I need a Reader who just has to rawdog it through life.
No caffeine, regulated sugar, no alcohol, no tobacco, no energy drinks, no milk, no cheese, no gluten.
Reader who has Pica, Reader who works a night shift and yet has insomnia, so they are just constantly tired. Reader who has problems walking, Reader with a lazy eye, reader with ‘unattractive’ features.
Reader with mobility devices who still push their limits to improve. Med student Reader who can’t find a job to support it. Broke Reader being screwed over by their debt, Reader with albinism, black Reader having the paper bag test done to them at work, asian Reader influencer having to deal with the white men in their comments.
Biracial Reader struggling to choose an identity when the world chooses it for you, specifically a non black mixed Reader. Like Indian reader mixed with Japanese, who’s skin doesn’t match the projected image, and yet is too far away from their other culture.
Disordered eater Reader who staves themselves all day only to binge eat when they can’t take it. Disordered eater Reader who works out too much and yet forgets to eat.
Scarred Reader who is not the romantic stereotype, who looks deformed by their scars. Burned Reader struggling to be treated as human after their mutilation. Amputee Reader struggling to relearn their body.
Curly-haired Reader wishing to have straight hair and straight-haired Reader wishing to have curls.
A Reader who covers their freckles, and a Reader who paints them. A masc-looking Fem!Reader who struggles to wear feminine clothes, fem-looking Male!Reader struggling to look masculine!
Give me a Reader with too many siblings, who isn’t the oldest, and is lost in the middle! A Reader who daydreams the day away, who draws cringe OCs and cries when their favorite character dies!
A Reader who’s too empathetic, a Reader who’s too apathetic! A Reader who’s overwhelmed with parenting, a Reader trying to reparent themselves after being raised a brat. An high-functioning autistic Reader who tries to validate their experiences. A high-needs autistic Reader who uses a robotic voice to communicate (I forgot what it’s called 😞) and yet is still chatty and funny!
A Reader who is afraid of stupid things, a narcoleptic Reader who finds everything funny. A Reader with no humor, a Reader who’s working off weight. And I’m not talking no ‘140 lbs(63.503kg) to 80lbs(36.287kg) 🤩!’ type Y/N build. I’m talking overweight Reader deciding (FOR THEMSELVES!!!!!) that they want to loose a couple pounds. I want a bodybuilder chubby Reader who can lift over 300 lbs (136 kg).
I need a nerdy BL lover Reader, who spends all their money on their Gacha games. Weirdo Reader, who knows more people online than real life. Creepy Reader who watches analog horror to make theories.
Perv Reader who’s usual reads is smut, who’s favorite authors are dark romance. Where’s the crime loving Readers, who yumeship themselves with criminals. Where’s the other side of crime loving Reader, who spends hours working to the sound of crime podcasts. Digital artist Reader, who draws to the sounds of body-cams and celebrates in their room when the bad guy gets caught.
Niche fandom Reader who makes their own merch, dedicated to a dead fandom like it’s their legacy. AO3 author Reader who’s iconic throughout the fandom. (Like Jabsartt, or the Mirrors fic)
WE NEED READERS WHO WE CAN RELATE TO!! NO PLAIN Y/N, GIVE THEM SOME SPICEEE!!! MAKE THEM CREEPY WEIRDOS WHO CAN’T RELATE TO NORMAL PEOPLE!!
aka I just want a weirdo reader. Not even just that, but that was the OG intent. Make them relatable people. Make them fat. Not even chubby, give them elbow meat and make them have big faces. Make them weak and slow, make them desperate, make them relatable. Make their lives shit, make them feel inferior, build them back up into a new person. Make them spontaneous, put yourself in there, the good, the bad, and the ugly.
And for goodness sake, please don’t make the default white. Write your own experiences into them, how would you react, not some perfect doll. Don’t be afraid of the cringe that might come from writing Readers of different colors and race, just stay away from the stereotypes. You can even look up how to write different races or read experiences from the people of that race you’re basing it off of. Don’t make white the default. As a white person.
2026 Art x Fic Call of Duty Collab Masterlist (141 RECON Server)
Decided to do a fun monthly collaboration with the awesome people in our server, so this masterlist will be a collection of stories written by my friends with accompanying art drawn by me! (The gallery will be updated accordingly. Stay tuned!)
Please Note: Majority of the pairings will be AFAB!Reader x C.O.D. MMC, unless stated otherwise by the author.
✍️ FIGUARY (Art Link)
Life Drawing Model!John "Soap" MacTavish x AFAB!Reader (FIC Link) by @youarehereyouaresafe | AO3
🤖 MARCH OF THE ROBOTS (Art Link)
Cyborg!John Price x Filipina OC (Dr. Tala Arao) (FIC Link) by: @the-californicationist
🩸 APRIL SHOWERS (Art Link)
Serial Killer!Simon "Ghost" Riley x AFAB!Reader (FIC Link) by: @silverlullabies
🐠 MERMAY (Art Link)
Merman!König x AFAB!Reader (FIC Link) by @konigs-lover
modern!smoke moore x goth!reader x modern!stack moore
Summary: Minji has never took on two guys before. One twin is already enough, but two? Smoke and Stack give her the adventure of her life while still chasing their own highs.
Rating: Red
Warnings:Smut, Overstimulation, three-way
Word Count: I don't know, sorry.
"We finna have the time of our lives!" Stack had to damn near beg Smoke to let him throw a house party. Smoke disagreed at first because he didn't like the idea of multiple people being in his home. He wouldn't be able to watch everybody. "Relax, nigga. I ain't invite that many people."
And he didn't at first.
It started out with only 4 or 5 people, then Stack tried to take advantage and invite more, but Smoke stopped him before he could.
"Nigga, you said five or less. I advise you to keep it like that." Stack held his hands up in surrender and laughed.
"Are you gon' at least try to have some fun?"
"Yeah if we don't invite the whole damn city."
"Promise me you'll try."
"I promise."
Smoke was finding a hard time enjoying himself. If the party was thrown at somebody else's house, then it would've been better for him. His paranoia was ruining the experience for him. "Ay, Smoke," Stack came over with two drinks in his hand. He handed one to his brother. "Loosen up. Try to enjoy yourself, we deserve this."
Smoke didn't try to argue with him. The drink burned his throat as he swallowed. He went over to their liquor cabinet and poured another drink. "Stack, don't leave this damn liquor cabinet unlocked again. You irresponsible as hell. This is why I ain't want these damn people in my house. What if they try to steal our toilet paper or some shit-"
"You wanna know what you need?" Stack had that playful grin on his face, so Smoke knew he was about to say something dumb.
"What?" He entertained it anyways.
"Some pussy."
Smoke swallowed his drink. "So what we rey do, just choose our pick of the litter?"
"Hell, yeah!"
The drinks weren't enough to get him fully drunk, but both boys men still were a little tipsy. Him and Stack scanned the room to see who fit their desires.
"You see someone you like? Don't say Kesha, though. Her nasty ass gon' make us catch somethin'."
"What about her?" Smoke nodded towards the direction of an Asian goth girl. Neither one of them had been with someone like her before, but she had some physically features that they were familiar with. Full lips. Thick thighs. Long, pullable hair. Oh, they were gonna have some fun.
"Sum exotic. Different." Stack flashed a toothy grin. "I like it."
He walked over to her and made small talk. Smoke couldn't tell what they were saying, but he was over there making her laugh.
Stack signaled him when it was time.
They went in Stack's room and Smoke made sure to lock the door behind them.
"Smoke, meet Minji."
She smiled and waved.
Smoke took a quick look over her body. "What's up" was all he said.
"You didn't tell me you two were twins. I thought you were just brothers."
"You coo wit' that, right?" Smoke had to make sure. Stack shot him a quick look to remind him of his promise.
"More for me." She looked at Smoke then Stack. Smoke grabbed her waist from the back and passionately sucked on her neck. At the same time, Stack place his hands right above Smoke's and began kissing her roughly. He tilted her head to the side to give his brother more neck room to work with.
"You want the front?" Stack asked.
"I'll keep the back."
