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✮ there will be dark themes, dead dove do not eat, so be warned but everything will be tagged
about .ᐟ
hi loves! call me rika or angel!! this blog was an archive of some old writings but i've come back to write for my new favourites. i missed writing so much. i do my best to write well and i hope others can find comfort or happiness in whatever i do write :3. hopefully i've gotten better in the years that have passed hehe. please read the full post for my rules and important links, feel free to come to my inbox with any conversations, i'm happy to respond thank you for reading. ദ്ദി˶˃ ᵕ ˂ )✧
- i write for characters x reader! click rules for more info
i promise im still alive guys!! working on trying to release multiple chapters for both my stories— much harder than i thought— but alas it must be done. luv you guys !!!! thank you for your patience...
Not the clean, empty quiet Batman brings when he drops into a room and fear evacuates the air, but something softer, wrong—alleys that stop dripping, rats that freeze mid-scuttle, thugs who hesitate because they swear they just heard something move behind them where nothing should be.
Then the Batfamily sees you.
You are unassuming in the way people who survive impossible things often are too calm, shoulders never quite slumped no matter how heavy your bag looks, fingers always doing something small and specific as if you’re counting beats no one else can hear.
And trailing behind you, spaced out with deliberate care, are the dolls.
Porcelain skin kissed with fine cracks like spiderwebs. Glass eyes in shades of blue and brown and one unsettling gray that seems to change under light. Carefully stitched clothing—outfits too practical to be decorative, reinforced at the seams, sewn for motion rather than play.
Dick laughs at first, because Dick laughs when tension spikes, and says something about haunted doll movies right before Damian stiffens like a drawn blade.
Because the dolls are holding formation.
Not wobbling. Not swaying. Balanced perfectly on uneven Gotham concrete, their shadows slightly out of sync with the streetlight behind them.
You lift your head, eyes flicking over the Batfamily with a glance that is neither wary nor impressed, and say, very simply,
“They help me see what you can’t.”
Your fingers twitch.
Every single doll turns its head at once.
Bruce doesn’t move, but something settles unpleasantly in his chest not fear, exactly, but recognition. The same instinct that tells him when a weapon has decided what it is for.
୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧
They follow you into patrols after that, reluctantly at first, Tim’s objections stacked neatly against Steph’s curiosity and Jason’s amused indifference.
The first night test run is meant to be controlled.
It isn’t.
A weapons deal spills into an alley, thugs fanning out too quickly, numbers miscounted, and Bruce opens his mouth to adjust the plan when you lift two fingers instead.
The dolls scatter.
Not running—placing themselves. One climbs with smooth, unnatural precision, perching upside-down on a fire escape rail. One drags itself into view in the open, shoes scraping just loud enough to draw attention. Another disappears entirely.
You don’t bark orders. You don’t gesture wildly.
You conduct.
A flex of the wrist and a thug trips, screaming as his ankle buckles under invisible pressure. A snap of two fingers and a gun skitters out of reach, kicked away by a porcelain shoe that shouldn’t have the leverage to do that.
Jason stares, mid-reload, watching a doll vault off a wall and land cleanly behind a man twice its height.
“…that’s messed up,” he mutters, awed.
Then, quieter, “I like it.”
The fight ends without fatalities, bruises blooming where pressure points were struck with perfect anatomical knowledge, and the dolls return to you, reforming their circle without instruction.
Dick exhales shakily.
“They—uh. They always do that?”
You nod once.
“They don’t like loose ends.”
୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧
Tim tries to understand them.
Thermal scans show nothing. No motors. No consistent heat signature. Audio picks up faint sounds—ceramic clicking that doesn’t match observed movement, something like breath that never resolves into a waveform.
He reaches out once, absentminded, toward a doll seated on a worktable.
The head snaps toward him with a sharp click.
The doll’s smile widens... not much. Just enough.
Your voice cuts through the air, calm but immovable.
“Please don’t touch them.”
Damian bristles at the implied command until Alfred gently clears his throat and points out that the doll’s hand is hovering inches from a cluster of pressure points that would drop Damian in under three seconds flat.
