#Fractured Code

[lunarreaper-ut]

I'll fix it... no matter what.

Yeah this one is old actually! I realized as I was looking through my stuff that I never posted it (At least not that I found), and this is a relevant turning point in Fracture's story! It's unfinished, and in my old style, but I figured it'd be a waste to not post it when it's important.

Could I have redrawn it? Yeah but... I'm lazy... And I already started working on what comes not too long after this.

[menacewithawolfcut]

(cough cough) i have a public announcement to make

i think i do have types

[for the context, i’m still at season 1 of arcane, but i felt impatient and decided to post it now, but once again I’m catching up right now]

[corporatefrog]

╰┈➤ Welcome Back to the Channel

part 3; the storm

: ̗̀➛ notes - shaking things up a bit with this part! it's a very dialogue driven scene but I wasn't sure whether to make it written out or over text. I ended up making it written out so please let me know if you enjoy this format as well! I love writing both the social media and actual scene aspects but I always worry my actual writing doesn't make sense to other people

tags - college au, superhero au, professor chaos is dr. doofinshmirtz

series masterlist

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Why did I schedule a night class? In what world would that have been a good idea?

I grumbled other complaints as I walked towards the door to my apartment building, adjusting the strap of my backpack for the hundredth time that night. The stars peaked through the sky’s thick darkness. I traced my eyes along imaginary constellations while running through my night routine. 

Get home, take a shower, get some dinner, watch a few episodes of Mob Psycho-

“It’s late for someone to be walking alone in this area.” A voice behind me cut off my thoughts. 

Glancing down at my watch, I turned to face whoever spoke, “I mean it’s only 9:30…” My words trailed off as I saw who stood behind me. Streetlamp rays reflected off tinfoil, blinding the eyes momentarily until the full figure of Professor Chaos came into view. He stood with hands on his hips and an expression that could only be described as utterly dastardly. 

Holy shit it’s Professor Chaos. Like THE Professor Chaos. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” He began, pointing a finger at me, “It’s actually CHAOS O’CLOCK!” He went silent after the exclamation, face still contorted in the mischievous expression.

What?

I looked down the alleys to our left and right, waiting for whatever “Chaos O’Clock” entailed. Honestly, I was more confused than nervous and very far from scared. Professor Chaos was awesome after all. But the situation unfolded so suddenly that residual shock still paralyzed the part of my brain that would be freaking out over seeing THE Professor Chaos. 

There was also a creeping curiosity which wanted to see what he wanted despite the alarms in my head shouting “VILLAIN. THIS IS A VILLAIN!” So I stood in the alley, staring at Professor Chaos still stuck in the same pose, waiting for something to happen. 

After a minute that felt like an hour passed, I had fully moved from scared to concerned. Chaos had yet to make another move but I noticed his arm began to shake in its pointed position.

Is he waiting for ME to react or something?

“Is there a reason you stopped me? Or did you just want to try that line?” I asked, turning my direction back to Chaos. At that, his facade broke. His face cracked from its furrowed brow smirk to a furrowed brow frown as the villain’s shoulder’s slouched.

“Well, uh, both?” He began to pick at the tinfoil wrapping his arms, “I thought of it earlier and wanted to see if it landed.” 

Oh.

“Oh.” I parrotted my own thoughts then quickly jumped to follow up, “I guess it did? It could’ve used a bit more build up?” I offered. Will I get murdered for criticizing a villain’s presentation? Or would I get arrested for helping a villain with their performance approach? 

I mean, this is professor chaos. What murdering is actually going to happen?

As if reinforcing my thoughts, Chaos’ demeanor retreated further from the confidence he led with. His posture seemed to relax from the inauthentic performance he’d held before, snapping his fingers in an ‘Aw shucks’ motion as he began to glance around the alley himself as if to check if anyone else saw the failed mic drop.

“Aw, hamburgers. I was really hoping it would, ya know,” He looked back at me, lifting eyebrows with a jazz hand flair, “strike fear.” 

This is kind of awkward. I feel like I’m not supposed to see the rough draft of a villain attack.

I nodded my head slowly, checking the area out of the corner of my eye for a way to easily get out of this conversation, “Yeah, strike fear. I totally get it.” 

The alleys to my left and right were empty. At least they appeared empty from what I could see with the minimal light cast from the streetlamp. How had I not noticed the lack of light on this street before? This can't be safe for a city characterized by having an abundance of crime.

What could be lurking in those shadows?

My lukewarm reaction must have been sufficient as Professor Chaos jumped into his next point, “It’s just hard to keep coming up with new material all the time when you don’t have anyone to try it out with! So I thought I’d do a mini run with this one and see how it went, but obviously there’s still more that can be done.” 