Stack sat on the bed then Minji got on her knees in front of him. He unbuckled his belt then pulled his pants down a little and his cocked sprang free. Stack didn't want to waste any time. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed her mouth onto his cock.
Meanwhile, Smoke got behind her and pulled down her pants. His thrusts were slow but powerful. He didn't want to overwhelm her. He wanted it to be a good experience for her too instead of just him and his brother.
Stack's idea of fun was to overwhelm her. "God- fuck. You takin' this shit like a fuckin' pro, baby." Still having that same tight grip on her hair, he pushed her head further down.
She had came twice already.
"Slow down, Stack. You gon' overstimulate her."
"Overstimulate? Nah, she got this." He pulled her head back. "You can handle all this, can't you?" She tried to nod but Stack's grip on her hair held her head in place. "Use your words, mama."
"I can handle it." She looked back at Smoke. "Do your worst." And with that Stack put her head back in place then Smoke fucked the life out of her, each thrust way more powerful than the last.
Stack came next. He released her hair then slid from underneath her and left. "I'll give you two some privacy now." He smirked then left the room.
Smoke wanted to make her cum before he did himself. He picked her up and laid her on her back. The bed was way more comfortable. Her eyeliner and was smudged and they left no trace of her lip liner and gloss combo.
He laid on top of her and finished his job, going slow at first then picking up the pace. Her moans were almost louder than the music that was still blasting from the living room. She clawed her nails into his back, but he couldn't feel a thing but her tight pussy.
"You're doing so good. Just cum for me one more time, baby." He kissed her neck then went up to her jawline. When got to her mouth he made that kiss long and sexy. That's all it took for her.
He thrusted a few more times until he reached his own climax then released inside of her.
Unlike Stack, he didn't leave immediately. He rested on her then peppered kisses all around her neck.
He got up and brought her up with him.
"You good?"
"More than good."
It ended up becoming a fun night for them all.
Author's Note: I've only written like 3 other smut fics in my entire life so I know it's probably not the best, lol just wanted to try something new♡
(Platonic yandere Bruce Wayne x Asian male reader x Platonic Yandere minhkhoa khan)
( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)
Sumarry: You didn't know your century long pilgrimage into the depth of the Himalayan mountains would end in with you finding yourself in a city with that they called the city of the dead,with two of your students needing your "help".
Tw: yandere tendencies
The air in the city was a blasphemy. It tasted of rust, combustion, and the slow, sickly-sweet decay of forgotten things. After the pristine, throat-searing cold of the high Himalayas, each breath felt like a pollution of the spirit. You had not walked the world of men for a long time, your existence measured in the patient turning of seasons and the silent growth of moss on temple stones. Yet, the call had come, not in words, but in a familiar, dissonant tremor through the deep earth—a signature of pain and rage you had felt once before, in two very different boys.
They found you a space, a quiet, forgotten greenhouse perched atop a stone monstrosity of a building. The plants within were struggling, their song muted by the acidic air, but you knelt, pressing your palm to the soil in the single large pot that held a gnarled, ancient bonsai pine. A thread of vitality, pure and green, pulsed from your fingertips, and the pine seemed to sigh in gratitude, its needles deepening in hue.
The door opened without a sound, but you felt their presence as a shepherd knows his flock. Two storms entering a place of forced calm.
Bruce came first. The boy who had arrived at your temple all sharp edges and shattered silence, a cave of grief wearing a man’s shape. Now, he was a fortress, every ounce of his immense will layered over that core of pain like granite slabs. He moved with a predator's grace that was, you noted with a sliver of disappointment, entirely self-taught and brutally efficient. He had taken the principles of body and mind you had offered and forged them into a weapon. He did not bow, but his head inclined a fraction, a deep respect warring with a profound urgency. "Master," his voice was a low rumble, like stone grinding deep underground.
"Bruce Wayne," you said, your own voice a soft, clear chime in the thick air, untouched by age or strain. You turned, and as always, you saw the flicker of unnerved awe in his eyes when they met yours. Centuries should have carved canyons into your face, but your skin was as smooth as a river stone, your gaze as clear and direct as a mountain pool. You possessed the body and the unburdened heart of a child, a purity achieved not through ignorance, but through the relentless scouring of ego by wind, meditation, and time.
Behind him, the air itself seemed to curdle. Minhkhoa Khan.
Where Bruce was a contained inferno, Khoa was a void. The angry, brilliant youth who had sought you out not for peace, but for power—the power to never be a victim again—was gone. In his place stood a man who had stared into the abyss until it stared back, and they had come to an understanding. He was taller than you remembered, impossibly still, his presence absorbing the light and sound around him. He was clad in shadows that clung to him like a second skin, a mockery of the monastic robes he once wore. A faint, coppery scent clung to him, a stark contrast to the sterile cleanliness of the Bats.
"Little Teacher," he murmured, the old nickname from his first, insolent days on your lips. It was not a term of endearment, but a reminder of the chasm between your natures. His eyes, dark and depthless, scanned you, and you felt the chill of his analysis, a sensation like cold fingers on your soul.
You looked from one to the other, the Defender and the Predator. The soil of the bonsai beneath your fingers whispered of their turmoil, of the tangled roots of their shared past now strangling each other in this poisoned city.
"You have walked far from the path of the leaf and the stream," you stated, your tone holding no judgment, only the flat clarity of observation. "The earth cries out with the violence you sow here. Both of you."
Bruce’s jaw tightened. "The city is sick, Master. It requires a surgeon. Sometimes, the surgery is violent."
Khoa’s smile was a bloodless thing. "It requires a culling. I am merely weeding the garden."
You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the dissonance. They were two opposing magnets, and you, the unmoving fulcrum. They had not called you for wisdom, or for healing. They had called you as one might call upon a foundational law of physics, to bear witness, or perhaps, to choose a side in a war that threatened to break the world they both, in their own twisted ways, sought to control.
Rising to your full height, which was still less than either of theirs, you looked at them, your child’s face holding an ancient, immeasurable sorrow. "You believe you need my help to defeat one another," you said, the truth settling in the room like a physical weight. "But you are wrong. You have called me here to see which of my students has fallen further."
"Why have you call me here then? my 567th pilgrimage was cut short" you said as you gently petted a stray cat that had found its way into the greenhouse by a miracle.
A soft, rasping purr vibrated against your leg as the scraggly tabby wove itself between your ankles. You did not look down, your fingers instinctively finding the space behind its tattered ear. The cat was a small, warm point of simple, honest life in this place of convoluted darkness. Its presence was a minor miracle, a testament to the stubborn persistence of innocence.
You focused on the cat, feeling the fragile architecture of its ribs, the trust in its lean body. Your question, voiced with the mild curiosity of a child asking why the sky is blue, hung in the air, stripping their grand conflict of its self-importance.
Bruce was the first to break, the fortress of his certainty showing a hairline fracture. He had always been more connected to the raw truth of things than Khoa, who preferred elegant, self-serving lies. "The situation has escalated beyond... conventional parameters," Bruce began, his voice tight. "His methods—"
"*My* methods are a permanent solution to a chronic infection," Khoa interrupted, his voice smooth as oiled silk. He hadn't moved, but the shadows in the corner of the greenhouse seemed to deepen around him. "He plays a game of eternal whack-a-mole with the symptoms. I aim to eradicate the disease. You taught us to see the root of things, Little Teacher. I am merely applying the lesson."
You scratched under the cat's chin, and it pushed its head into your hand, its purr intensifying. "I taught you to see the root of your own anger, Minhkhoa Khan. To pull it out, not to plant it in the soil of an entire city." You finally lifted your gaze from the cat, looking first at Bruce. "You, Bruce Wayne, I taught to listen to the silence between heartbeats. To find the stillness from which all action must spring. You both heard only the parts of the teaching that suited the monsters you already carried inside."
You gestured with your free hand, a slow, encompassing motion that took in the greenhouse, the city beyond the glass, and the two of them. "You have not called me to help. A plea for help is humble. It admits a lack of understanding. You," you said, your clear eyes settling on Khoa, "believe you understand everything too well." Your gaze shifted to Bruce. "And you believe your understanding is the only one that matters."