No one touches the dolls again.
Bruce asks the question later, in the Cave, beneath lights bright enough to feel invasive.
“How do you control them?”
You pause, fingers resting lightly against porcelain hair you’re brushing smooth.
“I don’t,” you say. “I listen.”
That answer bothers him more than any other could have.
୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧
Off the streets, you are meticulous.
You sit cross-legged on the Cave floor, surrounded by tools laid out with ritualistic precision fine brushes, thread, sealants mixed in exact ratios, gloves you change between dolls like a surgeon changing patients.
You whisper while you work.
Not commands.
Reassurances.
Steph notices first, how gentle you are with them, how you cradle cracked porcelain like it’s skin, how your hands steady when you’re repairing them even if they shook hours earlier while you bled.
“You love them,” she says softly.
“They’re my team,” you reply, like the thought has never occurred to you that love would be a better word.
Alfred brings tea.
Dusts the dolls when you aren’t looking.
No one comments on it.
୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧
The night you get hurt is the night everything changes.
An ambush goes wrong bad intel, worse timing and you take a hit meant for Dick. You stumble, blood slick between your fingers, vision blurring at the edges as your control frays.
Your hand falls limp.
The dolls move anyway.
They close ranks around you, faster than before, sharper, movements no longer elegant but angry. Jason doesn’t remember giving cover fire orders, only remembers firing because the air felt wrong, dense with the sense of something old and protective waking up.
One of the dolls lets out a sound.
Dick later insists it was a growl.
Tim never confirms it, but he never denies the audio spike either.
They don’t chase. They don’t overextend. They protect.
They wait.
When you come back to yourself, blinking against Cave lights, you find them sitting perfectly still beside you, arranged as they always are not frantic, not damaged, just present.
Your fingers twitch weakly.
Only then do they relax.
Bruce looks at them differently after that.
Not tools.
Not weapons.
Guardians.
୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧
Acceptance creeps in quietly.
Jason nods at the dolls before patrol like they’re fellow soldiers.
Steph leaves tiny scarves and buttons “lying around” for your next maintenance session.
Damian begins, grudgingly, referring to them as assets rather than objects.
Bruce eventually says, “Gotham needs many kinds of protectors.”
You smile. The dolls mirror it—not as wide, not as sharp.
Sometimes you fall asleep in the Cave, exhaustion claiming you where you sit, and one doll positions itself at your side, head tilted as if counting your breaths.
Dick throws a blanket over you.
Tim dims the monitors.
No one tells the doll to move.
Because the Batfamily understands something now.
You didn’t create monsters.
You gave abandoned things a reason to stand guard.
And in Gotham
that might be the kindest magic of all.
hey I have a question for project shattercore. So reader was like groomed and molested etc. But does/will she get intimate with any of the batfamily??
hello! thank you for sending in a question!! ^_^
though the story will blur the lines of right and wrong, i don't intend to include sexual intimacy between batfamily, for two main reasons!
1. reader is scared and doesn't even understand physical intimacy. you'll see as the story unfolds how they feel about it. It would be difficult for a consentual experience between them, as there are already blurred lines about romantic feelings upcoming...
2. i don't write explicit sexual scenes, although i may write them being creeps and such as it is a dead dove;do not eat fic, not everything is reciprocated. i myself tend to lean away from writing anything like that as well!!
i hope this answers your question !! feel feee to ask about the story if you guys are curious :>
“Oh, um, I was homeschooled, I suppose.” You blurt, what were you supposed to say? You had no sense of what reality was outside of a compound?
She looks at you with something you think of as pity in her eyes, but you can’t really perceive it correctly; it’s akin to the looks the nurses in the compound would give you on occasion. Your eyes trail down to your nails as you pick at the surrounding skin.
