tikki zoomed over immediately, tiny paws tugging the zipper up the back of the dress and pulling it snug around Marinette’s torso. “There,” the Kwami said, clearly satisfied. “All zipped up. Let me see.”

Marinette turned, smoothing her hands down the front of the skirt, and Tikki’s eyes glittered in delight. “You look beautiful, Marinette.”

The woman looked down at the bodice. “You sure? This stitch looks misplaced, and this one looks-”

The door burst open and Tikki squeaked, flying into Marinette’s purse, draped across the back of her wardrobe chair. Alya walked in, a bobby pin in her mouth as she fixed a stray hair in her bun, but it promptly fell out when she laid eyes on her best friend.

“Oh. Holy shit dude.”

Alya lowered her hands from her hair and put them over her mouth, eyes sparkling as she took Marinette in. “You look incredible,” she whispered from behind her hands.

Marinette’s fingers twisted nervously at the loose fabric on the front of the gown. “Really?”

Alya’s gaze softened and she walked over to Marinette, her heels clicking on the floor. She took her by the shoulders and turned her so that she was facing the mirror in the room, Alya looking on from behind her. “Dude. Look at yourself. I can’t believe you made this your – no, you know what, yes I can. I can believe you made this yourself, because you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, are the most talented best friend a girl could ask for.”

The dress was a floor length ball gown, entirely white save for the gold trim along the edges, the bodice, and the hips. The skirt underneath the outermost layer was a gold tulle, trapped between two layers of silk and set on top of a hoop skirt that Marinette had made herself with extra scraps of fabric and ribbon.

The bodice dipped in an almost sweetheart neckline, some of the sheer tulle stitched down the front, and the sleeves were off the shoulder, made with the same tulle stitched down the front. It glittered when Marinette turned, catching the light of the room with every twist.

Alya’s hands squeezed her shoulders. “Girl. You’re gorgeous. You did an incredible job. How can you not think so?”

Marinette took a shaky breath and smoothed her skirt down again, as if it wasn’t already pressed silk. “I’m just so nervous. What if a stitch comes undone, o-or the bodice rips, or some of the tulle falls out? You know me Alya, you know my track record, something always gets messed up.”

Alya tisked and turned, searching the room until her eyes landed on the tiara that was waiting on the desk. She picked it up, thumbing the edges thoughtfully, and then very carefully leaned over Marinette and settled it onto her head, pushing the prongs of the tiara into her hair and spreading the glittering veil out behind her. “Not this time,” she promised, pressing her cheek to Marinette’s and giving her a hug from behind. “I won’t let it.”

A shaky breath spilled from Marinette’s lips as she took in the completed look and she pressed both hands to her mouth. “Promise?”

Alya pulled back and forced Marinette into a twirl, watching as her friend’s face lit up when the skirt spun out the way it was supposed to. “I promise, girl. Nino won’t either – I think he’s more nervous than you are about everything. He’s the best man, I’m the maid of honor, we’re supposed to be the nervous ones.”

She twirled Marinette again, grinning in delight as Marinette started giggling. “There you go, girl. You know, Adrien’s lucky he got to you first. You look hot, girl.”

Alya shot Marinette a wink and Marinette dissolved into laughter, wrapping her friend up in a tight hug and taking a deep breath. “Shut up.”

Alya hugged her back, careful not to tug too hard on the veil draped over her back. “Never.”

Marinette chuckled again and then shut her eyes, breathing for just a second. “Thank you,” she said, a little softer this time.

Alya pulled back and kissed her temple. “Any time, hon. Come on, lets go touch up your makeup and get your shoes.” A look down at Marinette’s hands, and her nose wrinkled and her lips pursed. “And we’ll take care of all these pinpricks, too. Now come on, I think your mom is about to have an aneurism if you don’t show her this dress.”

She offered her elbow and Marinette took it, tossing one last look at the mirror as they left the room arm in arm – yeah, it looked like maybe the hem wasn’t perfect.

But she was starting to think that didn’t really matter.

#my writing #writing commissions #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous ladybug #alya cesaire #future fic

8 notes · View notes

missnmikaelson-main · 5 years

Text

Who Are You? Part 17

Usual disclaimers.

I know, I know, I said this would be the last chapter, but guess what... it's not. I split it in two.

Elena worried her bottom lip and tapped the table. Every time she thought of the wolf pacing a cell in the Lockwood cellar she cringed. Cursing Hayley had never been her intention. She had been hoping to reason with her, but then Lexa had caught up to them and seen toxic teeth inches from Elena's neck.

Elena couldn't fault her friend for trying to help. She'd only known the one curse that would cause Hayley to immediately release her.

It was done now, and Elena didn't like it.

Klaus seemed delighted, and he had been since his siblings had broken the news when he arrived. He was anxiously awaiting the coming full moon and passing the time between facetime calls by prepping the old mansion for Christmas.

Elena was hesitant to voice an opinion to the hybrid while he still housed a piece of the Hollow. Unlike Elijah, she had no calming influence on the man.

"Were you planning on wrapping that present, or just staring at the paper?"

Elena dropped the scissors next to the box and leaned against the couch with a sigh. Her eyes zeroed in on the mug of blood when it was lowered in front of her.

"It's very pretty paper," her fingers curled around the mug. She took a long drink, savoring the combination of blood types.

Elijah dropped to sit beside her in a fluid movement and eyed the wrapping paper critically.

"It is beautiful," he conceded, "but hardly worthy of such devotion."

Elena cracked a weak smile before taking another drink.

"What is it you're wrapping now?" He watched as she leaned forward and tapped the box.

"Leather notebook for Landon – Caroline says he likes to write poetry on any scrap of paper he can find." She pointed to a long narrow box. "That's a set of charcoal and paints I picked up while we were in France for Jeremy, and everything else is pretty much under the tree, but that's not what you wanted to ask me."

"I wanted to ask what is bothering you," he chuckled, having long since excepted that she could read his intentions, "but I sensed you weren't ready to talk about it."

"Is Klaus here?" She cocked an eyebrow.

"He's wrapping presents at the mansion."

"Do you mean to tell me he hasn't compelled a hoard of minions to do that?" Her lips lifted in a teasing smile.

"I think he roped Kol into helping, but no," Elijah smirked. "He's is doing his own Christmas wrapping this year. Caroline insisted; something about the repetitive motions quelling his rage."

"Two psych classes in college and suddenly she's a shrink," she shook her head fondly.

"It seems to actually be helping." Elijah picked up the scissors and neatly finished wrapping the boxed present.

Elena watched his long fingers shift the gold paper and tilted her head.

"It's Hayley," she cleared her throat when he paused. His eyes landed on her, waiting for her to continue. "She's pacing a cell right now like some kind of animal." She paused when a voice cut her off.

"Technically she is one."

"I thought you were at the mansion?" Elena spotted Kol on the back deck. He was sitting across from Lexa who was wrapped in a plaid blanket shaking a mason jar full of a green liquid.

"The company hear is better," he smirked, eyes sliding to the blonde in the deck chair.

Elena was pretty sure she saw Lexa blush and Kol's smirk turn to a grin.

"Did you know he was out there?" She turned to Elijah who shook his head.

"I was working on a new privacy spell," Lexa cleared her throat.

"What about Hayley is bothering you, lovely?" Elijah finished wrapping the gifts as Kol and Lexa joined them inside.

Elena bit down on her cheek. She knew Elijah would listen to her and not get upset with her opinion, but Kol had always been a wildcard. She decided to go on though feeling confident Klaus – with the Hollow – was the only Mikaelson who might have started a physical altercation.

"I just don't like that she was cursed," she lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, and saw Lexa's cheeks flush. She had a feeling her newest friend wasn't happy about it either. "I get you went through with it in the moment," her eyes met Lexa's, "but I don't like it. She's been subjected to that once already, and I wouldn't be surprised if that's one of the reasons she did all of this."

"Would you have rather we compelled a judge?" Kol cocked an eyebrow.