The cat, satisfied, curled itself around your ankles and began to wash a paw, utterly unconcerned with the titans of will clashing around it.
"You called me," you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper that nonetheless filled the space, "because you are at an impasse. Two unstoppable forces. And you know, in the deepest, most secret parts of your souls that you have not shown even to each other, that when you finally clash in earnest, you will not just break each other. You will break this... fragile world you are standing on."
You smiled then, a small, sad, utterly pure smile that belonged on the face of a child witnessing a complex and pointless adult argument.
"So you called for the one who taught you both how to stand. You called for a referee in your war. But I am not a referee. I am a reminder. A living reminder of what you sacrificed on your altars of mission and vengeance. You cut short my 567th pilgrimage not for my power, but for my presence. To see if the sight of me would make the other one hesitate."
The realization did not come as a shock, but as a slow, cold unfurling in the pit of your stomach, a feeling so foreign it was like a first memory. The cat, sensing the shift in the energy around your feet, stopped its washing and looked up, its green eyes wide.
For a moment, the carefully constructed narrative of a philosophical dispute, a clash of ideologies, held. Then, your perception, honed by centuries of reading the subtle languages of body and spirit, pierced through it. It was not in their words, but in the silence around them.
You saw the way Bruce’s stance, always so rigidly controlled, had a new, almost imperceptible tension when his eyes flickered toward Khoa—not the tension of a strategist observing a rival, but of a possessor guarding a prize. It was in the way he had positioned himself upon entering, not just between you and the city's danger, but subtly between you and Khoa.
And Khoa. His stillness was not merely patience. It was the stillness of a spider at the center of a web, feeling for the slightest tremor. His dark eyes, which you had thought were fixed on Bruce, were in fact constantly, minutely, tracing *you*. The faint, cruel curve of his lips was not for Bruce’s arguments, but for the private knowledge he held. He wasn't here to win a debate; he was here to claim a trophy.
The war for Gotham, the clash of methods—it was a backdrop. A stage. And you were the object at its center.
The purity of your spirit, a quality you had cultivated as a gardener tends a rare orchid, now felt terrifyingly vulnerable. It was not a shield against this. It was the very thing they coveted. To Bruce, you represented an absolute, incorruptible moral center, a living touchstone he believed could anchor him, keep the darkness of his crusade—and the darkness of the man he saw in the mirror—at bay. To own your guidance was to legitimize his path.
To Khoa, your purity was the ultimate paradox, the one thing his power and intellect could not replicate. It would be the final, most exquisite piece in his collection of perfect things to corrupt, to prove that nothing, not even a centuries-old soul, could remain untouched. To own you would be to prove his nihilistic philosophy correct.
The air in the greenhouse grew thick, charged with a new and far more intimate danger. The stray cat, with an animal's primal instinct, let out a low, nervous growl and darted away, vanishing into the deeper shadows beneath a potting bench.
You looked at Bruce, the man who built fortresses, and saw the boy who was terrified of the emptiness within them. You looked at Khoa, the man who embraced the void, and saw the boy who was still screaming that if he could not have light, he would extinguish it for everyone.
Your 567th pilgrimage had not been cut short for a city. It had been cut short for you. And the two most formidable students you had ever taught were now, silently and irrevocably, preparing for a war not over Gotham's soul, but over yours.
The shift in tension was so absolute, so bizarre, that for a moment, the centuries of cultivated stillness within you fractured. The primal, world-ending conflict you had just perceived between your two students was abruptly shoved aside by a new, entirely different kind of threat.
You turned at the soft sound of a heel on stone, your child-like eyes widening in pure, uncomprehending astonishment.
A woman. She moved with a liquid confidence that was alien to the disciplined strides of warriors or the measured tread of monks. Her form was sheathed in a garment of pure, unreflective black, so tight it seemed painted on, the scent of her perfume—a cloying, aggressive mix of night-blooming flowers and synthetic musk—assaulting your senses, so used to the clean scents of snow, stone, and incense. The fabric itself whispered of chemical processes, a far cry from the rough-spun wool and silk you knew.
But it was her expression that truly arrested you. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over you, and her blood-red lips curved into a coo.
"Oh, would you look at you," she purred, her voice a silken trap. "Aren't you just the most precious little thing? Like a porcelain doll come to life."
She reached out, her movements sinuous, her gloved fingers aiming to pinch your cheek.
A profound, centuries-old bewilderment froze you in place. Precious? Little thing? The descriptors were so utterly disconnected from your reality—a being who had conversed with mountain spirits, who had guided the lost and the broken, whose will could quiet a blizzard—that your mind simply rejected them. It was as if a tiger, mid-roar, had been called a fluffy kitten.
You stood there, utterly still, as her gloved thumb and forefinger made contact with the apple of your cheek. The sensation was not painful, but it was a profound violation. It was the touch of an owner, a collector, not a peer. It was the final, absurd layer of this entire surreal encounter.
From the periphery of your vision, you saw the reactions of your students. Bruce’s jaw, if possible, tightened further, a flicker of something like frustrated protectiveness in his eyes—not just for you, but for the sheer sacrilege of the moment. Minhkhoa, however, let out a soft, genuine sound that was almost a laugh. It was a sound of dark, perverse amusement. He understood the cosmic joke instantly. The great master, the living relic, the fulcrum of their impending war, was being cooed at like an infant.
The woman, utterly oblivious to the cataclysmic forces she had just interrupted, smiled wider. "How does someone so tiny end up in a place like this with men like these?"
You finally found your voice, but the ancient, resonant tones you usually commanded were replaced by a high, clear, and utterly flummoxed statement of fact.
"I am five hundred and eighty-seven years old," you said, the words hanging in the perfumed air with a ridiculous, undeniable gravity.
The woman’s cooing smile faltered for a fraction of a second before widening, as if you had said something even more endearing. "And so imaginative!"
In that moment, caught between a woman who saw a doll, a disciple who saw a anchor, and another who saw a prize, you felt a truly novel emotion for the first time in over five centuries: the sheer, overwhelming desire for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
The involuntary reaction was a relic from a body you had not truly inhabited for centuries. A flush of warm, childish frustration, completely at odds with your ancient spirit, rose to your cheeks. They puffed out, rounding the smooth, ageless planes of your face, making you look even more like a disgruntled cherub.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
The woman—you would later learn her name was Talia al Ghül—let out a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight. The calculated seduction in her posture melted away into genuine, covetous affection. "Oh!" she breathed, her gloved hands coming up to frame her own face in ecstasy. "It is even more perfect than I imagined!"
From the corner where Minhkhoa Khan stood, there came a sharp, choked sound. It was not his usual dark, mocking laughter, but a genuine, strangled snort of disbelief. He had seen you calm avalanches with a raised palm and silence a novice's screaming mind with a single word. To see you now, cheeks puffed out like an irritated squirrel, was a paradox so delicious it seemed to momentarily shatter his icy composure. A true, almost human smile, brief and devastating, touched his lips before vanishing back into his customary mask of ennui.
Bruce Wayne did not laugh. He did not even smile. But the grim intensity of a moment before fractured. The lines of stress around his mouth softened into something perilously close to fond exasperation. He saw the profound spiritual danger, the violation of your sanctity, but he was also a man who had once been a boy, and the sight was undeniably, disarmingly... cute. He let out a slow, weary breath, the sound of a man realizing his apocalyptic confrontation had just been hijacked by a force beyond even his comprehension.
You, however, were trapped in a private hell of indignity. You felt the puff of your cheeks, the way it softened your vision slightly, and you were mortified. This body, this vessel of pure spirit you had so carefully maintained, had betrayed you with a reflex from a time before you learned to master every muscle, every breath.
You tried to force the air out, to smooth your expression back into its serene, ageless mask, but the frustration only mounted, making the puffiness stubbornly persist. Your clear, ancient eyes, now wide with this new, humiliating self-awareness, darted between the three of them: the cooing assassin, the amused nihilist, and the exasperated vigilante.
In five centuries, you had faced down ravenous yeti, meditated in blizzards that would flay a lesser man, and wrestled with inner demons that would drive kings mad. But you were entirely unprepared for this. The sacred arts of the earth had no technique, no mantra, for dealing with the unbearable agony of being found adorable.