Another reminder that you didn’t belong.
a little snippet since everyone's been so patient with me!!! she is in the works <3
hi guys i'm working so much more than before #money... forgive me for not updating, i have started new chapters but it'll take me a second to release them, i will work on the two requests in my inbox in the meanwhile <3
Can I see how would Mark show his love to the reader? What his love language?
friendly reminder my asks are always open!! requests are too, just read my rules!! thank you for the request my luv!! it's my first ask ♡⸜(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⸝♡
LOVING YOU ₊˚⊹♡
WITH: Mark Grayson
SYNOPSIS: His love language.
WARNINGS: fluffy fluff :3
A/N : this is a good request.. i'll give you some headcanons!!!
MARK GRAYSON (INVINCIBLE)
when he's crushing on you, he's tongue-tied, less in the way of a complete inability to talk to you, more in the way that he stumbles over his words
his heart is in the right place, though!!
he loves hard, that's something you learn pretty quickly
having to flake on your dates is something he really despises
still, you reassure him with honey-laced words that you understand (he swears you're secretly a siren)
quality time...
ironically his main love language...
let's be honest, his life is busy, between navigating school, personal time and the ever-lasting threat against humanity, he finds just being in your presence soothes his soul
however his life leaves little room to spend said time together
but when he does? he savours it like a starved dog
he clings to you like a puppy, finding any time in his schedule to pay you a quick visit, or a planned date that he's been waiting ages for!!
not to mention if you show an interest in any of his hobbies, that's one quick way to win his heart too, if you'll spend time with him watching, reading, honestly, anything, he'll be content !! ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ
physical touch...
when he's in rough shape though? physical touch all the way
whether it's lacing your hands together, cuddling in a warm tent under the stars, or even just gentle kisses peppered along your face through late-night shenanigans
you feel every ounce of his being in those moments
sometimes he feels worlds away (quite literally!!) but when your hand runs through his hair as he murmurs how much he loves you, he's back to the ground <3
bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader
SYNOPSIS: you were taken so young—too young to remember anything but needles and pain. locked in a lab that never quieted, they amplified every whisper of thought within you, reshaping you into something beyond what you should have been. after endless experiments, your rescuer finally arrives.
he’s tall, shadowed by secrets, and undeniably frightening… yet somehow, he offers you a place to belong. in the vast, silent halls of his mansion, you feel invisible—an outsider blamed for every strange glance. but as days pass and walls of stone seem to soften, the people here begin to notice you. they smile. they reach out. and you start to wonder: is this longing in their eyes… normal?
WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, mild angst, insecurity
PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ back to the old house - the smiths listen to this for ultimate immersion
CHAPTER 3: Family
Your hands were clasped politely in front of you, as Alfred stood a few feet away, flattening your sheets. You felt a pang of guilt at the sight of it. You’d officially gotten your room, not just the ghost of one that was never intended for permanent use. Alfred promised he’d get you settled, something about ‘a young master needing space where they can truly relax, something that belongs to them,’ but you weren’t quite familiar with such a concept.
It had been a week in the manor, and you couldn’t figure out why something about Mr. Wayne was off. His neural buzz felt familiar; you had a slight buzz that lingered around people, like their very own aura. It wasn’t identifiable, merely a vacant echo of a presence. It carried a sentiment you could never quite quiet down.
It felt familiar, like one you had sensed before. But certainty wasn’t your strong suit, so all you could do was zip your lips, palms pressed into your sides as you contemplated the unease of existing in a place that was not quite familiar, nor truly your own.
“There we go, this should do quite well for you, Young Master.” He sighs in content, back straightening as he beams at you in silent gratification.
The room wasn’t the biggest, but you were accustomed to much smaller. The gratitude you felt oozed out of your body like a reverent prayer. Your eyes meet his in a way that makes Alfred want to give your shoulder a comforting squeeze; he settles for a warm smile instead.
“Thank you... ” Your voice is quiet, but steady, your fingers fiddling with the frayed hem of your sweatshirt. Unsure of what kind of words you were supposed to use in this situation.
It had only been a week here, but it was a stark contrast from the emotionally devoid compound you were raised in.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
You were supposed to meet Mr. Wayne’s other wards, a sort of family they had you were never really permitted to. You didn’t know how to feel; your chest tightened with every thought of what might go wrong, how they might see you, how they might see the real you.
