Guardian Angel
CW: Stalking, people breaking into your apartment (Arkham Knight and others), people brushing off an obvious issue, and violence. Be warned, there are no angels in Gotham. ~2.2k words
You have a stalker. Probably. Maybe. If you do, they're so good at covering their tracks that you're starting to believe you're just paranoid.
But it's the odd events, the trinkets moved slightly out of place, that have you checking over your shoulder.
There wasn't even any evidence at first. Your day had been completely normal. All you were doing was cooking dinner, when your nerves went on end, and goosebumps rose on your skin. The feeling of being watched, of being prey set in.
It didn't make sense, didn't have a reason, but you closed your curtains and triple checked your locks nonetheless. (The bat you keep by your bed slept next to you that night)
You would have forgotten about the incident entirely if, a week later, the same feeling crept up your spine while you walked home. You'd never walked faster to get to your building. You'd practically sprinted up the stairs to your apartment, and slammed to the door behind you.
Even within your home, it took almost the whole night for the feeling to fade.
Two times could be a coincidence, but then things started getting stranger.
You could have sworn you left your keys on the counter the night before, so why, why did you find them on the coffee table?
It makes you uneasy, almost sick, but you're already late to work. So you do the only thing you can, you brush it off.
Until it happens. A thing you can't brush off.
You knew you had used the last of the sugar yesterday. Knew it because you had made a mental note to pick some up the next time you went to the store.
But there's sugar. It's not a lot. Just enough to get you through a few days. Enough to make you think you might have just missed the last of it.
You know you're right. You know you were out of sugar and even if your coworkers laugh and tell you to get more sleep, that having an angel that refills your sugar can't be that bad, you know someone's been in your apartment.
You set traps, set cameras, get your locks changed, take note of everything. You don't get any evidence.
But you notice that your window doesn't squeak anymore when you open it. Your shower doesn't rattle when you go to start it. Your oven actually heats up to the temperature you set it to.
It's been like this for months now. And you're starting to believe that Gotham does have its own set of angels that go around trying to make your life a little easier.
That is until, you meet him.
You'd been unlucky. Gotten grabbed and dragged into the alley by your apartment by some haggard looking man waving a gun. It wasn't the first time you'd been mugged in Gotham, and you doubted it would be the last.
You had reluctantly pulled your wallet and phone out of your pockets and handed them off when an armored-clad person dropped between the gun and you.
At first, it was a relief. Being saved by Batman or Nightwing is practically a rite of passage in Gotham.
But then you watched the would-be mugger hit the ground with a sickening crunch of his arm. Then you watched your savior turn to face you, and you knew it was him.
You didn't have an explanation, you didn't have proof. You'd never even seen a glimpse of the helmet that hid his face before. But you knew. He's the one that's been following you. He's the one that's been in your home.
No amount of good deeds can overshadow how violating it feels, to know he's been watching you, observing you, doing things for you. You instinctively step back.
He only matches the distance you tried to create with a step of his own.
"Who are you? What do you want," You snap, sounding braver than you feel.
He doesn't answer at first, just tilts his head like he's studying you. You think it might be because he's never seen you think close before.
"I saved you," he says instead, completely avoiding your question. You wonder if he's expecting to be treated like a hero, if he's looking for your praise. It makes your stomach churn.
"You've been following you. You're the one who's been in my apartment," You protest, eyes darting.
You half expect someone to come help you. With the way he's dressed, with how he's carrying himself, he has to be some kind of new villian you missed on the news.
He straightens out at your accusation, "Have I?"
You almost falter, almost do chalk it up to paranoia, but you just knew. Every fiber of your being knows, "Yes," You breathe out instead, "You have."
He nods slowly, then turns his back to you. A part of you wants to run, to try and escape and scream and get as far away from the man who feels like he could make you disappear without a trace.
He bends down and scoops up your phone and wallet before turning back to you. You freeze when he walks closer, each step steady and measured, then extends your belongings to you. Your hand shakes when you snatch at them.
You half expect him to yank them away, to make you beg, but he doesn't. He only keeps his grip tight on them, forcing you to be connected while you tug helpless at your things.
He watches you with his head slightly cocked before speaking again, "And if I have?"