The cooing ceased. The air, once thick with cloying perfume and absurdity, crackled with a new, deadly seriousness. Talia al Ghül’s gaze shifted from you to the two men, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure possession.
“This is not a relic to be stored in your cave, Detective,” she said to Bruce, her voice shedding its silken pretense, becoming the sharp steel of a drawn sword. “Nor is it a curio for your collection, Ghost-Maker.” She took a step forward, placing herself almost physically between you and them. “Such purity, such power, contained in a form of perfect innocence… it belongs with the Demon’s Head. It belongs with me. We can offer protection, a purpose worthy of its legacy.”
Bruce moved almost imperceptibly, but the shift in his stance was a declaration of war. The greenhouse felt smaller, the air thinner. “You will not touch him, Talia. Your father’s idea of ‘purpose’ is a global funeral pyre. He is a teacher, not a weapon.”
“Everything is a weapon, Bruce,” Khoa’s voice cut through, smooth and cold as a glacier. He hadn’t moved, but his stillness was now a predatory crouch in waiting. “Or a tool. The Little Teacher understands that better than any of us. You would keep him in your gothic prison, a moral compass you glance at when you fear you’re lost. She would place him on an altar to sanctify her father’s madness.” His dark eyes finally slid to you, and the hunger in them was naked and absolute. “I would not change a thing. I would simply have him where he belongs. With the only student who is not afraid to see the world, and his own potential, for what it truly is.”
“You would break him for the pleasure of hearing the snap, Khoa,” Bruce growled.
“Or he would break me,” Khoa countered, a maddening smile playing on his lips. “It is the only wager worth making.”
You stood in the center of the storm, your cheeks no longer puffed, your face a pale, smooth mask of stunned revelation. The stray cat had long since fled. The argument swirled around you, about you, but the words “relic,” “curio,” “weapon,” “compass,” “wager” struck your ears like physical blows.
Devils.
The word surfaced from the depths of your consciousness, not as a curse, but as a diagnosis. Not monsters of myth, but something more terrifying: beings of immense will and power, so consumed by their own desires, their own lacks, that they saw a centuries-old soul not as a person, but as an object to be acquired. Bruce wanted to use you as an anchor against his own darkness. Talia wanted to use you as a badge of divine right. Khoa wanted to use you as the ultimate proof of his philosophy.
They were not arguing over how to save Gotham, or even how to save each other. They were arguing over who got to keep the pet.
A coldness seeped into your bones, a chill no Himalayan winter had ever managed to impart. You looked at their faces, contorted by want, and you saw the beautiful, broken boys you had once known now fully consumed by the devils they had nurtured. Your pilgrimage had not been cut short to mediate a war.
It had been cut short because you had become the spoils.
The argument, a tense three-way cable about to snap, simply froze.
Bruce’s low growl about Khoa’s nihilism died in his throat. Talia’s razor-sharp declaration of your destiny with the League of Shadows caught on her lips. Khoa’s smirk of superior understanding faltered.
All three sets of eyes, one of stormy blue, one of assassin-calculating green, and one of bottomless black, snapped down to you.
You were no longer listening. The existential dread, the violation, the sheer absurdity of your situation—it had all been momentarily washed away by a singular, transcendent discovery.
On a small, wrought-iron table that Bruce had brought in with a tray, sat the remains of a small, powdered-sugar-dusted pastry he had offered you earlier as a gesture of respect. You had taken a single, tentative bite.
Now, you held the last one in both hands, your eyes wide with a reverence usually reserved for witnessing the dawn break over a sacred peak. Your lips and the very tip of your nose were dusted with a fine layer of white powder. The delicate, golden shell of the puff had yielded to a revelation of impossibly light, sweet cream that burst on your tongue like a cloud of pure bliss.
You looked up at Bruce, your ancient, child-clear eyes shining with unadulterated wonder. The question that had been building in you through two entire cream puffs finally broke through, spoken with a mouth still half-full, the words slightly muffled but ringing with absolute sincerity in the dead silence.
"What are these called?"
Bruce Wayne, the Batman, the scourge of Gotham’s underworld, stared. The gears of his tactical mind, which had been calculating strike patterns and counter-arguments against two of the most dangerous people on Earth, ground to a halt. He blinked. "They're... cream puffs," he said, his voice strangely hollow.
"Cream... puffs," you repeated, tasting the words as you had the pastry. You looked down at the delicate, empty shell in your hands as if it were a sacred sutra. "The civilization that created these... it has achieved a pinnacle. This is a form of enlightenment I had not foreseen."
Talia al Ghül, Heir to the Demon, simply watched, her gloved hand still half-raised from her earlier point. The covetous gleam in her eyes had not vanished, but it had been joined by a flicker of sheer, uncomprehending bafflement.
But it was Minhkhoa Khan’s reaction that was the most profound. He did not laugh. He did not sneer. He simply watched you, utterly captivated, the way a mathematician might stare at a perfect, previously unsolvable equation. The war, the possession, the ideological clash—it all faded into irrelevance before this display of pure, unmitigated joy. In that moment, you were more inscrutable, more truly powerful, than any of his schemes or philosophies. You had been offered the world and had chosen a pastry. It was the most devastating critique of his entire existence he had ever witnessed.
You popped the last bite into your mouth, a beatific smile gracing your powdered lips. The devils could wait. There were cream puffs in the world.
"I know my judgment is clouded from these clouds within paatiries but I'll stay with my student" you pointed at Bruce "I can't resist these, could you bring me more?"
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of a Gotham police siren. The powdered sugar dusting your lips and nose seemed to glow in the dim light of the greenhouse, a stark, absurd contrast to the world-shattering implications of your choice.
Bruce, for the first time since you had known him, looked completely and utterly disarmed. The grim line of his mouth softened into something akin to stunned relief. He had prepared for a philosophical debate, a battle of wills, a test of his worthiness. He had not prepared for his ultimate trump card to be a box of pastries from a bakery in the Coventry. He gave a single, slow nod, the gesture more solemn than any vow. "I'll have a steady supply delivered. Daily."
Talia al Ghül’s beautiful face was a mask of cold, furious disbelief. She had offered you the legacy of a thousand-year-old empire, a place at the right hand of a god-king, and you had chosen… a sugar-addled vigilante and his confectionery bribes. The sheer, illogical insult of it stole her breath. Her hands, curled into fists at her sides, trembled with the effort to not simply take you by force.
But it was Minhkhoa Khan who provided the most fascinating reaction. The dark amusement was gone. The predatory stillness remained, but it was now layered with a new, profound sense of… respect. He looked from your blissful, cream-puff-stunned face to Bruce’s pragmatic, victorious one, and then back to you. He had lost. Not to a superior argument, or a greater display of power, but to a superior treat. It was so perfectly, beautifully meaningless that it, in its own way, held more meaning than any of their grand designs.
He offered you a slow, deliberate bow, far deeper and more genuine than any he had given before. "A master's choice, as inscrutable as ever," he said, his voice a low murmur. "To be swayed not by destiny or power, but by the simple, undeniable quality of a filling." He straightened, his dark eyes holding yours. "A lesson in priorities I will not soon forget, Little Teacher."
With that, he turned, his form seeming to dissolve into the deeper shadows of the greenhouse until he was simply gone, leaving behind only the faint, chilling echo of his presence.
Tala shot Bruce a look of pure venom, a promise of future conflict, before her form, too, seemed to blur and vanish through a doorway, her perfume lingering like a ghost.
You were left alone with Bruce Wayne in the quiet. He looked down at you, the ancient child with a dab of cream on his chin, who had just defused a potential cataclysm with a single, sugar-fueled whim.
You looked up at him, your judgment admittedly clouded by the heavenly "clouds within pastries," your decision made with a logic that transcended their mortal squabbles.
"Good," you said, your voice serene once more. "And perhaps… next time, ones with what are those sweet dark parts in pastries? Oh right! chocolate?"