"I would have rather done something that didn't involve cursing her," Elena crossed her arms. "Hasn't your family dealt enough with black magic?"

"Even if they came to some sort of custody arrangement," Elijah attached the tags she had written out earlier, "There would be nothing keeping Hayley or Niklaus from breaking it."

"You'd never get Nik to agree to something like that, darling," Kol smiled sadly, "his paranoia is crippling, so even if Hayley agreed to alternating school holidays or weekends Nik wouldn't trust her not to run off with Hope the first chance she got."

"What if she didn't have a choice?" Lexa spoke up, fingering the edge of the jar in her hands. "What if neither of them had a choice but to follow whatever agreement they could reach?"

"Is this meant to help with that? You've had it brewing since before I got here." Kol plucked the jar from her hands.

"No," she shook her head, "that is the cure to the Crescent curse." She squared her shoulders when the each vampire turned a questioning look on her. "Elena's not the only one with scruples. I only did it because she was attacking Elena and it was the spell I had been going over all day."

++++

She brushed her palms together, stepping over a lump in the carpet and taking a wide step around a squeaky floorboard. She could hear the distant sound of scuffling as it drifted up from the basement and knew if she got a little closer to the door she'd be able to hear growling and maybe even low howls, but she didn't want to hear that tonight.

She didn't want to see the wolves and think about how one day that could be her. She didn't want to think about every bone in their bodies breaking and reshaping because if she did she would think about how werewolves had come to be and if she thought about the Hollow's curse then she would think about how she had affected her family more than a thousand years later.

She didn't want to think about that.

All she wanted to think about was the spell that was happening at that moment. It was the only thought that raced through her mind, but the intensity of it had pushed everything else from her head; she couldn't even consider sleeping.

"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be in bed."

She stiffened when she heard the low voice and turned slowly to tip her head up and meet her headmistress's eyes. Emotions flickered over her face too quickly for Hope to process.

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, shrugging her thin shoulders.

Caroline sighed, torn between her headmistress duties and how she knew Hope must be feeling. She knew she had a soft spot for the little girl; she wouldn't have hunted down a wayward parent for any of the other students in the school unless it was Ric that went off the rails.

She glanced out the window towards the moon and came to a decision.

"Come with me," she steered Hope around by the shoulder.

Hope's slippers skidded over the floor. She saw no reason to keep quiet now that she had been caught. She stared at the carpet as she was steered through the school, certain she was being led to the office where her uncles or aunts would be called and informed of her midnight adventure, or where Caroline would issue detentions that would last the rest of her school career; maybe she'd be put on spell clean up.

She was too busy staring at her toes to see where they were going and so didn't see anything remiss until the rug turned to tile. She lifted her head and blinked at the stainless steel fixtures without really taking them in.

Caroline released her shoulder and pulled out a stool, patting the seat in an open invitation before moving to one of the cabinets.

"You're not gonna give me detention and put me back in bed?" Hope climbed up and took a seat, watching as Caroline poured milk, sugar and cocoa into a saucepan.

"What would be the point of that?" She glanced over her shoulder. "You'd just wander around again later, or pace your bedroom. Do you like marshmallows?" Caroline stirred the mixture on the stovetop.

"What?" Hope blinked. She heard the concoction bubble and inhaled the sweet aroma that made her mouth water.

"Marshmallows," Caroline poured out the hot cocoa into two steaming mugs, "in your hot chocolate. Or would you prefer whip cream? I'm partial to whip cream, myself," she sprayed a dollop on top of one of the mugs, "and peppermint because it's Christmas. Do you like peppermint, Hope?"

She fixed the second drink when Hope nodded and set the mug in front of her. She then put the dirty dishes in the sink to soak before leaning over and bracing her elbows on the counter.

Hope stared at the swirl of whipped cream and crushed peppermint for a beat while Caroline sipped her own drink.

"I take it you're excited," she curled her fingers around her mug, "you'll get to see your dad soon, and not just on an itty bitty little screen."

"Yeah," Hope chewed her bottom lip.

"Do you not want to see your dad, Hope?" Caroline frowned. "You don't seem excited."

She didn't. Her shoulders were hunched over and her heart was fluttering wildly.

"I do," Hope looked up, tears shimmering in her eyes, "but what if it doesn't work? What if the spell doesn't work?"

Caroline reached out and took Hope's clammy hands, rubbed gentle circles into her palms and met her blue eyes.

"It's going to work. Lexa has already done this spell three times. She's gonna take the Hollow out of your dad, and soon all of it will just be a memory."

Hope managed a small smile. "You're nicer than my dad said." She could remember her dad telling her about Caroline when she first came to the school before he'd stopped calling the first time.

"Don't go telling everybody, okay?" Caroline grinned. "I've got to keep my big bad headmistress rep."

"Your heart's too big to be bad," she picked up her mug and sipped the hot chocolate. The hot liquid warmed her from the inside, chasing away the chill that had been there since waking up.

Caroline smiled and reached out to wipe the whipped cream from the tip of Hope's nose.

Totally unrelated, but I'm trying to remember how many people vampire Elena killed. There was Connor (sirebond), Kol (who I argue was a result of the sirebond), the waitress (without emotions), and Matt (again without emotions and she was manipulated into it). Was there anyone else? I can't remember her ever killing anyone when she was in her right mind or in control of her own decisions.

Tags: @elejahforever @eternityunicorn @rissyrapp20 @elejah-wonderland @morsmornte @fandomrulesall @xanderling

6 notes · View notes

whorderofthepheonix · 6 years

Text

Sacredly Scarred: Chapter 20 || Erik Killmonger

A/N: *sighs* may or may not be the last chapter. idk. depends on y'all. Enjoy tho. 200+ if you want the next part (and if it takes forever, Imma take forever to post ch.21 lmfaoooo) PLEASE REBLOG INSTEAD OF COMMENT xx

Words: 2k

Warnings: Swearing, Mild Violence, Vomit Warning, Lil Itty Bitty Angst, Cliff Hanger af

Erik’s POV

I pounded on the apartment door, eager for someone to answer.

“Erik, relax,” Yenai gasped. “You seem... Impatient.”

“Sorry, I just... Really want tea,” I mumbled. The door swung open and I was ready to pounce.

“Yenai! Erik!” 1 greeted. She looked fine... Like no sign of any injury or anything. Just an oversized yellow sweater and some leggings. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Sorry to just barge in like this but Erik really wanted to join us for tea,” Yenai apologized, “and he insisted we come now.”

“Well tea’s not till 4,” she looked down at her watch. “But by all means, come in and join us for brunch! We’re out on the balcony.”

“Glady,” I pushed past them and onto the balcony. The other twin was out there, nibbling lightly on a piece of toast. She wore an identical outfit to her sister, but with a blue sweater.

“Hi Erik!” She greeted. Yenai and 1 came in soon after. “Yenai too? Are you guys joining us for brunch?”

“Yup,” I said sitting across from her.

“Splendid!” 2 clapped. “Dorota! We need 2 more plates out here please!”

“So, Yenai, I’m sorry I couldn’t talk yesterday,” 1 frowned. “We were at the Marc Jacobs fashion show. They usually confiscate phones but I snuck mine in.”

“Well, it was a good thing you were dealing with fashion because I’m working with Vogue!” Yenai squealed. The twins gasped.

“No!” 2 gasped.

“OMG how?” 1 asked.

“Remember that dress I made with the tribal prints?” They nodded. “Well they saw it and loved it and now they want to add it to the Fall collection!” The 3 of them screamed and held hands.

“Congratulations!” 2 grinned.

“Yeah, we’re totes happy for you!” 1 added.

“Thanks guys!” Yenai laughed as the maid placed plates of bagels and lox in front of us. The moment Yenai saw it, she gulped. “Um... Is this raw?”

“Smoked,” 2 declared. “But very, very lightly. I hate when it’s not chewy.” Yenai started heaving.