He's easy, robotic cadence makes your blood grow cold, "Then you should stop," You retort, voice as cold as your veins.
"And if I won't," he prompts, finally releasing his hold on your things.
"I'll go to the police," You threaten, stuffing your wallet and phone back into your pockets.
"They can't help you," he warns. It makes you uneasy, that he makes no attempt to keep space between you. Even if his body language doesn't seem dangerous, everything else about him does.
"They can contact Batman," You try instead.
He laughs. It sounds humorless, empty, "He can't help you either."
You lose your nerve then, when he pats your cheek, and the guns holstered to his side seem to glint at you. "Get home," he tells you, and it makes you feel like you're some kind of pet.
And then he's gone, leaving you to an alley empty of anything, save for you and the mugger crumpled to the ground. All you can do is go home. Sleep doesn't come for you that night.
He's sloppy, now that he knows you know. You can tell it's on purpose.
Flashes of glowing blue outside your window, your things carelessly shifted about your apartment, the broken fan that hasn't worked since you moved in left on and spinning when you come home from work.
The only place he hasn't seemed to touch is your bedroom. You're not sure if it's because he's showing some slightest form of respect or if he's simply too good at hiding his tracks for you to notice.
Both options make you feel anxious, and you constantly comb over your things for proof of his presence.
You rack your brain over it, lose sleep over it, but you can't come up with one idea of who he is and why he's doing this.
There's nothing on him in the news, nothing on the internet, not even a whisper on the streets.
It feels like it's all one big, sick game to him when your favorite flowers start showing up at your door, when your gas tank fills itself.
When you tell your coworkers, in a near panic, about your rent being mysteriously paid, they tell you it's harmless, it's kind of sweet, really.
Shouldn't you just be grateful that someone's doing all that for you? Shouldn't you be thankful to have an angel looking out for you in this city?
But you know it's not harmless. You know he's capable of so much more. You know he's no angel.
The sound of the mugger's arm snapping still haunts you.
But you don't know what to do. You're stuck, on edge, and slowly coming to terms with having to live like this forever.
That is, until your bad luck seems to get even worse. You were in your pajamas, already half asleep as you're lounging on your couch, when your world gets thrown into chaos.
There's a click in your apartment door's lock, and you have the terrifying realization that tonight's the one night you'd forgotten to throw the deadbolt.
"I told ya I could get the keys to this floor. And barely anybody lives in this building afta what happen ta Murphy," the heavy Gotham accent fills your apartment and three men file into your living room like they own it.
They freeze when they see you, and you don't hesitate to sprint for your fire escape.
You've just managed to throw your window open when one of them grabs you around the middle and hauls you back, throwing you to the floor. Your head knocks against the ground, and everything spins.
You think you whimper as they start bickering. "You said no one would be here!"
"They weren't supposed ta be! It's all supposed ta be empty," one of them snaps back. It only makes your head pound and your vision swim.
You try to push yourself off the floor, but a boot lands at the center of your back and forces you back to the ground, "We have to kill them."
Murmurs of reluctance fill the room, and for a second, you think you'll get to live.
"They saw our faces," You hear the telltale sound of a gun clicking off its safety, "I'll do it."
You flinch with the shot sounds, but no more pain comes. The weight comes off your back, and a body collapses to the floor next to you.
You lift your head just enough to see a familiar blur of blue charge at the remaining two men.
It's not so much of a fight as it is an execution. It's a struggle to keep your eyes open, but anything you can't see you can hear.
There's no mercy in his actions, all wrath and fury, and you want to laugh because, in a way, he is your guardian angel. An avenging angel, pummeling the people who threatened you into something unrecognizable.
You're sure how long it lasts, how long you hear his fists connect to their flesh. But eventually, your apartment goes quiet. The sound of fabric shuffling reaches your ears, and calloused hands carefully help you move until you're sitting up.
Warm palms press to your face you realize he's taken his gloves off. You force your eyes to open, morbidly curious if he's removed his helmet, too. You're not sure why you're disappointed he hasn't.
"Saved me again," You mumble, words almost slurring.
"You're not safe here," he says softly, and his thumb runs over your cheek like he's trying to comfort you.
"They didn't think anyone lived here," You supply, but he apparently doesn't find that very reassuring.