A single, slow nod was his only reply, but it was a vow etched in stone. In that moment, Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, had a new, non-negotiable mission in Gotham City: secure a reliable source of superior cream puffs, and investigate the potential of chocolate-filled variants. The fate of his soul, and perhaps the city, now hinged on it.
He watched as you delicately licked the last traces of sugar from your fingers, your ancient eyes closing in simple contentment. The world outside, with all its devils and its darkness, could wait. For now, there was only the quiet of the greenhouse, the lingering sweetness on the tongue, and the profound, bewildering peace of having chosen a side for the most whimsical of reasons.
The choice, sealed with powdered sugar and a request for chocolate, had consequences that settled over the greenhouse with the finality of a tomb door closing. The air, once crackling with a three-way struggle, now held a different charge: a settled alliance and a promised vengeance.
Bruce’s posture changed. The tension of vying for your favor melted away, replaced by a grim, proprietary certainty. You were no longer a prize to be won in a debate; you were under his protection. His. The shift was subtle but absolute. He moved to stand slightly closer to you, his broad frame now a deliberate barrier between you and the empty space where Khoa had vanished. The Bat had claimed his moral compass, and he would guard it with a ferocity usually reserved for the city itself.
And you felt it. The weight of his possession was a new kind of chain, lighter than Talia’s fanaticism or Khoa’s nihilism, but a chain nonetheless. You had traded the chaos of being wanted by three devils for the quiet, smothering order of being kept by one.
But it was the other consequence that whispered through the room, a chill that had nothing to do with the Gotham night. Minhkhoa Khan had not simply conceded. He had been… enlightened. In your whimsical, pastry-driven decision, he had seen the ultimate expression of cosmic indifference. You had not chosen Bruce’s morality. You had chosen his catering. And in doing so, you had rendered Khoa’s grand philosophical war irrelevant. You had not rejected his darkness; you had ignored it for a cream puff.
That was an insult his pride could never absorb.
He was gone, but his purpose now burned with a colder, more focused flame. Bruce saw you as a treasure to be protected. Khoa now saw you as the ultimate proof to be acquired. To prove that nothing, not even a five-century-old soul with the purity of a child, was beyond the reach of his will. To prove that your choice was meaningless. He would not rest until you were his, not to guide but to worship, to show you—and himself—that the cream puffs, the alliances, the very concept of choice, were all just illusions, that true power was in the hands of immense pleasure.
You looked at the empty space where he had stood, the last sweet taste of cream turning to ash in your mouth. You had chosen a sanctuary, but in doing so, you had made yourself the single most fascinating object of desire for the most patient and brilliant predator you had ever known. Your pilgrimage was over. The hunt had just begun.
Hihi sweetheart! Can I request Leon x reader AU oneshot:
You wanted to spend your last high school years with Leon. Leon will be going off to college at Raccoon City with Ada, his girlfriend.
Well, you have other plans. You are going to South Korea for a K-pop audition to debut in a group. You are going to tell him today, but an urgent call interrupted him.
Ada got into a car accident. Leon blamed you. If he did not go on this trip with you, Ada would be alright. This is not the Leon you fall in love with. You don't recognise him.
10 years later, you are now 28, and your group - Cotton Candy - has sold out arenas, travelling the world to meet your fans and winning multiple awards.
You enjoy being on stage. You have millions of fans loving you. But sometimes, you just wonder how Leon is doing? You don't have the guts to even ping him a message after what has happened.
At your last stop in Washington D.C. You love the enjoy that your fans have been giving you. You look through the crowd, enjoying the moment. However, someone caught your eye.
You saw Leon. The Leon that you have fallen in love since childhood is at your concert. You did not know how to react. Should you be happy, angry, or sad to see him? You decided to move along, having small interaction with your fans.
After your last concert has ended, your group has decided to go their separate ways. You came back to Washington D.C.
Somehow, you got a email from Leon. He wants to meet up with you for coffee tomorrow. You agree to meet him.
It was awkward. You physically saw him 7 years ago. He looks more mature and handsome. You found out that him and Ada have broken up after the high school graduation and went to a police academy. Leon apologies to you that happen 10 years ago. Leon ask if you can be friends again with him.
The ending is up to you to decide!
This was a very detailed request so I hope I did good! I'm not gonna do an intro since I feel like you covered the essentials lol.
You caught your breath under the flashing lights, feet planted firmly on the stage. Beads of sweat pearled at your hairline, threatening to smudge your perfect makeup. But it was no match for your stylists setting spray.
You're on your final concert of your last tour. Your eyes turn glossy, vision blurring. Your dream of being an international sensation lasted less time than you had hoped. But the industry decided that a 28 year old woman no longer appealed to the masses. Sure, a man could be 28. But a girl couldn't. So here you were, about to part ways with Cotton Candy.
You look down at the crowd, trying to memorize this feeling. But your brows furrow - is that who you think it is? Is it a figment of your imagination? Or is Leon Kennedy really staring at you from the crowd?
You'd be lying if you said you hadn't fantasized about this very situation. That you would see him, that he would find you after the show, that you'd confess your love for him. That he would reciprocate it. Like you said, a fantasy.
The encore was torture, your attention divided. You tried and failed to find him. Did he leave? You say goodbye to your fans, to the arena. But you leave your heart with the man who slipped away.
That night felt like ages ago, though it wasn't. After trying to launch a solo career with little success, you settle on retiring and living off of the passive income from music streams.
After a few months of living in Korea, you decided to move back to Washington D.C. because the paparazzi would be a little calmer there.
Of course, in the back of you mind, was Leon. But you were short on courage. You could write countless songs about him and sing them to crowds, saying all but his name. But you couldn't find his number and tell him you were in town.
That's why you were surprised to find an email of all things. Agent Kennedy?
Hey, it's Leon. Heard you moved back in town. Up for coffee later? Here's my number, if you want to text instead. ----
Huh. How did he even know? Is he keeping tabs on my or something? Your thumbs hover frozen over your phone's keyboard. Should you go see him? He's probably married to Ada by now. Will he still blame you for her accident?
Last time you saw him he wasn't your Leon. He was her Leon. And you don't know if you can handle seeing that again.
But your fingers type before you can realize what you're saying.
Hey, It's Y/N. Coffee sounds good, where and when?
You took a few deep breaths before pushing the cafe door open, the bell above the door jingling. You feel your breath heating the inside of your face mask and you can't wait to take it off when you get to your table.
You see that dirty blond hair and know its him.
You sit at the table and take your mask off, watching his eyes widen slightly, subtle enough to miss if you weren't watching him so closely.
"Hey." He pushes out awkwardly.
You waved your hand weakly, "Hi. Long time no see, huh?"
He nodded his head and leaned back in the booth, "Yeah. So you're uh, not in your band anymore?"
You smirked at him calling it a band, like an old man. True, you were nearly thirty. Is that old? "Yeah, we split. It's good to be back in the states."
He smiled that radiant smile, "Couldn't stay away from McDonalds, huh? It's just not the same abroad."
You chuckled at his terrible joke just like old times before sobering, "Do you travel overseas a lot, then? I thought you were going to be a cop?"
"I was, for a while." He picked at the leather of his jacket, "Now I'm working for the government. That's about all I can say."
"Ooh, fancy. Does... Ada work?" You eye him cautiously.
He winces slightly, "We're not together anyway. Not for a long time. Right after high school, actually."
Your eyes widened, "Oh, that is a long time!" Why didn't you reach out before?
The waitress comes and takes your orders, interrupting your flow of conversation.
You decided to be brave, tired of the years without any word from him. "Why reach out now, after so long?"
"Well I heard word that you're back in town, so I thought I'd say hi." He looks out the window.
"That's a lie, Leon." You cross your arms, "I saw you at my last concert. So clearly, that's not the reason you reached out."
He sighs, "I feel bad how we left things-"
"How you left things!" You huff out.
He leans his elbows on the table, "Yeah, how I left things. I was wrong. I want to apologize. I want to... be friends again. Like old times."
You paused, not quite expecting that answer. You look down, "It really hurt, Leon. You were my best friend... You were... everything to me."
He furrows his brows, saddened by your words. He takes a sip of his coffee and thinks of a reply that will show you how he feels. "I really am sorry. I acted like an idiot teenager, which I was. I was... dealing with some complicated feelings."