The terrified child who carried no worth beyond being a vessel for pain.
Despite your age, you felt smaller than you were. Your voice cracking whenever someone tried to speak to you, a tremor in your hands at the sight of any authority figure. But this was normal. You knew it was because it was almost your entire life. It was all you had known.
So you swallowed the lump in your throat, ran your hands through your hair and let out a shaky breath.
You lingered by the staircase longer than anyone really should, hiding inside the shadows that provided little comfort from the warm lights of the dining hall. Your irises were locked onto the figures in front of you.
There was, of course, Mr. Wayne, but there were about two other figures that you could make out. One had a smaller frame and spiked up black hair; from what you could tell, the other had hair parted down the center, and his frame was only slightly larger than the former's.
Your head tilted inquisitively as you watched them interact with each other.
“You drank the last of the coffee. Again,” The younger one’s voice is sharp and accusatory. He narrows his eyes at the older one sitting at the counter, lazily taking a sip from his mug.
The older-looking one stares deadpan as he takes his sip.
“You never fail to frustrate me, Drake.” The younger one tuts and rolls his eyes.
“You don’t need this much coffee at your age, kid.” The one labelled Drake quips back.
“We are not that far in age.” His voice is lighter, but still steady. Your chest tightens, the scene in front of you seems to have an edge to it, but there’s a familiarity between them. You feel like an intruder. Your digits scratch at your exposed clavicle as you debate revealing yourself from the shadows.
You end up attempting to retreat into your room, although you nearly get lost; the hallways stretch on for days, and despite the gothic lighting, it’s never bright enough to dissipate the tenebrous aura this mansion has.
Your auricles thrum under the new environment, as your feet come to a halt. You take a look at one of the ornate frames lining the hallway, eyes catching onto the photo enclosed. It’s unmistakable, Mr. Wayne's family—your breath stilled as you take in the sight.
You recognize the billionaire, of course, and the two boys you’d just overheard. But there are two more of them there—one with half-contained frustration glaring into the camera and another with a smile so bright it nearly blinds you.
That’s the kind of smile you can’t imagine wearing; your mandible tightens as your hands cradle your jaw. You’re in true awe of the photo; you find yourself staring at it for longer than you’d care to admit.
It feels so human, so utterly human. Unlike this mansion, which feels unoccupied and colder than you thought it’d be.
Someone begins to approach the hallway. You can hear their distant footsteps, but you cannot seem to peel your eyes away from the photo. Stuck in a daze of thoughts and half-filled dreams.
The footsteps are heavy—someone with more weight to them, you think. You can thank your childhood spent stuck in a compound of doctors and nurses for that. You had to mentally prepare yourself to be in the presence of anyone.
You hear a male voice let out a small groan, and your eyes find their way to the figure approaching. He doesn’t notice you at first—partially because you’re still kinda far away and partially because he seems caught up in his thoughts.
He’s the frustrated one from the photo—you wonder if you should introduce yourself to him.
You gulp down the lump in your throat as he gets closer. Eventually, he does take notice of you, his teal eyes look you over like a threat.
It takes everything in your body not to flicker the lights; tension runs through you like liquid fire, igniting every bone inside.
He pauses, his expression morphing from something soldier-like to something more unreadable, more human.
Your mouth parts, something tries to make its way out of your throat, words that could maybe tether you to this place.
“Hi.” Your voice is small, aching to say more, anything that would ease the strain weighing your bones down. But you falter, he looks you over and speaks, voice gruff.
“Who are you?” His eyes narrow slightly—just enough to be off-putting, but not enough to make you want to bolt.
Just as he speaks, someone rounds the corner of the eerie hallway, steps weighing heavily, shattering the tension in the room.
“They’ll be staying here from now on, Jason. We decided it’d be best.” Bruce’s voice rings in the halls, and you aren’t sure if you’re supposed to feel relaxed now. You pick at your fingers, wondering if it was worth it to try and speak more.