“You good baby?” I whispered.

“Um, yeah... It’s just the smell,” she gagged. “And the look... and... I’m just gonna use the restro-” She covered her mouth and ran back into the house.

“Is she okay?” 2 asked.

“Yeah, she just has really bad food poisoning,” I said folding my arms. “So Marc Jacobs, huh? What was that like?”

“Like all the rest,” 1 rolled her eyes. “Been to one, been to them all.” I looked behind me to make sure Yenai wasn’t in ear shot.

“Does Yenai know?” I asked. They looked at each other confused.

“Know what...? About the fashion show? We just told her,” 2 raised an eyebrow.

“Cut the shit!” I hissed. “You know damn well you weren’t at no fuckin’ fashion show last night!” 1 took out her phone and opened her snapchat.

“Look from 7:30 PM until 11:29 PM we were at the fashion show then we went to the after party,” she said. “Am I missing something?”

“Now, I’m confused...” 2 frowned. “Where did you think we were?” Maybe I got it wrong... Maybe it was just a coincidence... But I was sure it was them... I sat back in my chair and look a bite of my bagel.

“Forget it,” I sighed.

“Hey, I LOVE your watch!” 1 gasped. “Rolex Chronograph right? Our dad has the exact same one!”

“Yeah, he’s been collecting since before we were born!” 2 added. “Come, we’ll show you!” They both got up and I followed them through their bedroom and into one of the closest. A giant wall full of watches was right above a smaller case with more watches.

“There are 320,” 1 spoke. “We only take them out to wear as good luck or on Sundays to have Dorota clean them.”

“It is Sunday,” I pointed out.

“Oh fuck! It is!” 2 groaned. “I’ll get Dorota.”

“I’ll go check on Yenai,” 1 said. Then they both left the closet. I looked carefully at each watch. Ther were all accounted for. Well there goes that theory... I looked around the closer which was filled top to bottom with expensive jewelry and clothes. Just as I was about leave, one of the watches in the case caught my eye. I opened the case and picked it up. It looked almost identical to mine, it just had lower case letters instead of uppercase, like most Rolex’s do... I heard footsteps so I scurried to put back the watch, causing me to fumble and drop it on the floor. I bent down to pick it up from under the case, accidentally grabbing something else instead. A brown paper bag. I slowly opened it pulling out a bloodstained shirt and a clown mask. That’s when I heard a clicking sound from behind me and someone clearing their throat. I sighed and raised my hands in surrender, getting up and facing the door. 1 had a rifle pointed to me while 2 had her arms folded across her chest.

“Pardon me sir,” 1 smirked. “You have something that belongs to us. I’d like it back.”

“I fucking knew it,” I laughed. “So you two are the little fuckers who’ve been fucking with my assignments.”

“We haven’t been messing with anything,” 2 pointed out. “We get calls and we go. The same as you.”

“So I’m just supposed to believe that you two, fucking pris and perfect, are assassins?” I laughed.

“You’re damn right!” 1 snapped. “Now give me the fucking watch!” “Fuck no! You gave this to me and I didn’t kill ya ass!”

“You shot my sister!” 1 yelled.

“Twice!” 2 growled. “In the same spot!” “Well, I was letting you go and you threw a knife at me,” I shrugged.

“Enough fucking talking!” 1 hissed. “Hand over the watch. It was my dad’s favorite.”

“Hmm... No. Fuck you,” I dropped my hands.

“I mean it!” She shouted. “Or I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” I walked over to her. “Aside from killin’ niggas I also deal in weapons. You don’t think I know a paintball gun over an actual rifle?” She sucked her teeth and dropped it.

“Fine, whatever. I had to leave our weapons at the warehouse last night to get Ayana to the hospital,” she rolled her eyes. “Just... Please give me back the watch,” she begged. “Despite all the watches on the wall, that was the only one that belong to our dad...”

“Aight, I’ll give you back the watch, under one condition,” I smirked.

“Nigga, we are not having sex with you,” 2 crossed her arms.

“If it means getting the watch back, yes the fuck we are!” 1 glared at her.

“What the fuck? No! That’s not- Never mind,” I groaned. “I’ll give you back the watch if you agree to cut off whatever nigga you workin’ wit and work for me.”

“What?” They asked together.

“You serious?” 1 asked.

“Fuck yeah, I’m serious,” I nodded. “Y’all can fight. Plus we can use y’all for baiting niggas out.”

“He’s actually serious,” 2 gasped.

“How much money you make in a week?”

“I don’t know... 200 maybe 300 grand on a good week,” 1 shrugged.

“I once made 2 mil in one night,” I told them.

“Holy fuck!” 2 exclaimed. “2 million fucking dollars? Alyssa, do we even have to pretend to think about this?”

“Hell no!” 1 laughed extended he hand. “It’s a fucking deal!” I shook her hand and took the watch off my wrist giving it to her.

“We’re in business then,” I smirked. Then Yenai walked in, looking confused and scared.

“Um... What’s going on here?” She asked, warily.

“Nothing,” the three of us said in unison.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll pretend to believe that,” she rolled her eyes. “Girls I’m sorry, but I have really bad food poisoning and I can’t keep anything down. Erik can we go back upstairs?”

“Sure thing, baby girl,” I walked over and kiss her head. “Let’s go.”

***

I’ve had a weird feeling about Yenai since the day we had brunch with the twins. And it wasn’t just from her being sick. Like now, it was day 3 and she was STILL throwing up! She had to call in sick from work, which her boss eagerly gave her. Yenai guessed that she was still embarrassed from dinner the other night. That was the last real conversation me and Yenai had... THREE DAYS AGO! Everything else was all responses and simple questions. And when they weren’t responses or questions, they were bitchy remarks or constant nagging. I came from meeting with the Twins, whose names are apparently Ayana and Alyssa, and walked into the house.

“Baby, you home?” I called out. She walked out of the bathroom.

“Where else would I be, Erik?” She rolled her eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from replying rudely.

“The twins made you soup,” I offered putting the bowl on the counter. “They said it helps nausea.”

“You were down there again?” She scoffed. “You’ve literally been down to see them everyday since brunch!”

“Is that a problem?” I asked, folding my arms.

“If you previously hadn’t tried to fuck them then no, it wouldn’t be,” she snapped, taking the bowl of soup and throwing it in the trash.

“Yo, the FUCK is ya problem, Yenai?” I shouted as she retreated to the bedroom. I followed her and closed the door.

“My problem Erik, is that instead of staying here and making sure that I’M okay, you’re off galavanting with MY friends!” She shouted back.

“Well maybe I’d want to be around her more if you weren’t being such a bitch to me all the fuckin’ time!”

“Oh word?! I’m a bitch now? Riiiigggghhhhttttt! Copy!” She stormed into the closet and started grabbing her clothes off the hangers. I took a deep breath and leaned against the closet door.

“What are you doing?” I groaned.

“Since I’m such a fuckin’ bitch, there’s no use in me staying, right?” She shrugged, opening a duffle bag and stuffing the clothes in.

“So first of all, ya ass don’t got a place to go, so let’s cut that shit out aight?” I took the duffle from her. “Secondly, you gon just pack a bag and leave every time we get into an argument? You gon be doin’ a lot of packin’ and unpackin’ ma, I’ll tell you that.”

“Fuck you,” she spat pushing past me, going back into the bedroom. I grabbed her wrist. “Get the fuck off me.”

“Nah, you not goin’ nowhere till we deal with this shit, Yenai. I’m not bouta keep quiet everytime you snap at me or yell wit ya stank ass attitude. We gon sit down and talk like fuckin’ adults.”

“I have nothing to say-”

“The fuck you don’t!” I snorted. “You got allat mouth when I try to help you and now you got nothin’ to say. Nah.” I wrapped my arms around her. “Tell me what’s on ya mind, baby girl.”

“Get off me,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“No. Talk to me,” I insisted. She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “DId I do something wrong?”