"Let's get you out here," he says instead, and you blame it on your head injury for being impressed at how he doesn't show any signs of struggling when he picks you up and cradles you to his chest.
"Don't have anywhere to go," you say weakly, mentally trying to do the math on how much a safe hotel would cost at this time of night.
The moonlight seems to give his helmet an odd shine as you stare hazily at him. It almost looks like a halo.
"I have a place," he tells you, already carrying you out of your apartment window.
That snaps you out of your thoughts. It makes you frown, even in your dazed state, you know you don't want to go with him. That even with the trick of the light, he's no angel.
You start to squirm, "No– no, wait–"
"You need somewhere safe to recover," he says, and he doesn't seem to notice your fidgeting. Your heart leaps to your throat, at how securely he's holding you. With anyone else, it would have felt like a promise of protection.
"I don't trust you, you're not safe," You stumble out, head growing heavy with each step he takes from your apartment.
"No one's safe. But I don't have any plans on hurting you," he murmurs, seemingly more occupied with getting you to wherever he's planning to take you.
"But you could," You exhale out, and your voice sounds weak even to yourself.
That makes him pause, and his helmet tips as if he's focusing on you, "Maybe, but I wouldn't like it."
You want to argue more, demand he set you down. But your brain feels so foggy, and you're so tired and drained that your head just kind of finds itself on his shoulder.
"You can sleep," he says, and your eyes fall shut at how soft he sounds, "I'll keep watch."
You really do want to protest, but his shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. You can't help but think, as you drift off, that your angel might have fallen far lower than you can handle.
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just wanted to share my worthless piece on the "if i count" dynamic
lived in appalachia all my life, traveled the south a ways. i think, no matter where you're from, there's a marked difference in those of us who were spend/spent time in rural areas, tiny quiet towns, etc. and those who were raised in big cities - even big cities in the south.
all the rural areas have something in common - sure, the specific cultures and types of people who settled the land may be different, but our ancestors (and even us in modern times) had to come much more to terms with living with the land, making the most out of a little, than those who have only ever known the city, and especially those who look down on rural folks
and once you've gotten a taste of that rural life, and even the types of poverty that come with it... once you've been raised by people who lived with that, it doesn't shake out of you, no matter where you end up finding yourself. it ingrains itself in your soul, to where sometimes personally i feel like an entirely different species to those who have only ever known the concrete jungle, who have never been around anyone who trekked through the holler or hiked the plains or climbed those big mountains.
that type of living, that type of history that gets leeched into you even if you feel you didn't get the full experience of living there, puts that spirit into your soul, and you carry it. whether you got it from a life of personal experience, or you were raised by a country man or woman, or anything between.
even if you find yourself in a metropolis, you're not lookin' at it the same way that people who have always lived there do... even if it seems like them ol' hollers and hills, or plains, or valleys, or mountains are light years away.
you can't abandon it. it can't abandon you. you can try to tamper your accent, you can try to remove all signs of the "negative" stereotypes, but it's the soil that fed your roots. once you've been touched by it, you're as much the holler as the holler itself is, in a way
that's my two cents, anyway
you can't abandon it. it can't abandon you. you can try to tamper your accent, you can try to remove all signs of the "negative" stereotypes, but it's the soil that fed your roots. once you've been touched by it, you're as much the holler as the holler itself is, in a way
THIS is what i have tried n tried to say over the course of dozens of such posts, and you managed to condense it into one neat, poignant paragraph. thank you. i have nothing to add.
this whole ask is beautiful and exactly what i always want to say, actually. i'd wanna pin it to my blog but atp, i simply cannot part with The Sign
thanks so much for this. was definitely not worthless <33
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Alright, here’s my thoughts on Magnus Protocol’s first season as someone who hasn’t listened to Archives.
[No Archives Spoilers. Spoilers for Magnus Protocol Season 1 Finale.]
Initially I was unsatisfied with the ending. At first I was engaged with everything, but I felt a lot of questions I wanted to know weren’t answered. Like “What is the Archivist and their deal?” or “What is FR3-D1 up to? Why is Colin so afraid?” So that felt a little bit of a downer.
But after thinking about it, it was a really big and amazing finale that leaves me wanting more.