Bruce walks down to meet you two at the spot in front of the framed pictures. His face is worn, but there’s still a mask you see him adorn, something plastered over that tired face.
He places his hand on your shoulder gently, and the man named Jason grumbles before giving a nod of understanding.
“Good luck on your search, B.” He speaks before walking away, hand shoved into his pockets. You observe him as he retreats into the dark halls of the mansion.
Bruce ushers you forward, and you allow him as you shrink in on yourself. You couldn’t stop thinking about the exchange between those two boys from before. Something in you wanted to meet them, feel it out, if they could be your friends. The other part of you was terrified, like the very thought of trying to do something so bold made you sick.
Eventually, there is an introduction. You’re in the only clothes you own, a black sweatshirt and some cargo shorts. They had offered you an alternative, but you felt safer like this. The real you on display, whatever that looked like.
You’re led into a living room. The boys from the framed picture are all there, scattered in positions most comfortable for each.
Bruce is sitting at his desk, half-focused on something else, eyes flickering between you and the document he holds.
Alfred clears his throat gently, stepping in.
You quickly introduce your name. Then Alfred takes over again.
“Everyone, please welcome them to the manor.” He speaks in a light and practiced tone.
He gestures with his gloved hands as he continues.
“This is Master Damian, the youngest,” he nods to the boy standing by the fireplace, and you recognize him instantly, stiff posture and all.
“And this is Master Tim.” Alfred continues gesturing to one of the couches beside him, Tim’s eyes darting between a phone and you.
“Master Dick, the eldest.” He nods to the one lounging on the far end of the couch, giving you a lazy, easy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“And lastly, Master Jason.” Alfred finishes, motioning towards the wall. The tallest leans on it, arms folded, and gaze steady as he looks you over.
You nod stiffly, the back of your neck prickling. Feeling the weight of being categorized. Appraised and quietly filed away.
Mr. Wayne looks up from his files and rests his chin on his palm.
“I want you to know that while I may be busy most of the time, you can always reach me in my office, or contact Alfred if you need anything else.” His tone is almost warm, and a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. Something that doesn’t quite fit.
You shyly nod as your eyes drift across the room, looking over all the boys.
Dick is the first to speak, and you breathe a sigh of relief—grateful someone broke the tension before you
“It’s nice to see a new face around here,” he says, offering a sheepish smile. “Hopefully, you’re in better shape than the rest of us.”
You nod your head in acknowledgement, offering him a smile of your own; you’re only half sure it’s genuine.
Dick stands up and crosses the room, placing a grounding hand on your shoulder.
“It takes time,” he says, voice light, but kind, “But we’re basically like a family here.” You look up at him, something sparking in your chest like a frayed wire. The word family tucks itself there—deep and warm, closest to your heart.
You hear a light scoff come from where Damian stands. He goes still when you make eye contact with him, his own eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His gaze sharpens, cold and callous. You offer a small, uneasy smile like a fragile truce, hoping for something softer than a glare.
You’re unsure if he accepts it, he casts you one last look over before exiting the room like a shadow.
Your eyes trail over to where Tim sits on the couch, legs curled underneath himself. You hesitate before lowering yourself down next to him on the plush pillows. He doesn’t startle—just licks his lips slowly as he eyes his phone screen. When he feels the couch shift, his gaze rises, brows raising, as if mildly surprised you’re real.
“What’cha up to?” You inquire as you peer sideways at his screen. Your lips press together, partially guarded.
“Just looking for some info for a school project.” He replies flatly, and you flinch, barely, but enough. It’s a tone you’re accustomed to, so you press.
“How’s school like?” You ask, keeping your voice gentle, as you tilt your head.
Tim shrugs without looking up. “Same as always, I don’t find it hard, luckily.” He pauses in thought as he finally meets your gaze
He hasn’t caught on to the meaning of your question. You had never been to school.
You were raised under humming lights and the smell of rubbing alcohol; knowledge came in many forms. Dr. Sun believed in education—drilled it into your head like gospel. But there were no lockers, bright hallways or laughter in disrupted classrooms. More of an echoed silence and a sterile desk.