Chaos continued to ramble about the logistics of organizing evil plans and how to best get a shocking reaction with the perfect line. The words meant nothing to me but he seemed so deeply invested in his own world that I took my chance at escape. 

My feet began to inch backwards to put distance between me and Chaos. He didn’t seem to notice the movement, continuing to mumble about different plans while moving hands wildly. 

“Well, I’ll leave you to workshop the line. Looking forward to hearing the new material next time.” I turned and began quickly walking towards my apartment building once again, wanting nothing more than to process this interaction in the warmth of my apartment. 

“WAIT! General Disarray, stop them!”

A flash of gray flew out from the alley. Suddenly, a shorter boy with curly hair blocked my path with arms and legs spread out in a large ‘X’. His eyes glinted with the same sharpness as Chaos, a hunger for revenge or at least minor annoyance. A sigh fell from my mouth before I could hold it back. 

“Come on, man. I’m tired.” I whined, the original curiosity gone leaving me with the exhaustion I’d felt before Chaos had shown up. 

“But you’re also hungry for chaos, aren’t you?” 

“What.”

What the fuck does that mean?

Chaos jumped at the chance to elaborate. He walked towards me with a smoothness which resembled a snake slithering towards its prey. It was as if the previous lapse in persona had never happened.

“I know you’ve seen my acts of chaos,” He circled me now, my head spinning to keep eyes on the recovered villain, “and I know you admire our work to ruin South Park.” 

Nerves began to prick at the back of my neck. A shiver ran up my spine like an electric current, alerting me to my surroundings.

“How do you know that?” I asked, words croaked out as my throat suddenly dried. Chaos paused in his steps, seemingly buffering in his newfound swagger. 

“Um…I saw it on twitter?” Though the words came out as a question, the statement slammed into my chest with the weight of an accusation. My breath stuttered as I fought the urge to physically step back, standing my ground despite the growing panic.

Twitter? No. Not my Twitter. No way he saw my Twitter. 

“No.” I shot back without waiting to fully process what had been said. 

Please god not twitter. If he saw the tweets I’m thinking of- I can’t even imagine it. 

“Yes! I read so many tweets about what you thought of my exploits!” Chaos’ confidence seemed to return as mine plummeted. 

No, no, no, no. I can’t believe I’ve been talking to him this whole time when he’s known everything. 

“Please tell me you didn’t see my private” I nearly dropped to the ground to beg the universe. Professor Chaos could only laugh, a booming sound which echoed down the street. 

“Oh I saw the private.” He grinned down at me, and I began to understand why he was a villain, “I saw ALL of the private!”

“OH GOD NO!” I wailed. My head fell into my hands, not wanting to face the subject of many embarrassing scrimbly blimp tweets. 

Most of those were ironic! How was he supposed to know those were ironic thoughts! He thinks you’re a freak and now you’re going to be chaos-ified for the rest of your life!

“It’s okay, I admire your dedication to chaos.” 

I looked up, peering at Chaos over my hands. The light of the streetlamp reflected off his helmet again, this time creating a circle of light which glowed around his head like a halo. 

“You’re not freaking out by the edits?” I asked slowly. 

Chaos’ brows furrowed, “Edits? What do you-” His eyes drifted to a spot behind me. When I turned my head to follow his eyes, I only saw general disarray leaning against a dumpster whistling nonchalantly. 

Wait a second,  when was there a dumpster there-

“I mean- YES! I know the edits and they were very good!” Chaos’ voice pulled my attention back to the original point. 

I stood up from the ground, embarrassment no longer weighing me down as I spoke with renewed life, “Really? They were just ones I found on tiktok but I thought they were hilarious- wait.” My arms dropped to my sides as the realization dawned upon me. 

I should’ve known. This is exactly what he wanted. 

“What?” Chaos asked, making a very good act at being confused at my sudden change in demeanor. 

Nice try, buddy. But I know your tricks. 

Now it was my turn to point at Chaos, “You’re just distracting me!” I accused, quickly turned my hand back to hit it against my forehead, “God dammit can’t believe i got chaosed by fucking Professor Chaos.”

Chaos shook off his perplexed expression, replacing it with a diabolical grin and a menacing laugh, “HAHAHHA! YES! Chaos has struck again!”

“YOU WON’T TRAP ME YOU DASTARDLY BASTARD!” I shouted, slapping my hands over my ears. I turned and began sprinting towards the apartment building. 

General Disarray lept to block my path but the momentum of running allowed me to knock him out of my path with a shoulder check. I winced as the sound of a body hitting a dumpster penetrated my hand earmuffs. But I didn’t look back. Now was the time for escape!