I got to admit The Custodian was the biggest surprise but also not really. Magnus Protocol has kept this formula of having a statement in the episode, and a lot of my IRL friends were doubtful there would be one but I knew there would be one.
What really surprised me about The Custodian was how he was turning to stone after he finished his statement. Every non-main character statement The Archivist took ended in death, but the death was a result of resisting the Archivist (25) or they were already dead (15/18). So to see what happens to someone in perfect health from start to finish of the Statement.
Celia was a big star in this finale, and it feels like this was the “secrets revealed” moment for her. Unclear if she has more secrets, but it feels like her biggest ones are out there now. Explains her reaction to the Doppelgänger case (17), why The Hilltop Centre has been so prominent in a variety of cases, and why she’s been teleporting to Oxford.
The only question I really have about Celia is how much does she actually remember? Throughout the season we’ve clearly seen her reference things from what I’m assuming is Archives, but in the finale she says “The Fearless One” tore her who from her what and “left her story to fall like autumn leaves.”
Is her name actually Celia in Archives? Who is “The Fearless One”? Feels like her memory is blurry, but she remembers vague details of people instead of story events in Archives (my Doylist answer is this is a way to make the story accessible to viewers who haven’t listened to Archives) and that’s why she remembers Jon and Martin?
Overall, really great work from Celia this season.
Sam wouldn’t think so though.
Sam is an interesting case. He’s been dying to know what happened with The Magnus Institute and when we finally found out (28) it made a whole lot of sense why he’s so adamant about the institute.
Initially when Sam exploded at Celia for her secrets I was like “Sam! Buddy! Now’s NOT the time.” But actually, that was the right time.
He’s been really patient with Celia not feeling ready to explain her backstory, and consistently reassuring her she doesn’t need to reveal anything until she’s ready and actively reassuring yet making her aware it’s important to share at some point. Here he is, in front of what is potentially the biggest supernatural secret he’s ever seen, and Celia has turned out to know this was here the entire time!
And Celia (in his perspective) determined to sacrifice Sam to the Rift was a really big twist I didn’t see coming. The idea that Celia has disrupted the rift between the two worlds is incredibly devastating and she wants to stay in the Protocolverse for Jack makes it heartbreaking that she has her own selfless/selfish motivation for sacrificing Sam.
Then Alice-
Oh, Alice.
I think this finale was the hardest on her. She had Teddy trying to bring something up (29) and she rushed to Sam. She had Colin terrified asking for help while she was trying to get the last train to Sam and Celia. She’s been the most connective person in their whole group trying to look out for everyone, and then everyone desperately asking for help at essentially the same time is heartbreaking.
It’s incredibly fascinating that out of the three groups (Sam/Celia, Colin, Teddy) she chose Sam every time there was a chance. It does make sense. She’s fully aware Sam and Celia are going to be encountering something supernatural, and she needs to make sure she’s there to either stop or help them. Teddy and Colin might vaguely have something affecting them, but the urgency for Sam clouds her vision so Teddy and Colin were turned away. Who knows if they’ll even be alive when they get back?
And speaking of when they get back!
Gwen, my love, you have girlbossed far too close to the sun.
There’s no way she’s surviving this. She’s assumed this whole time that Lena was trying to keep responsibility from her because maybe Lena didn’t believe in her or because of her nepotism, and Trevor Herbert was the one calling all the shots. But she found out too little too late that Lena was the one in charge and she’s been the one focused on keeping the Externals at bay. Trevor Herbert has no fucking clue what happens at the OIAR as long as it gets the job done.
I do wonder why Gwen got those files. I’m assuming it’s Jon/FR3-D1 after Sam got that email (7) but why did FR3-D1 decide to give it to her? What’s the purpose of getting Lena out? Is it for the Externals to be loose? What’s FR3-D1’s goal here? Is it somehow tied to being set free?
After this finale, I have so many questions, and while I am still kinda unsatisfied with how it ended I do have to admit this season was such good fucking food. The workplace dramadey combined with horror statements and the slow merging of the two storylines was so seamless I almost didn’t notice until the end. I’m really excited for season 2.
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WIP Tuesday
Buckle up babes, it's going to be a long post!