“Will I get to go to school?” Your digits absentmindedly trace patterns on the couch as your gaze drops.
Something clicks in Tim’s head, like a puzzle piece.
“I’m pretty sure everyone in this house usually does,” He answers eventually. He lets out a small breath of air before sharing a knowing look with Alfred, a silent prompt passed between the two.
“Of course, young master.” Alfred pipes up.
You look up and feel your heart stutter at his reply. Something close to hope swirls around your insides. Bruce’s ear twitches as he hears the exchange and looks up for a moment, eyeing the scene. His eyes flicker back down at a buzz from his phone, and he sinks back into his work with a sigh.
“You look like you’ll figure it out.” Jason throws the words over his shoulder to you as he makes his way out. You look up, startled, and unable to respond as he’s already gone.
This was, perhaps, the most eventful birthday you’d ever experienced in your fifteen years of life.
You eventually make your way back into your room with some help from Alfred, and when you lie in the soft sheets that night, your heart pounds against your sternum. Silence so loud, it leaves your ears ringing.
The introduction went well—at least that's what you thought. You replayed it in your head like a broken record, wondering about what each of them thought of you. Your hands run over the skin of your arms in a desperate attempt for comfort.
But something was twisting your insides, unfurling in the pits of your stomach. Hope alone wasn’t nearly enough to withstand something this cumbersome.
The heaviness in your chest, the toiling in your head, a message that felt like it was from the angels themselves. As if heaven itself had chosen to condemn you for existing at all.
This wasn’t right.
It couldn’t be right.
You weren’t created to feel this way; you can hardly imagine you’d ever belong in a house like this. Stitching yourself into something already half-woven, already fraying at the edges.
Even when you spoke in front of them, the words felt wrong. Barely practiced, something born of fiction, not reality.
Never reality.
And if someone were to show you an ounce of something— anything—that resembled hope, it would slip through the cracks of your fingers, like sand through an hourglass. That was always how kindness was given to you.
You lie there helplessly, clinging to the sheets in a manor you’ve never truly belonged in. Under the watch of a man you never really knew.
How different was this from your life before?
At least there you made people…happy.
An injection straight into your already overworked blue veins, a rush of adrenaline racing beneath your skin, mingling with the sharp sting of bile oozing out of your mouth.
But then someone would look at you.
There would be a glint in their eyes, an excitement, like they’d unwrapped an unexpected present.
Dr. Sun.
When he smiled, you could breathe. For a moment, the pain became worth it.
Your hurt was the key to success—the key to happiness.
How could you ever live in a world beyond that?
What even existed beyond that?
A/N : hope you enjoyed!!! we are getting further into the story now finally exploring dynamics :3 let me know what you think !!
SYNOPSIS:
in your world, nothing is particularly wrong; there are no superheroes, but you do get to mindlessly indulge in shows and books. in fact, you're a casual fan of the show invincible.
today, you’re perusing an old article about a haunted place when you stumble upon a house that's definitely out of the ordinary, and despite the absolute gloom that emits from the place, you can’t help but go in. what you don’t expect is encountering powers beyond that of your world. somehow, within the hour, your fate finds itself intertwining with that of mark grayson. but the real question is: can you save him?
WARNINGS: descriptions of death, blood mentions, uhh minor body horror?? angels, erm soul transferance i guess!!
CHAPTER TWO: A WHAT? Ⅰ
You suddenly feel a jolt—whiplash, really, at the situation unfurling itself in front of your eyes—genuinely, what the fuck was happening?
The sky was an uncanny bright blue—if you were being sincere, it was the spitting image of the Windows XP default wallpaper. You felt like you were dropped into a computer game, half expecting a cursor to click you out of existence.
And when you finally turned around at the omniscient sound that was its voice, no—
Hardly a voice, more like something that poured from a dozen discordant tongues, well, you were met with—
A fucking angel.
You half expected God himself to come down and join the fray, but you weren’t quite sure what that would mean for you. So you sucked in a breath before facing the being that seemed to devour all forms of darkness in front of you.