"Why did you and Ada break up?" You raise a brow, "Because of those 'complicated feelings'?"
He nods reluctantly, "I- er, was feeling attached to someone else. Ada could tell, so she broke up with me."
"Oh," You eat a bite of food, trying to process the information. Was the person he attached to... me? And what does attached really mean in this situation?
"But that's all in the past. I just want to make up with you. I miss what we had... you were my best friend too, you know." He smiles fondly, as though the memories were replaying in front of his eyes.
"Well, I might have a bit of free time in my schedule..." You smirk and take a sip of you latte.
He smiles too, "Good. Although fair warning, I go out of town for long periods of time. I don't contact anyone during my mis- work trips. So... don't take it personal if I don't respond."
"Noted," You nod, "Dinner on thursday?"
He smiles like he did when he was a kid, "Count me in."
Maybe you'll finally find out who he was attached to. Maybe you can turn things around, after all.
Gaz meets a confident girl at a bar in LA and wants more.
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COD MASTERLIST
Asian readers/OC's need to be more prevalent. Please let me know if there are things Asian people would like me to add. Specifically East Asian. And if you're part of other Asian groups and would like me to make something with said group, please let me know.
Los Angeles was not the city that Alex and Farah enjoyed being in. Neither Rudy nor Alejandro, nor even the 141 in general. However, one of Laswell’s younger cousins was getting married, and the kid had given them a lot of helpful intel.
If not, Johnny would be six feet under. That led them to a bar that was fairly active yet charming for 12:30 am. ‘For the Community,’ it said on the sign outside.
Gaz had been finishing up his drink with the guys—and Farah—when a weird song started playing.
‘Girl, you got me moving,…
You got with me no hands!’
What the fuck. Glancing at the others, Price was listening to the lyrics halfheartedly. Then, turning towards the dance floor, Gaz did a double-take. A woman with silky black hair, tapered eyelids, and a nose piercing was dancing carefree with what looked like her friends.
She was holding her drink at the same time and singing along to her favorite parts. The most egregious parts, in Kyle's opinion. After a minute, she pauses, chugs the rest of her drink, and motions that she's going to get another drink. Near him.
Shit.
Looking back to his right, the others had opted to go near a corner and make their own fun, abandoning Kyle in the process.
Fucking traitors.
"Hey, handsome." He froze for a split second but quickly regained composure when he turned to address her. Fuck she was beautiful. She said her name, and Kyle barely caught it because he was staring at her eyes for a bit too long.
Her dark eyes hypnotized him in the light.
"Kyle." She raised an eyebrow at his accent as her drink was served.
"Friends call me Synth. Ever had a Pink Whitney?"
"A what?" She lifted her drink and offered it to him to try. He hesitated but folded at her smile, tempting him closer. "Bollocks." She laughed at his reaction.
"Figures, you might like a strawberry buzzball better."
"If it's like that, no, I prefer more distinguished beverages."
"Is that you saying you're simple?"
"Would that be bad?" She smirked and leaned closer, finished her drink yet again, but this time offered her hand.
"Wanna dance?" The song was still playing, occasionally getting replayed by the DJ. He had to admit, Laswell's cousin picked a vibrant place.
"You might have to lead, wouldn't wanna overstep when I'm holding you." He said, placing his hand on hers, allowing her to drag him onto the dance floor.
Only then did a whistle cut through the crowd to Gaz's ear, making him look back. Alejandro had a wide grin like the others who had most definitely watched the scene unfold.
He's fucked.
Reaching the dance floor, she led him for a bit before getting lost in the rhythm and finding a pace comfortable for both of them. Her hands guided him to her hips, keeping her close.
After about two song switches, her friend—who he realized was Kate's cousin's maid of honor—came up to them.
"Michelle wants us to go shotgun, and then get tacos."
"Oh fuck yeah!" Kyle laughed at her enthusiasm. She was still holding his hand, and he wasn't going to remind her. She turned towards him and smiled wider, "Wanna come with us? I think your friends are trying to leave either way, and we're all heading to the same hotel."
He glanced to the corner and sure enough, Alejandro and Rudy were cuddled together, talking to Price and Nik, Soap and Ghost, and Kate and Mary, and Farah was sitting on Alex's lap on one of the seats. They all looked done with the vibe of this place; then again, he had been the only one who had been able to take advantage of it.
"Let me ask them. Come find me."
"You got it, pretty boy." He smirked at her nickname and walked over to the others. Noticing him approaching, Laswell's left lip corner lifted.
"She finally tell you to leave?" The others teased, but he just smiled wider.
"Synth wants us to go with her and Michelle to get tacos."
"Chingasé, let's go!" Rudy exclaimed excitedly as Alejandro laughed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. As her and her friends came over, Michelle introduced everyone, then made her way outside with everyone following.
"Taco stands around the corner, my treat. Also, who wants to shotgun?" Synth's hand shot up immediately, along with some of her friends and Rudy, Farah, and Soap. "You know how to shotgun?" Ghost behind Johnny shook his head no, which Soap caught and shoved him jokingly.
"First time for everything, Kate, you don't want one? You were the winner last time."
"I'm the driver tonight; Mary can do it."
"I'm alright, love, young ones can have their fun." As Nik and Price protested, saying they weren't that old, she came up again to Gaz and whispered not so quietly.
"Here I thought you'd want to show off, pretty boy." He was about to reply before Soap cut him off.
"Pretty boy!? I didn't know you were staying somewhere else tonight, Gaz!" Gaz went to hit him, but was cut off by Synth.
"Shit, I wouldn't mind." Whistles and jostling were thrown at Gaz, and all he could do was take in what she said.
Michelle came back with Twisted Tea cans and handed one each to Rudy and Soap. Grabbing his house key, Rudy broke it for both of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Gaz caught Alejandro looking at Rudy in a certain way. Ew. At least Alex was cute about how he looked at Farah.
Michelle opened up Synths and her friends and started a countdown. When it ended, they all started chugging from the hole at the bottom of the can after flicking the top open. Soap had a bit of a late start because he was observing, but was able to catch up.
Then a can fell to the ground. Synth started laughing in victory and did a little dance, making everyone around her laugh. Farah finished right after and looked at Alex with a small smile.
"Never again?" She nodded, and he laughed at her bluntness.
"Right, I'm hungry, and I want lengua tacos." She said, picking up her can and tossing it into a nearby trash can. "You're with me, pretty boy, I want to get to know you before we end up dancing at Michelle's wedding."
"That better be all you do, Synth!" Michelle yelled, and Synth only mock saluted in response, grabbing Gaz's hand yet again, and this time ran off towards the taco stand, laughing as they went.
"So how long till that becomes a thing?"
"Three months and she'll be living with him wherever he lives."
"Six months and they barely have their first kiss."
"Deal. Loser buys a bottle of Guinness." John and Ghost shook on it whilst everyone else watched the love story from a few blocks in front of them.
Every time you fought Scarecrow, there was always a putrid thing clinging onto him, whispering Biblical verses, threatening to send him into the church, a child of sin. It’s hard to ignore it.
You decide it's time for some (unasked for) intervention.
Notes: Hello! I made this oneshot to just test the waters of what I wanted to write. A possible full-fleshed out story will be down the line, so this oneshot kinda establishes the dynamics between the OC (in the second POV) and Jonathan. I am unsure if I still wanted to make this character a vigilante or something else, but the supernatural aspects will still be there when I do flesh this out.
Your eyes allow you to see all sorts of wonderful things around Gotham: dead people, demons, angels, spirits, and all of the other spooky stuff. You’ve been trained to ignore them, for if you give them attention, they will latch on to you and never let you go. However, there was one particular spirit that was difficult to ignore because you’ve always had to fight the Scarecrow while that massive wretched thing latched onto him for dear life.
There are a lot of spirits that hold onto villains when they’ve been killed, hammering their sorrows, grudges, and regrets on them like nails. However, this entity… it was different. Terrifying, even, and you were sick of seeing that thing around him (frankly, because it was scary and difficult to ignore, and also it’s your other job to exorcise spirits to help them move on).