“No,” she sniffled, letting tears fall. “You didn’t... I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch...”

“It’s aight... I’m not bouta force you to tell me what’s wrong, but we can’t keep goin’ like this, Yenai...” I sighed. “When you ready, you gon tell me right?” She shut her eyes and shook her head.

“I can’t! I can’t tell you!” She cried. “I’m scared...”

“Why can’t you tell me? What’s scaring you?” I asked cautiously. She kept shaking her head, sobbing.

“I can’t...”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

“Yenai-”

“No, Erik! Just stop! Please!”

“Baby, please talk to me-”

“Erik!’ “Why are you so scared?!”

“BECAUSE I THINK I’M PREGNANT, OKAY?!” She screamed. I heart stopped and my blood turned cold. “...I think I’m pregnant and I’m scared...” She whispered. “I’m so fucking scared...”

~~~

Tag List: @kzmiaz13 @marysxo @forbeautyandlife @blackandfair @imdiirtydan @theunsweetenedtruth @Maya-leche @fromthebaytola @jennxgold @supernovaah @hidden-treasures21 @shame-full-love @queenshxt-only @cutewylie @pupyluv247 @elegantd @namelesslosers @sociallyawkward18 @pandagirl200 @chelledallas @thatbish27 @janellemonaenae @blaq-gyal @ironsquad @godhatesyouandi @bigdaddythraxxx @cocooned-butterfly @someareblindtoitsbeauty @84eix @sincerelyroxxie @i-am-shee @thadelightfulone @depressed-little-shadow @vikkidc @keonaforever21 @keairadiamond @plushthighs @itsjustshanie @ovohanna24 @getyourfandomon (the rest is in the comment section)

300 notes · View notes

fordarkisthesuede · 6 years

Text

At the Brink of Midnight - Prologue & Chapter 1

Category: M/M

Rating: M (subject to change)

Fandoms: Batman: the Telltale Series, Batman - All Media Types

Summary:

When Bruce receives a distressing call from the institutionalized John Doe, the billionaire-philanthropist is thrust back into the darker side of Arkham Asylum, where his strive for the facility's improvements are null when faced with a new threat from the inside. Bruce swore off Batman after seeing what it did to those he loved - will he have to put the cowl back on to save the day? Or can he do it as Bruce Wayne?

(read on Ao3 or continue below cut:)

Prologue

[You have: (ONE) new message. First message: ]

Bruce! Buddy! Uh, it's me, John. I-I know you're busy - it's why you haven't come to see me in the past two weeks, probably.

Look, it's-it's okay, Bruce. I get it. It’s water under the bridge…okay? It has to be, because I... I need your help, Bruce.

Please... I need you to trust me on this.

BAM.

I don't have to time to explain-

"Damn it, ram the door!"

Dang it - Crane, Bruce, Jonathan Crane! I thought it was just the meds they put me on at first, but -

CRASH .

Gotta go.

[End of message. There are no more messages.]

Chapter 1: The Sign Forward

Important Spoiler Warning: use of slur - f*g (mentioned)

Bruce pulled the phone away from his ear, barely feeling the weight in his palm. The people walking down the hall - past him, towards him, down the corner - seemed to be moving at a snail's pace. There should be sound, from the footsteps on the tile and voices and doors swinging open somewhere, but it was like there was nothing at all in the world but Bruce's breathing and the whispering echo of John's voice in his ear, so close and yet so far away.

The transformation of John's voice from nervous to hurt to rushed and desperate chilled him in the same manner Bruce might discover a body floating in the Gotham River.

His phone buzzed, a reminder for the meeting he had in ten minutes sitting above the display for his voicemail, and sound came rushing back all at once.

The message had lasted thirty seconds, from an unsaved number that Bruce had a feeling registered to the old landline in the hallway of John's floor at Arkham. The echo of the bangs and crashes were probably from the orderlies trying to open the hallway door, which miraculously had gotten stuck - John probably locked it, probably caused a distraction in another room to get their attention for the precious seconds he had to dial and pass the message along, tell him to come help...

Bruce felt heat burn his stomach. He should have picked up when it rang, damn the fact that he'd been in the lavatory and damn the way it looked so like the auto-dialing spam he'd been getting for the past few months. He could have picked it up on the second ring, saved Joker some time -

No. Not Joker. John.

Joker was the vigilante, the persona hung up for good like the bat-cowl of the person he was modeled after.

Bruce felt a light pang in his side where the latest scar sat, a twinge that seemed to come and go at odd intervals. There he was, thinking about John like they were still working together in the cover of that warm night several months ago, where things had gone from good to bad to absolutely terrible, where Bruce had decided that the crusade had to stop. Their partnership had been like a dream, too fast and too short, a taste of something that, with time, could've been wondrous.

It was nothing more than a dream of a dream, now. Batman was retired, Joker with him, and now the both of them were trying desperately to get back to a normal life. John's would just take longer. A lot longer.

The air in the hall seemed stifling all of the sudden. Bruce walked as quickly as he could to his office, tempted to break into a run.

The office was cool and bright, but even as he shut the door behind him and let the air conditioning wash over him, the guilt and anger and worry that bubbled under his skin didn't fade. His eyes automatically went to the chessboard - one moved piece and he could just fire up Lucius' old computer, slip right back into the old ways and try and get one of Tiffany's drones over the asylum as he dug into Arkham's files...

Bruce shook his head.

John needed his help. It just couldn't be Batman that helped him. Bruce was an ordinary civilian now - well, a civilian with more money than was sensible and an unusual drive to fix the city's problems in any way he could, but a civilian nonetheless. He could still look into Arkham, into this Johnathan Crane, before things escalated out of hand.

Bruce tried to concentrate on his breathing. John was intelligent and surprisingly strong; even if he was put into isolation as punishment, John would be alright. He hadn't been hurting himself or causing trouble for a couple of months, anyhow...

Bruce paused, staring at the vent on the ceiling. He had tried to see John every Wednesday at the very least, but two weeks ago he was told that John didn't want any visitors, and Bruce had regretfully let it slide, thinking that their argument a few days prior still weighed on his mind. (It wasn’t improbable, what with his tendency to hold grudges, but it had seemed strange.) Last week John had twice been put under observation for some kind of medical testing, and thus was not allowed to be seen under any circumstances, despite the drastically different times Bruce had shown up.

Each time, though, Bruce was under the impression that John would at least be told about his attempted visits. The young doctor-in-training from last time had given him a sympathetic smile and said as much herself, along with a clumsy attempt at flirtation Bruce had played along with for his image's sake.

The thought that John had been left hurt worse than before because of a misunderstanding like that didn't sit well with Bruce. It made him feel like he’d been hit with a burning punch.

His phone buzzed at him, and Bruce glanced down at the calendar notification with annoyance. It was tempting to blow the meeting off, just make up some excuse and head home so he could start digging as much as his civilian identity would allow, maybe make a phone call to Arkham and see if he could get a word out to John under the guise of looking into the progress on the asylum's improvements he was sponsoring.

He breathed deeply, going back into the hall and telling himself that John would be alright for a little while longer - Wayne Enterprises came first in the day, regardless of whether or not a cowl was involved.

Bruce apologized for his tardiness and sat at the too-long table with the rest of the board, his phone practically burning a hole in his pocket as he tried desperately not to think about flipping the table and running out the door like he was giving chase in amongst the humid smog of Gotham's nights.

As per John's voicemail (which Bruce thought he must have listened to half a dozen times), any spare moment Bruce had at Wayne Tower was spent looking up Jonathan Crane. There was no telling who was trying to keep tabs on his phone, so he resorted to double-hopping on his VPN in a private window.

There were a few Jonathan Cranes in the state, spelling considerations included, but only two stood out - one was several cities away, working as the head of a generic-replacement pharmaceutical company, and the other was working right in Gotham, a former professor of psychology at Gotham University who was added on to the Arkham payroll not long after the incident with Lady Arkham.