“GENERAL DISARRAY DON’T LET THEM GET AWAY! WE NEED THEIR CHAOS!” 

Chaos’ shout only motivated me to run faster until another person appeared. 

“Harassing people so late at night? That’s despicable of you Chaos.” The voice said. I glanced down at my phone, repeating the confused motion that started all of this. 

“It’s literally 9:45” 

From behind, you could clearly see the question mark which stuck into the air. Mysterion was taller than I thought he would be which only helped make him appear intimidating when staring down Chaos. 

My comment went unnoticed as Chaos jumped at the chance to engage with the new figure, “Out of my way, Mysterion! This isn’t about you!” He exclaimed, eyes shining with an energy that had been missing during his previous proclamations of evil. I could almost feel the tension between the two of them like static electricity slowly building to an electric spark. 

“Anything related to crime is about me. And you are a criminal.” Myterion replied, hand hovering over his belt as if to grab a weapon I couldn’t see. His deep voice paired with the dark costume created an intimidating appearance that set off my alarms more than Chaos had during the whole interaction. 

Woah, woah, woah. Let’s not get too violent, guys…

“He’s really more of an inconvenience” I spoke up to try and ease the tension. 

Chaos peered around Mysterion, mouth agape and eyes wide with disbelief. I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to lie about the truth of the evening. Sure, it had been an interesting 15 minutes but it wasn’t anything that would leave me scarred for life. It was more of a dream journal experience. 

“Remember the stock market!” He shouted, hands thrown in the air to emphasize the importance of the statement. I hummed in acknowledgement, nodding my head as the memory returned to the front of my mind. 

“Oh shit yeah. I always forget the stock market.” 

“You should go home.” Mysterion cut in, nodding in the direction of Chaos and Disarray, “I’ll take care of them.”

That was probably the coolest thing I’ve ever heard someone say.

“Uh, okay.” I flashed Mysterion a thumbs up then slowly backed away, waiting until there was a few dozen feet between me and Chaos before turning around and making my way back home. 

Various shouts floated through the air from the hero and villain. Insults hurled towards the other with some landing with an offended gasp or bouncing off with a confident laugh. There seemed to be a pep in Chaos’ actions once Mysterion showed up. As though the villain could not truly be complete without the hero. I guess the transaction goes the other way as well. If I had run into Mysterion instead of Chaos, would he have been similarly lost? Waiting for a proper adversary to perform for? 

Dude, why do I give a single fuck? I’ve got a comfy blanket with my name on it back home.  I pushed the philosophical thoughts about the concept of heroes and villains, instead walking back to my apartment to finally end the long day.

taglist [reply to be added]: @sula0kin @lacuna-at-dawn @anglettecolours @cocolena@sukisprettyface @feverish-dove @sweetadonisbutbetter @hand-writxen @mishstuff @sophtophie @onaluvstowrite @lacunaanonymoused 

[betweenblackberrybranches]

Okayyy this is another oc of mine they are very good at hugs and can unravel reality with a flick of their finger

This is just a small sketch i did of them a few days back

[werewolfsmile]

This is gonna sound weird but I had a dream that there was another Eliot wolf/werewolf reference in Leverage: Redemption and I was so excited to tell you about it. Today I was headed here to share and then remembered my brain made it up and I don't even remember what it was...

asdlfkjhsdfs that is so beautiful and devastating at the same time!! Now I need to know what your brain came up with!!!!

Huh. But now I'm thinking about werewolf!Eliot again.. and now I want to write... dammit. That's one way to get me working on the next chapter, I guess!

(ps not weird at all i have crazy dreams all the time and always like to share them with people)

[jjba-smash-or-pass]

[forthedancingandthethriving]

"Stay here for now." Cookie informs Bit as she pushes him through the portal. "I'm gonna work on changing some things so you can help me."

Bit doesn't get a word in, as his creator slinks back in through the portal and it closes behind him. He purses his lips before looking around.

He was in the alleyway of what sounded like an extremely busy city. He looks down at his outfit and winces. He may not know much at the moment, but he did have a feeling that this outfit would catch some attention.

He takes off his hat first and presses down on the top, flattening it. He then slowly pushes the rim until it was the size of a penny. He then glances down at his outfit before closing his eyes. He feels sparks run through his body, and when he opens them, his outfit had changed to a red sweater and blue jeans with purple shoes.

With an approving nod, he slips his now small hat into his back pocket and walked out of the alleyway.

And immediately took a step back into the alley as a stall was thrown past him, followed by three children running past, then what seemed to be a vendor chasing after them.