To truly help Scarecrow (he doesn’t know that you’re doing this), you first had to find him. He’s not really active all the time (probably making more fear gas, but make it better!). You sighed, looking at your outfit, a pristine white suit. Well, it’s normally pristine. However, after your last encounter with him, there were a few ripped holes in the suit and it was dirty. Maybe he left some DNA on it. You inspected the suit closely, and picked one strand of brown hair off of it.
You grabbed the map of Gotham city from the table and placed the hair on top of the map.
“Find,” you uttered in Latin, and the map began to glow. The concentration of the light began to condense on one spot in the Narrows. You grinned, memorizing the location, and began to get ready. You don’t think this was going to be an easy exorcism.
An hour later
You reached the location of a dirty, run-down warehouse. The sun was setting in Gotham, making the ambiance of what you were going to do even more fitting. There were no guards at the warehouse, maybe to make it look inconspicuous, but you know the reality of it was far more sinister.
You strode towards the door, trying the knob. Locked. It’s not going to stay locked anymore. You kicked down the door, and the smell of chemicals and medicine hit your nostrils. Disgusting.
“Who dares-” Scarecrow was in the middle of the warehouse, wearing a labcoat and goggles mixing chemicals at a station, by himself (not really, trying to avoid the gaze of the hulking thing right next to him). His russet hair was unkempt. “How did you find me?”
“Magic,” you replied, which can either be interpreted sarcastically or literally. “I’ve decided to pity you and came here, not as Seance, but as an exorcist offering my services.”
Scarecrow put the beakers into their holders, and removed his goggles. His icy, blue eyes were staring at you, wearing your usual attire (when you beat him up) and your signature weapon, a bronze pewter staff with three rings encircled around the top of the staff (which you also use to beat him).
“I wear this outfit when I’m exorcising spirits, too. I can only have so many signature looks,” You noticed him eyeing you, clearly not buying what you’re selling, “and the staff is particularly tough cookies. You know, Japanese exorcism uses both spiritual and physical ways to get rid of spirits.”
“Get out of my hideout, before I gas you with my experimental fear toxin,” Scarecrow crossed his arms. You rolled your eyes, goodness what a drama king.
“Listen, Scarecrow. I am only here to help,” You couldn’t really say what was the issue because then it’ll alert that fiend leeching off of him. “Your warehouse is haunted with bad vibes, and I just want to cleanse it. It’s been bothering me.” Ah, a completely selfless way to put it. Scarecrow started to reach for a canister that was on the table. “Wait, wait, wait!”
You ran towards him, taking out a pocket mirror from your pants. Maybe this’ll get him to listen to you. These damn skeptics and villains, always hard to persuade. Even when you’re giving free help! Normally, you would charge a fortune for something like this!
“Take a look, but don’t get scared,” you warned, jumping (he is so damn tall), and wrapping your arm around his neck to pull him down. You could feel his heated gaze at the notion of him being scared and also touching him without permission. Nonetheless, both of you stared at the mirror, there was nothing behind you. However, you could feel Scarecrow tense as you finally showed him what you’ve been seeing. A massive, hulking figure, just as tall as the warehouse that you were in. Long gangly limbs, its hands are huge and the tips of its elongated fingers were wrapped around Scarecrow’s neck, like a noose ready to be pulled. The head was massive, hair was stringy, nearly bald. All of the features of this wretched thing were exaggerated, extremely angular and pointed. The entity’s eyes were bulging out of their socket, pressed into Scarecrow’s face. It was intensely focused on him.its mouth was on Scarecrow’s ear, frantically whispering with its cracked thin lips. He couldn’t hear it, but you can.
“MyGod,Iamsorryformysinswithallmyheart.Inchoosingtodowrongandfailingtodogood,IhavesinnedagainstyouwhomIshouldloveaboveallthings.Ifirmlyintend,withyourhelp,todopenance,tosinnomore,andtoavoidwhateverleadsmetosin.OurSaviorJesusChristsufferedanddiedforus.Inhisname,myGod,havemercy.Amen.MyGod,Iamsorryformysinswithallmyheart.Inchoosingtodowrongandfailingtodogood,IhavesinnedagainstyouwhomIshouldloveaboveallthings.Ifirmlyintend,withyourhelp,todopenance,tosinnomore,andtoavoidwhateverleadsmetosin.OurSaviorJesusChristsufferedanddiedforus.Inhisname,myGod,havemercy.Amen." All in one breath, and says it over and over and over again.
You closed the pocket mirror, and released Scarecrow. His face was stoic, but you saw the storm and recognition in his eyes. He was not pleased at this discovery. Who would be?
“What do you need?” Scarecrow asked, jaw clenching, using a hand to remove his goggles.
“An empty warehouse and a lot of salt,” you answered, cracking your hands. It was time to get started.
Two Hours Later
Fortunately enough, he did have another hideout that was empty. These damned villains with all their hideouts and warehouses. Maybe Gotham should stop building warehouses for villains to purchase, so they can have nowhere to hide.
“I’m going to set up the bounded field,” You explained to him, pulling out four huge bottles of Morton’s Salt. “The purpose is to trap it in this warehouse, where I will help it ‘move on’ so to speak. You cannot acknowledge its name until I set it up.”
“How do you know I know it?” Scarecrow was eyeing all of the salt. The good thing about spirits is that they don’t know that you’re talking about them, until you either make eye contact with them or say their name. Rejoice, for anonymous pronouns. You opened one of them, and began to pour it around the perimeter of the warehouse, saving the door for last.
“Entities that big must have been feeding on you for some time. A long time even,” You explained. “It doesn’t help that it looks like you, without all the nasty features.” Scarecrow didn’t say anything else, just observing you throwing the empty bottle of salt on the ground and opening a new one to pour. You finally made your way to the near beginning, stopping at the door, which is unsalted.
“I’m going to finish telling you the plan,” you breathed in, calming any nerves you had to feel nothing. Scarecrow grinned.
“Are you scared, Seance?” He latched onto his observation, savoring it. Instead of being annoyed, you gave him a small smile.
“I am always scared, Scarecrow,” you were honest with him. Seeing these things everyday for the past 30 years of living was always terrifying. To try and pretend they don’t exist is a skill. To not flinch is a skill. To look beyond and ahead of them is a skill. The dead latch onto whoever notices them to not be forgotten because that is what true death is, oblivion. You cleared your throat. “Anyways, we are going to go in there, and I will put the rest of the salt over the door. The salt is a barrier to keep things out, but this time, I’m keeping it in, just in case I die. At least it will stay here. You will run out of the warehouse, while I fight it. Don’t break the salt line, or else it will come after you and kill you because you’ve acknowledged it.”
“So, if you die, and the salt line is broken, I die?” Scarecrow repeats for clarification. You nod your head. “Why can’t it just live with me?”
“It’s draining a lot of life force out of you, so you’ll die faster than what your life expectancy would be. Also, it’s probably going to feed on someone else, so…” you trailed off, “I might as well strike while the iron is hot, so to speak.”
“This is fantastic,” Scarecrow’s sarcasm was bleeding through his monotone voice. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get this over with.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” you grinned. Both of you walked towards the door, and you gestured at it. “Haunted ones first.” He opened the door, ignoring your pathetic attempt at lightening the mood and stepped in. You finished pouring the rest of the salt and entered the battlefield, wielding your pewter staff. The warehouse was empty, no boxes, no pallets, nothing. It was perfect.
“Please whisper to me the name,” you commanded. Scarecrow leaned over, his mouth on your ear made you shiver.
“Mary Keeny,” his voice was deep, calm, but you knew he was tense. You were starting to become familiar with his ticks from seeing each other all the time. Scarecrow coughed after he said that name, you eyed the spirit’s hands tightening on his neck. The acknowledgement that it was craving to not be forgotten. You caressed Scarecrow’s face, his eyes looking at you, trying to read you. You felt his jaw tense at the contact. You were focused, looking not at Scarecrow, but at the grossly large eye pressed on his face on the other side. Your hand trailed down his face to touch his neck. It was time. You pulled at the hands acting as his rope. The pupil appeared to focus on you, gripping his neck harder. Scarecrow wheezed, the air flow being restricted. The entity was strong, but you were stronger. You grunted, successfully tearing off the hands from his throat and throwing the demonic spirit to the other side of the warehouse. You looked at Scarecrow, who was panting for air. You used your free hand to lightly push on his arm to remind him what he had to do.