While the pharmacist had several photos on the company website and a seemingly normal (if seldom used) Friendbook page and several mentions on the company's Chirper, Professor Crane had no social media accounts whatsoever and only two photos, one of which was a tiny faculty photo obviously used on his university I.D. However, he did have several published articles in psychology journals, the last three dealing with the subjects of treating fear and anxiety and how it manifested, the last two of which had rebuttal articles from other doctors listed.

At least some of his courses were listed on RateTheProf, and while many of the higher-rating students listed him as incredibly knowledgeable, they and the lower-rating students warned about his seemingly abrasive personality from over the years:

(*) queenofdiamonds

creepy know-it-all fag kept giving me ds and didn't allow me to do the extra credit!! he likes ds so much??? he can eat my DICK!!!!

(***) vintage-or-die

I swear his office hours are ridiculously tight. Make sure to arrive to class on time and take REALLY good notes - I missed a day I regretted it ever since, he gets the point across so well that the only way you can really copy it down for yourself is to hear it firsthand... Seriously, record the lectures if you suck at writing, it'll save your life.

(*) BigD@ddyy

Fucker put down my final paper so hard i think it broke my ribs. He thinks he knows everything, he doesn't take two words against anything he talks about. I don't know why GU keeps his emotionless scrawny ass.

(****) itty bitty pumpkin pie

Great teacher, but not very personable; he doesn't talk much out of lectures. Make sure to ask before using your phone to record lectures, he'll kick you out if you don't. Also I SWEAR he uses a cell blocker, I can't get any tower or wifi signal in his classes even if we change rooms...

(****) dank memes only

He kicked me out for taking a picture of him once. He's lucky he's such a smart silver fox or I might have quit right there. Learned loads tho.

(*****) dr. psychosubb

Amazing. He gave me a C on my final but his comments on it were so good I can't be mad, I learned so much!! Also if you like hot stern daddys that's a big plus. Hard to hate a face like that!!

(*****) the-night-falls-hard

Seriously the best teacher I ever had. Pay attention and you'll feel like you could take on anything.

Bruce breathed through his nostrils. Professor Crane was critical, solitary, and stubborn, but he clearly left an impression on those who he came into contact with.

While there wasn't many mentions of the professor in news, he managed to find a letter to the editor in the last psychology journal that Professor Crane contributed an article to, aimed at the rebuttal to his last paper - and Bruce figured by the language that it was Crane lashing back:

My Dear Editors,

I'm surprised that such an acclaimed journal of psychology would sink so low as to publish the distasteful words of the so-called Dr. Strange. His work - if you can even call it that - is pure fantastical speculation when it is organized enough to be decipherable. Not only does he genuinely believe in the concept of telepathy, but he is under the childish delusion that he can devise a way to see thoughts put into visual form as if it were something to be filmed. Tell me: do you think someone with such an obvious deficiency of realistic thought could provide any kind of counter-argument to any sane research? I don't believe he's sound enough to comment correctly on the weather.

If you continue on with publishing the work of people who earned their doctorates by shelling out thousands of dollars to a fly-by-night online institution, you will lose more than just subscribers with half a brain more than you.

Regards,

A Competent Doctor

Bruce read over the last paragraph twice: it could be read as either a warning or a legitimate threat, and it was impossible to tell which one it was without even knowing what it was that John suspected Crane of doing. But considering the rebuttal in question was published over a year ago and the editor at the time was still in alive and in charge, at least Bruce could say that Crane didn't have that murder in mind. Dr. Strange, however, had no other work published since, either in Psychology Now or any other reputable magazine.

Naturally, he could find nothing on the current work of the former-Professor Crane in Arkham. That would require a hack of the asylum's systems, and even though Bruce knew Tiffany would be up to the task, he decided against it. He knew it would tempt him to go back to his old habits, and that was strictly a no-go.

He'd have to pay Arkham a visit, see what he could figure out from the inside - and hopefully, talk to John.

A/N: Here we are, just as I promised! I got super into TellTale’s Batman universe last year, and like many fans, S2E05 hurt so bad and so so good that I immediately wanted more. Before I knew it I was already crafting a potential season 3 storyline! I’ll try to update this weekly, since I already have a lot done and I can’t stop thinking about it! (ღ✪ｖ✪)｡o○

Also I seriously try to put any trigger/squick warnings in the front of chapters. If you need something tagged, please say so!

If you’d like to give kudos or comment (or just read all the story’s tags), my ao3 is here, but I really appreciate feedback in any form!

37 notes · View notes

prettyfunkyunorganized · 6 years

Text

Batman’s Daughter (word vomit)

Sooooo. This was for fun. And now I’m at 36 mother-lovin’ pages. What the balls. How did this happen? I - I don’t understand. Anywho, have the first 3,000ish words. Totally unedited so *shrug emoji* Hope you dig it. Btw, I have never tried to write crime shit before so I’m just flying by the seat of my pants.

Bruce glanced over the barrage of papers before him as Lucius prattled on about the results of all his testing on the bomb. Or, at least, what was left of it. While Lucius was a great many good and useful things, he was also rather longwinded. All the details he was spewing were probably crucial to him, Bruce only needed one word to understand.

Nothing.

Lucius had found nothing. If there was another explosive out there like this one, there was no known way to stop it.

“Do we have anything to go on? Anything at all,” Bruce asked gruffly, cutting his associate off.

“Well,” the aging man said hesitantly, “there is one thing. Most of the components in the timing and firing mechanisms are Wayne technology.”

“Of course,” Bruce hissed with an aggravated sigh, “another criminal trying to use my business against me.”

“It’s more than that,” Lucius said. “These are patents we have kept to ourselves – high-end technology, prototypes, cornerstone products.”

“Which cornerstone products,” Bruce asked with a deep frown. Mechanisms like that were the foundations of larger, more complex machines. Expensive ones. Dangerous ones. Oftentimes ones he himself had had a hand in creating. If something the Wayne Enterprises CEO had built was now taking lives . . . Again . . .

“An old one. One we bought a while ago,” Lucius explained, adjusting his glasses as he looked at his notes.

“Bought?”

“Yes, one of the many we’ve procured over the years to stay on top.” A thin smile crossed Lucius’s lip. “Other people have good ideas too, Bruce. This one, in particular, is a power source. A favorite of mine, in fact. Many of your ‘personal’ gadgets use it.”

“One of your favorite things in this company was invented by someone not on payroll?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not a vain man, but I am appreciative.”

“Huh,” Bruce said with an amused nod. “Is the man hired now, at least? Sounds like a good find.”

“I’m afraid not,” Lucius said awkwardly adjusting his collar, “and she’s not interested. I already tried to recruit her, but, um, she’s not really a fan of us.”

“Us being . . . “ Bruce said leadingly.

“Of Wayne Enterprises.”

Bruce snorted and rolled his eyes. “What, thought she should have got a better price for her patent?”

“Honestly she probably should have,” Lucius shrugged, “but she wouldn’t speak to me long enough to explain why she hates your name so fiercely. I’m hoping you will have better luck.”

“You want me to talk to her,” Bruce asked doubtfully. “The guy whose name is on the top of the building?”

“It might help if you go to her with the other suit on,” Lucius said handing Bruce one last, small piece of paper with an address written on it. “And please, do try to be cordial. She’s just a civilian – a young one, too. Filled with a lot of bitterness, it seems.”

“Oh fun,” Bruce grumbled, “a moody teenager, just how I wanted to spend my evening.”

“If we get this girl on board to help us, hopefully, she can help us determine how the bomb was made and find a way to get a handle on it.”

“Maybe she’s the one who made it,” Bruce said thoughtfully, “that would sure save a lot of time.”

“Oh,” Lucius said as his head jerking his head back a bit in surprise, “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