It was bright, not in a blinding way, but in a way that absorbed everything dark in its path. It appeared genderless, an androgynous creature of the beyond. The wings were magnificent, cream-coloured, and plush. You wondered if they felt as soft as they appeared. They billowed behind the ancient creature. Your face was adorned with an expression one could only describe as reverent.
This predicament could only get worse, it seemed. It also had wings covering its eyes, a mystic aura looming around it. You weren’t sure if you should tremble in terror or gawk in awe.
“Y-you’re an angel?” You murmur, stilling in your spot. Bare feet touching the grass. This felt real, too real for someone who supposedly just died.
“Something of the sort,” its voice rang. You furrowed your brows, face contorting into confusion.
Something of the sort?
You thought it seemed pretty cut and dry.
In all the myths, occult reading and ancient doctrines you studied over the years, nothing could have prepared you for— seeing and hearing— an angel for the first time
“I’m here to give you a choice, a rather simple one.” Its voices echoed in the empty field.
“A choice? Like my afterlife?” You query.
“No, not the afterlife. There is no afterlife, at least not the one you humans cling to. You’ve been selected as the first Reclaimer of the Damned.” Then came laughter, not singular, a chorus rather, distant and thrumming in the back of your head. Its hand reached out towards you, slow, languid and haunting.
Its fingers are bent in ways that shouldn’t be possible, twisted and unfurling in front of your eyes. Yet, somehow, it was graceful, an oxymoron in the flesh.
You were left dumbfounded. But eventually, your mind caught up to your body; no, it wasn’t your body anymore, was it?
The angel lets out a huff of air, it seems to still the flowing grass beneath your phalanges.
“Let me explain, dear thing.” Its chorus of voices washed over you, like a tremor quaking the earth itself. You stay still, digits clasped together tightly, waiting.
“You’ve been chosen to take on the task, Reclaimer of the Damned, as mentioned before. When some humans die, well, their souls can end up in many places.”
Its hands unfurl to direct you to the TV in the middle of the field, and it flickers on once again. Rapidly flashing static that sends your head spinning, senses stuttering at the saturation of noise and visual disturbance. After a pause, it focuses, frames from the show Invincible flash, sputtering scenes you weren’t even sure you recognized, and your eyebrows furrow at the sight before you. Confusion tightens in your chest, and your shoulders tense.
It continues, “And you, lucky one, have the chance to exist in the universe beyond this one.”
Another universe? You would be entering an alternate world— specifically, one you had known of, one you’d been a fan of. It felt like a trap, like something torn from pages of a storybook. You tilted your head at this realization. Surveying its sallow and luminescent skin, your eyes scanned its form.
You need details, you need to understand why time folded inward here.
Its voice hums in layered tones, touching your bones. You meet where its eyes were supposed to be, its smaller wings veiling them instead. Oh, you longed to rake those wings away and uncover what nightmare or divinity lay underneath.
“I have questions.” You press, voice low.
“I have answers.” Its tones curl in delight.
“Where am I? What is this place?” Your voice is raw, scratching your throat; it’s too much to believe that you died—actually died—trying to take a vacation before you could graduate. Doing the only thing you ever really loved. Your breath quickens at the thought of it; your life as you know it is truly over. Your chest tightens.
“This? Well, think of it as… a waiting room of sorts,” its voice rang out, an inquisitive lilt woven through discordant tones as it pondered on its next words. “Maybe ‘limbo’ is the right word, one your human mind could comprehend.” It finishes, something close to a sympathetic smile curving on its mouth.
It approaches you languid and off-putting, your phalanges grip onto the grass beneath you—a feeble attempt to ground yourself in this unsettling realm.
Its fingers reach for you, unfurling before grasping your temples.
That’s when you feel the scorching conflagration of a thousand suns burst through your body.
You suddenly see your dead body on the splintered wood—an eerie doll you no longer inhabit. You feel like a spirit haunting your death. It feels wrong, a sense of dread churning your stomach, except there is no stomach in your formless state.