“Run,” you simply stated, turning away from him to focus on your real target, who was beginning to get up from the floor. Keeny was on all fours, its eyes focusing on its original victim for the past how many years. The entity charged and roared. “Oh, no you don’t!” You gripped the pewter staff in both hands, swinging it like you were playing baseball straight into Keeny’s face.
“That bastard child! He is a sin, a crime! He needs to be rid of! To be punished!” The spirit howled, and turned to you. “You are one of Satan’s demons, the devil assisting wretched spawn into the Lord’s earth. IwillkillyouIwillkillyouIwillkillyou.” You whistled. This was intense.
“Pretty sure, ‘thou shall not kill’ is in the Bible,” you snarked. “We gotta get you back to Sunday school.” Keeny charged at you again, leaping to crush you with its gigantic hands. Swiftly, you dodged, and leapt to bring the bottom of the staff into its eye. The entity hissed, spouting more Bible bullshit about the Lord and what not. You sighed, pulling the staff out of the eye, hopping to the ground. It was going to be a long night.
Jonathan exited the warehouse, shutting the door behind him. He heard an unearthly howl that almost sounded like his great grandmother’s voice. It was unpleasant, seeing someone he killed return feasting upon him like the crows when he was trapped in that run-down church. She was supposed to be dead, he made sure of it. Jonathan heard the faint ringing from your staff from the inside, all too familiar with how hard you hit with that thing. It was oddly humorous that now you were beating his great grandmother with it too.
He rubbed his face, feeling how his stubble was growing out, thinking about the strangely intimate way you caressed his check. Touch from you was normally brutal (when targeted towards him, only because he’s committing crimes), the contrast of how soft you can be was also interesting. Jonathan closed his eyes, thinking of how fiercely determined you were to get rid of Granny Keeny. The way that you gently touched his arm and told him to run, yet your hand was subtly shaking. You said you were always scared, but why not overcome it? To take control of it and use it? That aspect of you was interesting. Something that he wanted to study and to prove that you were wrong.
Suddenly, he heard a loud crash, snapping his eyes open. He saw a hole in the wall with your body flying out of it, landing on the concrete with a sickening thud, staff in hand. Jonathan watched as the creature that was his great grandmother punched through to make a bigger gap. The skin burning as it forcefully climbs through the gap, ignoring the salt barrier. Jonathan heard you cough.
“Holy shit, this is worse than I thought,” you groaned, while using your staff to assist you standing. Jonathan saw that your face had been battered and bruised, and your suit was torn and tattered. To see you look so ruined was a usual sight for him to see after your battles together. It should’ve pleased him, but it somewhat pissed him off that it was done by his great granny’s hands and not his. He heard that old crone roar and stare directly at him in his peripheral vision.
“Jonathan!” The tone in its screech was so familiar to him, his mind flashbacks to all of the times she reprimanded and punished him, spouting every verse in the Bible taken out of context to deny him of his existence. He gritted his teeth, the familiar feeling of fear growing in his stomach and taking root. Jonathan thought he grew beyond this, that he was only scared of one thing and one thing alone, but was it seeing Keeny in this form that made him frightened? “Wretched boy, I will throw you back into that church to make you repent!”
One of the creature’s limbs hit the ground, then another. Keeny’s body destroyed more of the side of the warehouse as it kept pushing through its burns, the smell of burnt skin reaching Jonathan’s nose. He can’t let this thing get closer to him. Jonathan started to run, but Keeny was faster. He felt himself get grabbed tightly by its monstrously, large hands. Jonathan felt the breath leave his body by the tightening squeeze as he was brought face to face to his great granny. Its eyes were crossed to look at him. Jonathan struggled to move, wriggling in its hands, but it was futile. He was stuck in a vice grip, his head whipping around to try and find you, but you were gone. Jonathan felt a sudden fury in his chest. Did you just leave him here? To die?
Using his newfound fury in a productive way, Jonathan began to rant and rave at this creature, “you old crone, I will be the one to throw you back into that godforsaken church again! I will be the one to put you down, yet again! You should’ve stayed dead!” Each word in that last sentence was pointed and coated with malice. The grip grew tighter, and Jonathan wheezed, feeling something crack in his arms.
“You disrespectful, little boy. I will be the one to send you to your grave and send you to hell,” Keeny opened its mouth, unnaturally wide. Jonathan’s eyes widened, seeing a flurry of crows exit out of its mouth and flying towards him at a rapid speed. He felt the scratches of their talons and beaks on his face and shoulders. Jonathan shut his eyes tightly, feeling something akin to acceptance replace the fury in his body. This was the end for him. He was going to be eaten. What a pathetic way to die, not by Batman’s hands or your hands. Not even a cop shooting him in custody. He was going to be peaked to death by crows and eaten by the old crone.
Suddenly, Jonathan heard the sound of metal moving in the distance, and he opened his eyes. Clink. Clink. Clink. It was faint, but melodic like chimes in the wind, hitting each other gently. The crows fly off, the sound scaring them off, and his great grandmother turns its attention away from him at this noise. Three, bronze rings quickly fly from the top of the warehouse, expanding in diameter. The bronze rings were emitting a light that turned their color from brown to gold. The rings opened, turning into large half circles, and rapidly approached him and the ghoul. Before Keeny could react to this scene, the half circles trapped the creature.
Two rings ensnared Keeny's left and right hands, and one captured its neck. The moment of capture immediately brought its hands and neck to the floor, the impact crumbling the concrete beneath it. The hand holding Jonathan released him at the confusion of being captured. . The being howled and fought against the restraints. However, it was unable to break away, the restraints too strong.
“I think it’s actually time to send you to hell,” your voice rang clear and strong. His eyes looked for you and saw that you were standing at the top of the warehouse looking down at Keeny. In your hands was the staff, but Jonathan saw it was changing form. From the top of your staff, the finial transformed into a long curved, single-edged blade. Jonathan watched you crouch down and leapt off, your long hair whipping wildly in the wind. In a single moment, you brought your weapon above your head with both hands, and like a guillotine coming down for execution, you cleanly cleaved his great granny’s head off. The head landed on the floor and rolled right in front of him. The head and body began to disintegrate from the beheading. It was oddly satisfying to see Keeny die again, albeit in a different way.
You landed on the ground gracefully, the blade changing back into the circular finial and the rings returned from the creature’s body and reattached itself to the finial. You sighed, looking at the disintegrating thing. Then, you clasped your hands and bowed your head.
“You don’t have to pray for that hag,” Jonathan said after a moment. You didn’t look his way, still retaining the position.
“It’s kinda my job to pray,” you responded, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze. You sighed again, and collapsed to the ground. You looked up at the moon. “Ugh, it’s finally over. I’m beat.”
Jonathan let out a small breath, feeling the aching in his body from when the creature grabbed. He sat on the ground with you, looking at the ruined wall of the warehouse. “You owe me repairs for this.”
You scowled and looked at him, “Shouldn’t killing that thing be enough payment?”
“I never asked for this,” Jonathan countered, “you could always be my next test subject for the fear toxin. I’ve changed the chemical composition to cause more… adverse effects on the senses. In fact-”
“Pass,” a quick response. “Let’s just get Thai food?”
“Thai food and a small dosage of the experimental toxin.” You looked thoughtful about his proposition.
“Thai food, the small dosage, the cure for said small dosage, $300, and not killing me accidentally.” Now, he pondered over your proposition. You stood up from your position on the concrete, your staff disappearing in a flash of light. You looked down at him, offering your hand to help him stand.
“Deal,” Jonathan grabs your hand. It was calloused and rough. He never expected that it would feel like this.
“Great,” you let go of his hand, “I know a good place in the Narrows. It’s actually really good. The Pad See Ew is to die for.” He merely hummed in response, following after you.