Bruce chuckled, “Either way, I’ll see what I can do. What’s her name, this kid who made your favorite battery?”

“Beatrice Sampson,” Lucius said, and Bruce headed to the door, “and keep me in the loop.”

“I will,” Bruce said with a half wave behind him.

“And like I said – try to be nice,” Lucius called, only somewhat jokingly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce smirked, “but God knows kids aren’t my strong suit.”

An hour later there was a massive figure looming in the dark outside a young woman’s apartment, staring at her through the enhancements in his mask. An itty bitty home with a short little girl staring out the window absently. By all appearances she seemed . . . boring. Utterly normal.

“Probably not our bomb maker then,” Bruce huffed.

“I’m not sure if that disappointed tone is appropriate,” Alfred’s gently scolding tone chimed in.

Bruce stood and stretched the pending soreness from his limbs. It was starting to settle in faster these days, no matter how many supplements he took with his morning coffee. He sighed and pushed these thoughts away. Getting old would have to wait.

“I know,” Bruce said softly, “but is it too much ask for one easy case? I had things I needed to do tonight.”

“Oh, like hiding in the bat cave on your computer and binge eating that tub of potato salad in the mini fridge,” Alfred said in a knowing, teasing tone.

“Careful there,” Bruce snarked with a grin, “I still sign your paychecks.”

“And I still keep this place running for you. If anyone in this world has job security it's me,” Alfred laughed.

“Alright fine,” Bruce said firing his grappling hook at the fire escape, “I’ll admit it, you’re right – I was planning a quiet night, but here I thought you might be proud.”

“I am,” Alfred barked quickly, “any time you take to relax is good in my book, but please don’t lash out at a young woman because your night off was postponed. It looks like Miss Beatrice hasn’t had it easy the past few years.”

“What else did you find out,” Bruce asked, all business again.

“Not much. I’m beginning to think she’s using a pseudonym. There are multiple women with that name, but none that match the description of the one in question. Records of a ‘Beatrice Sampson’ have been registered a few times in the past few years for housing in increasingly, ahem, unattractive locations. It appears she has no family and the first records of her come up not long after she turned eighteen. I would be willing to bet that she has been cast out or orphaned and changed her name after.”

“Good to know,” he nodded. “Let me know if you find anything else, I’m going to approach.”

“Will do, and you do the same.”

With that, there was a whoosh of movement that no one without a highly trained eye would see and an almost impossibly soft tap on the metal fire escape. At least he was still light on his feet. Bruce peered inside one more time to see Beatrice stirring her mug with a blank look. From here he could see the sparse furnishings and minimal decorations. There were what appeared to be some electronic parts and diagrams nearby, but nothing overly incriminating. Yet. He’d seen a lot of criminals in his time and Bruce felt as if he could pick them out of a lineup.

This girl. She wasn’t the one he was looking for. Too easy to find, too transparent, too lazy. Maybe she might be involved, but she wouldn’t be the ‘mastermind.’ The kid had a listed address, her curtains open, and wasn’t toiling away on anything in particular. People trying to blow up city blocks rarely had free time.

Bruce moved from the shadows, but the girl still didn’t look up. She looked tired. Nice thing about the batmask, no one could see the bags under your eyes. He tapped on the window softly and Beatrice jumped, eyes going wide as she saw him.

She scuttled to the window and struggled a moment to get it open. “What the actual fuck,” she hissed, poking her head out the window.

“That’s not the response I usually get,” Bruce rumbled out in his low voice.

“Uh,” she said with a series of confused blinks, “sorry? Should I be excited that a masked man in creepin’ on my balcony in the middle of the night?” Her tone was mostly sass with a tinge of wavering fear. A lot of women sounded like that when they saw Bruce like this. That or romantic. It was hard to choose which one was more awkward for him.

“Did you sell a patent to Wayne Enterprises,” he asked roughly, wanting to get this conversation over with quickly.

Her face soured and eyes pinched. “Say that name in my house again, and I’ll get real fucking nasty.”

Admittedly, that took him off guard. Lots of people hated the Wayne name – ‘you pushed out my father’s small business,’ ‘any corporation that big has to be evil,’ – that sort of thing, but the amount of venom in her voice? It was borderline shocking. Something must have happened with her and the company. He’d look into it later and decide if a payout or something of the like was warranted.

Or maybe she was just pissy. But that wasn’t the concern. A bomb had claimed dozens of innocent lives and another attack was more likely than not. Angry Little Miss Sampson could wait.

“I need to know,” Bruce said taking a step toward her. Beatrice recoiled just enough to be noticeable.

“Fine,” she murmured softly, “but say that name again and it won’t be pretty.” She wandered over to the door and opened it for him, standing at her full height of few inches over five foot and glared at the Batman like he was a common thug. She was not intimidating, more like amusing. It was a challenge not to smile at her unruly curls and ruffled pajamas as she tried to look tough.

Then he saw the switchblade in her hand.

“Do you really think threatening a man like me is a good idea,” he growled.

“Calm your tits, Batboy, it’s not a threat. Yet,” she said holding the knife in a practiced way. Decent form, too. “But, just so you know, say that dickweasel’s name again and I’m coming at you. I was raised by an empowered single woman in the ugly streets of Gotham. I was in the shitty public school system, fought with all kinds of assholes, and even did a stint in Arkham Asylum itself. I know you fight some pretty hot-shot guys, but I’m betting I can get in a good stab or two on that well-hidden voice of yours.”

“How is that not a threat,” he reeled. Who the hell was this kid and what gave her this ridiculous confidence?

Young rebellion, how bold. And stupid.

Bruce clenched his jaw and approached the door as Beatrice put away the switchblade. “The patent, was it for a power source?”

“Yep,” she said with an air of sadness, “but I don’t know why you’re bothering to come to me. Like you said, I sold it. I’ve had nothing to do with that baby for years now.”

“It was used as a bomb part in the recent manufacturing company fire,” Bruce said bluntly.

She stopped dead and looked back at him with a terrified expression. “Dear God,” she whispered. “I didn’t know . . .”

He believer her. All that crassness had boiled away, leaving tepidness in its place, but soon she began to frown.

“Wait,” she said rubbing her face, “how? The whole reason that company was scrambling for my engine was because it was safe. ‘The most stable little generator they’d ever seen.’ I designed it that way. That was really important to me. I refused to call it done until I was one hundred percent sure that little guy wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“So you don’t know how it could be used to cause damage like that? Enough to blow up several blocks?”

“No, I don’t, I swear,” she huffed, squishing in her puffy cheeks. The fear in her eyes was convincing. It was the same expression Bruce had made the first time Wayne tech had ended up costing someone their life.

“Could you figure it out, if given the remnants of the device,” he asked without really thinking. He shouldn’t give her the opportunity to look at classified material like that, but shit.

He was damn near out of options.

“I mean maybe,” she shrugged, sitting down at her tiny kitchen table, “but it would depend a lot on how much of the device is left and how many components are involved. Even in a best-case scenario, it would probably take a while. As you might be able to tell, I don’t exactly have a great setup right now.” The young woman gestured to her messy countertop littered with tools of all kinds surrounding a mass of wires and metal. “If you really want to get somewhere you should try that asshat’s company,” she grunted.

“’Asshat?’ You mean Bruce – ”

“Don’t,” she snapped, giving him that nasty glare, “but yeah, that’s who I mean.”

“He isn’t involved,” Brue said as a bit of anger rose up in him.

Beatrice scoffed. “How on Earth could you be sure of that? And if not him, someone in that big, shiny, dick-shaped building probably has something to do with it.”

This fucking kid was too much. Bruce hadn’t slept well in ages, and his temper was fried. “Is there a reason you hate Bruce Wayne so much?”

She bit her lip at his name and cracked a few knuckles, but didn’t get up. “Yes, there is, but I will not go into it. Just know I got my reasons.”