I come before you humble, hat in hand. I know I been wilding ya'll. I know there's a lot of fics I need to update and get back to. I haven't forgotten! And since there are...so many new people thanks to my Terry fics, what a great time to call myself out chuz ya'll too nice to do so! I saw @nerdieforpedro do this a few weeks ago? Forgive me for not tagging the person you got it from, but I am tiredt, chilleee.
Current focus: Terry got my whole heart, ya'll. Every fic I read of him, I just want to go hop in the booth myself and get to writing. Ya'll inspire me every damn day, it's magical. There is a filthy, disgusting, mean, despicable fic I wanna write with him. But alas, he is not the only one I write for.
Girl, there's how many series????? Listen, the muse wants what it wants. 11 series in total. Chillee, why I do dissssss. Some are closer to finishing than others. So let's count them out (click the links to learn more):
Be My Little Darling - Loki series | It Started With a Whisper - Sam Wilson series | Midnight Sin - Vampire Tyrone series | Blackbird - Mob Boss Fontaine | Camp Wanderlust - Franklin Saint series | What You Deserve - Homewrecker Stunna | Runaway Lover - Professor Stunna | If I Took You Home - Kevin Atwater | Kill Her Softly - Zyair Malloy | A Taste of the Divine - Yakuza Sukuna | We Are the Night - Qimir
Frenn, that's a lot, do you sleep? Are you okay? Blink twice if you need help. I'm promise I'm good ya'll, I just love writing and I love interacting with ya'll. You have NO idea how much each and every single one of ya'll mean to me. I love the support, I love the comments, I love the reblogs. I'm trying not to disappoint folks, I was on a schedule and well, life happened. I can course correct, I promise. Just gon' take me a little minute. Let me close the smaller series first!
Okay, surely that's it right, frenn? Ahh no, because there's also the asks that have been piling up. Per my pinned post, you know that I have a scatterbrain. Some asks I deleted because they're too similar to what I've done before. Some I'm still trying to picture before I start writing. But the ones I've kept? At last tally it is...33. Some are similar and I'm going to combine them, but yeahhhhh. This isn't a callout post, keep sending those requests in! Just know it's gonna take me a smoooooooth minute. Also, welcome new people, welcome! But not everything needs a part two, I promise. If I write "The End" at the bottom, that truly means the end. No part 2 planned, ain't trynna write a part two. I want to move on sometimes. I love you, but I'll be writing until I'm gray if everything got a part 2. And I wanna get paid for my writing. Which brings me tooo...
Umm, umm, what's this I hear about a book??? Yes! I am actually writing a book based on an ask I received. It was a sweet ask about what kind of story would go with "Handwritten Letter". I said it gave friends to lovers, she fell first, he fell harder type of vibes. It has morphed into dark academia about a shy girl just trying to come into her own. It's a combo of and a love letter about girls like me, girls like you, each and every person who identifies as a Soft Black Girl. And I already have *so* many ideas about other books I want to do. There will be one based on the Mr. Black series I wrote. There will also be a vampire one! I just can't decide yet which will be the second book I put out. I'm leaning towards vampire because Terry is HEAVY on the brain ya'll. And he'd make a sexy vamp. But anywhooo...
I say all this to say that I'm not a machine. I'm not that quick despite appearances. I may not seem like I have any chill, but I've been fantasizing and turning over these fics in my head for days or weeks before I sit down to write. And I'm not saying to stop. Your support is exactly why I feel good enough about my writing to sit and write an entire book! I want to be a full time author. I want to share my ideas with the world. I'm just slow lmfaoooooo.
In the mean time, I hope you're hitting up all these amazing writers on here. I hope you're commenting and reblogging and showing love on here. I will keep saying it. This site will DIE and these BLACK writers will LEAVE if people keep stealing, not commenting, not reblogging, asking for part 2s and never showing love. Fandom is a community, not a pillar. No one know it's you behind that avatar, go crazy! Go nuts. Show nuts. whatever.
Love, love, love you all. If you read this far, drop something funny in the comments. Or go unhinged in my asks about Terry. Don't get me started about that man, but go awff about him because that's my baby favaaa.
no pressure tags: @chaos-4baby @j0kers-light @umber-cinders @harmshake @planetblaque @babybratzmaraj @soft-persephone
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