You’re suddenly pushed forward into the cosmos, dying suns collapse, and stars explode as you journey through tunnels of light and never-ending darkness.
“When a soul dies, a select few are cherry-picked, I’d say about one every thousand years, though I can’t quite recall.” Its voices fade down to a silence echoing beyond space.
You’re suddenly pulled upwards, your form going limp as you're launched upwards through the boundless void.
“How are we picked? Why are we picked? What for?” You spit out desperate questions after questions, confusion straining you as your essence is pushed and pulled through the infinite.
Your form is halted and settles onto a pillowy cloud—you let out what feels like a breath, but all you feel is a chill nipping your skinless vessel and the surrounding air.
“A lot of your kind have a penchant for ancient relics.” The tones laugh in a divine harmony, a chorus of ancient voices, “and while most are childish trinkets at most—a very select few… act as a conduit to bridge us and reach you beyond death.” The tones falter for a moment.
“You see, we angels don’t have much agency on earth, limited reach with the living. Bound as we are.” It continues, voices crawling around you like a mist.
“There are many worlds, universes, galaxies, far beyond your understanding, dear thing. Including those from fiction in your world, and well, someone must tend to them. That’s where we angels come in.
“In your world, you create world after world, never once thinking of the consequences, when in truth, these places will collapse if left to their own devices.” It lets out a chorus of sighs, and you almost want to comfort it, this being of divinity, a striking light in the clouds of your limbo.
“Enough idle talk,” It murmurs, running a hand through its hair, angelic and velveteen; perfection in its most absolute form.
A pang of annoyance flickers within you at the accusation of mere ‘idle talk’. This was your life—or at least, your new life? You felt confusion erupting like a bruise throughout your translucent form.
You’re obsession with hauntings and places beyond death has seemed to catch up to you in the most tenebrous way.
“The name is descriptive of the task; you must save Mark Grayson from turning into a villain.” The voices fold back into silence. Finishing its explanation, you watch it closely, as if you could unearth all its secrets.
“What in the saviour complex is this?...” You huff half to yourself and half to the being that seems to swallow all the space around you.
“How would I succeed? How do I know if I’m even on the correct path?” The idea of actually interacting with a beloved character makes your head spin—in elation or terror, you aren’t quite sure yet.
It beams at you, which feels as if heaven has smiled down upon your supposed skin, warmth enveloping the space around you. It's delighted at the question.
“You’ll have to accept the mission first if you want the parameters!” Laughter erupts around you, bright and heated like a sickening ray of sunshine.
You grimace at the sound. What kind of choice was this?
“Do I have a choice?” You hesitantly speak.
“Yes,” its joyous tones begin, “you agree and you’re rewarded with a choice of which universe you’d like to live your new life in, if successful, or…you decline and spend the rest of eternity in your own pocket universe—no physical form, no life, a void of nothingness.
Your mandible slackens at the gleeful cadence of its voice, before you collect yourself and take an inhale into lungs that’re more symbolic than real.
“Alright, I’m in.”
You give a small smile, and a cavernous sound echoes before its beams of light vibrate the air and pierce through your skull. Light burns through, eating away at what you think is the remainder of your skin; it burns through your eye sockets and your mouth, a beam of purity and destruction alike.
Was this supposed to be better than death?
A/N : i'm so sorry this took so long, i decided to split this chapter so i can get it out faster for y'all!!! you will meet mark in the next part !!
Jason's S/O is abducted, fine for now, essentially held for hostage
He's worried, of course he is, but not because he thinks they'll die, or get harmed, no, he's worried because if he doesn't get there in time, they'll absolutely take matters into their own hands, and to be honest they really don't like doing that
Anyway unfortunately, he is late, so this is what he sees when he enters the room they were being held captive in
"Baby I want a milkshake"
" 'course. Do you want that before or after a shower?"
"...before"
"Okay, the usual then?"
"Yeah"
"Yeah"
⋆˚𝜗 angel eyes 𝜚˚⋆ @rikas-musings - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