“Be that as it may, people are dying, and you are the best chance of stopping something like this from happening again, so you’re going to have to get over it.”

“What about – ” she sputtered.

“Wayne Enterprises isn’t involved,” Bruce said with finality.

“You have any evidence to support that claim or do you just have friends in high places,” Beatrice snarked in an accusatory manner.

He stomped over to the girl in an overly loud way to get his point across. She didn’t shrink away this time. “There are lives at stake here, so I need you to take this seriously,” he seethed.

“What part of pointing out a suspect is not taking this seriously,” she said standing and squaring her shoulders. The line between bravery and stupidity was blurring, and his patience was dwindling.

Not that he was going to start smacking her around or anything. Even if his fist was twitching.

“Wayne Enterprises is not involved,” he said darkly, “I can guarantee that.”

Beatrice smiled wickedly. “Friends in high places it is. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised the guy who hides his identity is crooked. It is Gotham, after all.” She walked away from him and grabbed a hair tie. “’Fraid I can’t help you, Batboy. I didn’t have anything to do with any bombing, you aren’t taking my advice to scope out the more probable bad guys’ place, and all my records are intact. I’ve got nothing for you.” The thin strip of elastic snapped as it wrapped around her massive head of curl and went flying. “Damnit!”

“Records,” Bruce frowned, “what records?”

“Of my work on the Ticker. I kept all my notes and whatnot,” she explained.

“You’re sure? A break in could have happened, and you hadn’t noticed – ”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed a piled of papers below her mug. “I’m sure. Pulled ‘em out a couple of hours to . . . reflect?”

“Reflect,” he asked skeptically. She was digging herself into a hole here.

The young woman tucked her hair behind her ear. “My mom wrote cutesy little words of encouragement on most of the papers. I’ve been needing some reassurance lately.”

Back home there was a photo of Bruce and his parents he’d look to for support, no matter how fleeting it might be.

“Everything is accounted for,” he asked, a bit kinder this time.

“Yes.”

“Where’s your mother now?”

“Dead. For a few years now.”

“Wayne isn’t involved, his company is helping to find those responsible,” Bruce stated firmly, using all of his commanding presence.

“Wouldn’t that be a lovely cover,” she replied with a dark, rough tone all her own. This little lady was oddly . . . creepy? Yeah. Creepy.

“Fine,” he relented, “someone in the company could be involved, but whoever is responsible will be brought to justice no matter who they are or who they are with. Now, will you help me or not?”

The two of them had something of a stare down eventually ending with Beatrice letting out a long groan.

“Alright, alright! I’ll do what I can, but like I said, that might not be much,” she huffed. “I can take a look at whatever scrap you’ve got, but I can’t promise anything.”

Bruce turned on his heel and slipped out the back door again saying, “Be at Wayne Enterprises tomorrow morning, 8 am. That’s where the bomb parts are. I’ll make sure they let you in. Tell them someone called asking you to help and you’re just reporting in.”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me,” she snarled, chasing after him. “I did not agree to that!”

The grappling hook came out again, and he was gone, a furious scream coming after him: “You asshole!”

She’d get over it.

Hopefully.

No matter what, it was going to be damn awkward to see her in the lab the next morning and pretend he didn’t know all about her hatred of him. With any luck, the whole situation could be avoided.

But deep down Bruce knew he didn’t have that kind of luck.

@collinssie @watch-your-grammer

#batman #beatrice #my drabble #batman drabble #mine #word vomit

5 notes · View notes

glass-ladybug · 7 years

Text

all the exposition of the vamp au

Sophomore year /sucked/. Everyone was on Mae to 'make plans', 'grow up', and 'turn in her assignments on time'. Whatever. That was utter bullcrap. School didn't hold any interest for her anymore, and she couldn't really remember a time when it had. Well, first-grade was pretty nice. Macaroni art pictures and all that. Everyone being friends, and that one kid who ate a leaf and got sick. Ahh, yeah. Good memories. Mae pondered on the thought for a moment. Maybe school would be better with more friends? Well she had Lori M., ((is ., right?))of course. And Selmers! Always Selmers. But, Lori was eleven-turning twelve in February, as she liked to remind Mae- and all Mae did with Selmers was write awful ((CHANGE MAYBE?)) poems. Yeah, they hung out, but they weren't really... BFF's or anything. Who /cared/ if she put in effort, anyway? She didn't. Yeah, her mom and dad wanted her to go to college, but for what? What was the point? There wasn't anything she wanted to do. No job that called out to her, no big dream to live up to. Just Possum Springs. Mae shoved her beat up text books into her locker, leaving it open behind her as she walked away. Thinking was a chore. School was a chore. Anything other than eating and sleeping was a /chore/. She hefted her bag onto her hip, dragging her feet behind her. Science class was up next. Well, Mr. Chazokov had taken to calling her his 'best worst student', so, even though she hated the class, she had /that/ accomplishment to dwell on. Absently clutching her bag, Mae flung open the door to come face to face with a girl. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a rather frightening expression. Mae looked at her, tilting her head slightly as she studied the girl's face. What was her name? Bella? Brooke? Breanna? Something to that extent. The girl scowled at her impatiently, as if expecting something. Ah! Wait! /Bea/. The girl spoke through gritted teeth. "Are you gonna get out of the way or not?" "Huh? I-, wait, uh-" Mae's muddled brain foggily rose to attention as it attempted to comprehend the words, only dimly processing the situation. Bea pushed past her roughly, her shoulder jabbing Mae in the arm as she disappeared down the hallway at a brisk pace. Mae, still unable to focus on the world around her, took a hesitant step into the classroom, nearly sinking into her chair as she tossed her backpack to the floor. Mr. Chazokov ran a hand through his rapidly graying hair, before giving an audible sigh. He spoke calmly, but the underlying tension was obvious to everyone but Mae. "Beatrice has just received some.... unfortunate news. She likely has no ill will towards you, Miss Borowski, so I hope you do not hold a grudge." Mae nodded vaguely, indifferent to the world around her. Everything was gray. Gray, gray, gray, like the color of the sky on a rainy day, the flash of steel on a knife, and the bitter look in Beatrice's eyes. She didn't like the gray. Mr. Chazokov rattled on, using a marker to illustrate the topic, and point at the important parts. Mae found herself focusing on his lips as she tried to decipher the slew of words he was spewing. All the sound in the room faded to a dull pulse, beating loudly in her head. It pounded on, and Mae's eyes began to slip out of focus as all the objects around her took the form of shattered glass, fragments of what were once people, or chairs, or desks becoming itty bitty particles. Everything around her was inhuman, and terrifying. A heap of broken parts. Mae was alone. Alone with the shapes. The smashing in her head increased in volume, and it took all of her draining willpower to not scream. How did the masses of shapes not react? Why weren't they in pain like she was? Wait. A /new/ noise had joined in. Mae lifted her head from her hands slowly, her knuckles turning white from the stress, bursts of agonizing pain exploding in her head. The noise was gibberish, but felt oddly familiar. Every sound was muffled, as if she'd been shoved underwater and held down. Mae's body crumpled under the assault of noise and shapes. /Mae/. The sound whispered. /Mae./ She didn't respond. She didn't have the energy to. /Mae./ The voice increased in volume, and bits and pieces of the shapes flung together, almost forming a tangible object. "Mae!" The voice yelled, and Mae blinked widely to see the concerned face of.... Selmers? The racket had dulled to a faint pulsing, like that of a heartbeat. Selmers put a hand on Mae's shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. "Alright, uhh, shit. Do you know what happened?" Mae gave a blank stare in response. Selmers shifted slightly, her heavy lidded eyes filled with concern as she stared at her friend. Mae felt limp, and drained. "Okay, apparently not. Think you can stand?" Mae cocked her head to the right, fumbling to find the words that sat dully on her tongue. "You... You're not in this class?" At least Mae didn't think she was. She couldn't really remember right now. Selmers sighed, breathing though her nose. "No, sweetie, I'm not. C'mon, stand up." Her voice was strained, and overly patient. Mae wondered if she'd done something wrong. Selmers lifted her by the arm, holding the dazed girl to her side. Mr. Chazokov held up a hand. "Girls, wai-" Selmers quirked an eyebrow slightly. "She needs help. We'll be back. Or we might not be. I'll let you know." Obviously not wanting to fight out the situation with the bulky, stubborn girl, Mr. Chazokov relented, waving them out the door. "Get well soon?" A kid in the back feebly offered, his voice wavering with confusion. --------- "So." Selmers said, her legs kicked up on the plush chair Mae was lying in. "Did I scream?" Mae asked, scooting forward. "Yeah, a little bit. I only came in at the end, so I dunno." "Oh. Cool. Why were you in there?" "Turning stuff in." "Oh." Mae leaned back, sinking into the plump cushions. "How's your head?" "Eh. Could be worse." Mae glanced around the nurse's office, the vibrating in her head a constant force. The room smelled distinctly of disinfectant and lemon pledge, the lights far too bright against the chipped white walls. It consisted of a refrigerator with a few ice packs, the torn and frayed leather chair Mae was sitting in, and garish 'Get-Well-Soon' posters lining the walls. Budget-cuts. Possum Springs didn't have a whole lot of money, but hey, at least the football team had /brand-new uniforms/! Mae wanted to kick the ass of every council member. "Then again," Mae said, "it could definitely be better." "Would a poem help?" "I dunno, man. Sure." Selmers cleared her throat, and began to recite from her notebook. ((IDK throw a poem here when u think of one. sunrise vs sunset or smth)) "Niiiice." Stretching, Selmers lifted herself up. "You should go home." The buzzing noise decreased in volume, and Mae closed her eyes. "Yeah. Probably." Selmers wavered, walking out the door hesitantly. "I'll see you tomorrow." Mae shut her eyes a little more forcefully. "See ya, Selma." And with that, Mae was left alone in the decrepit, sorry excuse for a room. ---------- "Mom, really. I'm /fine/." Mae groaned, tossing her bag to the side. Mae's mother looked harrowed, pursing her lips. "Sweetie, I know high school is difficult to get used to-" Mae shot her an irritated glance. "I was just feeling sick. It's, like, a 24-hour bug or something. I'm all better now, see?" She stood up a little straighter, plastering on a false smile in order to placate her mother's fears. Being back home had lessened the potency of the noise- after a few hours, it was nearly unnoticeable, yet she was still a bit shaken. The attacks had occurred before, but this was the most severe of them all. Whoever had chosen to call them 'attacks' should be given a medal. That's exactly what they were: attacks. A war inside her head, where her both parts were violently beating each other. Some days it was hard to tell who was winning. That still didn't mean she wanted to be stuck inside, though. "I'm gonna go hang at the library. Get some stuff done." She wasn't. Mae had the full intention of sitting up on some poor sap's roof, and flinging stones at passing cars and bikes. Fighting a losing battle, Mrs. Borowski set a plate down at the table. "Alright, hon. I'll drop you off. It's too cold to walk." "Mom, you don't-" Mae's mother leveled a stare at her daughter, before grabbing her car keys off the table. Sighing audibly, Mae obliged to follow. She could just walk somewhere, anyways. ---- Possum Springs' weather was cool, and crisp. Late November was filled with crisp leaves, the prickling of cold wind, and the foreboding knowledge that there would soon be frost on the ground. The Historical Society building loomed over the boxy little houses of the town, built with crumbling brick and mortar, weathered with age. Its roof had become a nesting place for crows, and its three floors held shelves upon shelves of dusty books. Mae trudged up the stairs, grunting as she yanked open the bulky wooden doors that led into the library. The inside of the library felt as if it was under a spell. The entire room was swathed in a deep blue light, columns and walls painted with constellations and stars, giving the area an ethereal feeling, like a dream. A plump man sat at the counter, fiddling with a stack of library cards. "Anything I can help you with?" "Just looking." Mae's eyes drifted over the selections of books, wondering why she'd come in anyway. Suddenly, the heavy oaken doors flew open forcefully, and a gust of wind fluttered the papers on the secretary's desk. A tiny figure, scrawny and small burst through the entranceway. The man gave out a rather forceful glare. Lori M. gasped, shocked, and guiltily sprinted to Mae's side, making her footfalls as light as possible to avoid further attention. "Hi -huff**huff*-Mae!" She whispered, exuding excitement. The eleven year old's mousy brown hair bounced in a fluffy flurry around her, and she tucked the dull strands behind her ear. The kid was bundled up, wrapped in a downy maroon sweatshirt and scarf. "Hey. Outta class already?" Lori looked at Mae quizzically, tilting her head. "It's 4 pm, Mae." "Ah. Right. So, what are you here for?" "Need a book for school. Also, your mom said you were here!" She beamed widely. "Cool, cool. What are you gonna get?" Lori's eyes illuminated happily, and she latched on to Mae's arm. "You already know." Lori was right. Mae probably did know. The kid was an aspiring horror movie director, and could pull off an excellent blood-curdling shriek, as she had demonstrated many times before. Odds were she was picking out a book on fake blood, or something. Lori pulled the older girl down a series of twists and turns, maneuvering her way between shelves as she came to a stop in front of a dilapidated array of books, each worn and musty to a varying degree. Lori knelt down, patting the spot next to her on the carpet. "These are my favorites. The Witch Trials of Salem, the History of Horror, Dracula..." "Are these, like, the Harfest reject books?" "Oh, /ha-ha ./ They're classic literature!" "Whatever, kid." Lori affectionately traced a finger over one's cover, musing through her selection. "Why don't you get something?" "I'm not that big of a reader." Lori looked aghast. "But it's /horror/! How can you /not/ want to read books abut gore and dead people?" "...Good point." Mae sat down next to her friend, scanning the variety of aging books, most of them in poor condition. It didn't look they'd be cleaned or taken care of in several years. They must not have gotten checked out very often. Lori seemed happy with her selection, entitled: 'Frankenstein: Man, not Monster'. Mae ran her hands across the books, before, suddenly, her fingers met empty space. Where another book should've been, there was a thin, tight gap between the last book and the woodwork. "There's something.... missing." Lori frowned, not looking up from her book. "Well, it's a library. People are allowed to check things out." Mae nodded uncertainly, pushing her fingers gently into the dark space. "Yeah, I guess." In the tiny, cramped gap between the books and the wall, Mae's fingers brushed against something. Between the slats of wood, there was a hollow only slightly bigger than her hand, as if someone had just scooped out the wood, leaving an indent several inches deep. Shoving the books beside her against the opposite wall, she wedged her hand in further, searching for whatever it was the space held. Her fingertips met a flat surface, cracked, and papery. Mae groped around in an attempt to pull it out. It didn't budge. "Lori," She said tenatively, "help me get this out of here." Hesitantly, the girl pulled her eyes away from the printed pages. "Get what-" Mae grabbed a few books, tossing them to Lori. "Here." She continued to yank away stacks without care, and Lori nervously fought to organize them. "Uhhh, Mae, *huff**huff, can we really-" "Got it!" Mae murmured happily, dislodging the object from the books and wood, pulling it onto her lap. "It's a book..." Lori sighed wearily. "A /hidden/ book!" Mae protested. Inside, she felt a little disappointed. The stout, withered old book was unassuming, its cover bound in old, hardened leather, and any type that may have once embellished it had long worn away. She flipped it over. "There's no barcode. Do you think I can check it out?" Lori shifted from side to side. "Uhh. Maybe?" Mae had a feeling that whoever had stuffed the book back there probably didn't want it found, though why they hadn't hidden it better was beyond her. She figured that if taken to the front desk, she'd never see the it again. So she tucked the book under her jacket, nestling it against her side. "Sorry for ruining your shelf." "Oh. Uh. It's okay?" Lori said, tenderly sliding the books back into position. "See ya tomorrow." Mae said guiltily. "See ya!" Lori smiled. Mae stood up, making sure to clamp the little book to her side as she surreptitiously walked out of the building, and into the cold afternoon. --------------

2 notes · View notes