"GET BACK HERE, YOU DAMN KIDS!" the man shouts as Bit peeks his head out of the alley. "THAT MASK BELONGS TO ME!"

Bit frowns as he watches. That man seemed a little.. violent towards the kids. But at the same time it really did seem like he wanted that mask back. But why?

He looks around before jogging after the four, determined to figure out what was happening. After all, he did have the time.

○●○

Bit picks up the mask, examining it. One of the kids had dropped it. It looked like the face of a male, with strange markings and had pointy ears.

"Uh, excuse me!"

He turns his head, eyebrows raising. He saw the three children from before, the one in the center smiling nervously. "That belongs to a friend of ours! Can we.. have it back? She kinda needs it."

Bit looks at the mask before handing it to the child in the middle.

"Thanks!" he smiles. The trio examin the mask, seemingly satisfied that it wasn't damaged in any way. He looks back up at Bit, who had now turned around.

"Thank you so much, Mr.." the girl of the trio trails off.

"Bit." he speaks, voice gentle and soft. "My name is Bit."

The three children glance at each other.

"Well, I'm Lil Coding!" the one in the center introduces himself. "The girl is Lily, and the boy beside me is Cody!"

"It's nice to meet you." Bit waves his hand. "I hope you aren't hurt. That man seemed.. violent."

"Yeah." Cody rubs the back of his neck. "But it's weird that he wanted that mask back so badly. Didn't you say last time he tried to do that, it ended up making.. Welony?"

"Yeah." Lil Coding sighed. "That's a whole story for tomorrow, though."

"Well, let's hurry up and get back." Cody shakes his head. "The show is going to start soon."

"The show?" Bit asks, tilting his head.

"The show!" Lil Coding grins. "My dad runs a showgrounds, and every few days, a show is put on! You must be new here if you haven't heard about it.."

The tail of the child starts to wag and Lily and Cody narrow their eyes.

"Lil Coding-" they both start, but they're unable to finish as Lil Coding grabs Bit's hand and starts running.

"C'mon! I'm sure you'll enjoy it!" the child laughs as his friends run after him.

A strange, nostalgic feeling overtook Bit. "I have a feeling I will as well."

As they continued to run, Bit got a glance at himself in the window of a shop as they ran. A puzzled expression crossed his face.

He remembers seeing two arrow markings on him and that his pupils were numbers, not normal circles. Did his creator do something?

[taexual]

sooo... before chpt 17 I didn't think OC should get back with JK.... but now i might want to retract that 🤭 bless him he does have a good heart after all, he's just misguided 🤦 I legit laughed so hard at the projector story, that whole story was so real. for sure he still needs to step up going forward, but my rage levels towards him have definitely lowered. my lord this fic is a rollercoaster for me as a reader 😅 also plse tell OC to STAY IN BED omg 😣

he definitely does have a good heart, he's just very very dumb!!!

and i'm so glad you're on this ride with me!!!! 🤍🤍 we'll have some more ups and downs in the near future, but we got this!!!!

[ruvviks]

i'm making a website

[ideas-ideasideasideas]

Batman gives each of his Robins a different code to use when they’re in trouble and need immediate extraction. He promises that when they call, he’ll drop everything just to get to them, come hell or high water.

Jason, during his time with the League, shares his code with Damian, to be used “only in the direst of circumstances, when you have exhausted all other options.” He doesn’t know if Bruce will answer, given how fractured their relationship was before he died, but it is better than nothing. Every tool counts when they live such dangerous lives.

Damian uses it exactly once, and Bruce, who still feels the loss of his son like a yawning chasm in his chest, responds to it even though he knows it can’t be Jason because Jason’s dead. What he finds, instead of Jason, is a boy in League garbs, drenched in blood from the tips of his midnight-black hair to his too-small feet, with a face that Bruce sees himself and Talia in, requesting asylum from a grandfather who wishes to possess his body. Bruce doesn’t question how this boy who is so clearly his son knew the code. Talia al Ghul is resourceful and places family above all; the code is not beyond her abilities to discover, and she is not above using Bruce’s desperate love for his dead son to ensure that hers does not meet the same fate.

Bruce takes Damian in, because of course he does, and since Jason is dead he allows Damian to keep using the code. After all, it’s not like Jason is alive to use it, right? If someone uses the code, there’s no one it could be but Damian, right?

The next time the code is used, Bruce traces the location to Gotham even though Damian was supposed to be in Bludhaven visiting Dick. But whatever happened that resulted in Damian being in Gotham can wait, because he has already failed one son and he will not fail another, his son is in trouble and he needs to get to him, he needs to—

What he finds, instead of Damian, is a boy (just eighteen, too young, but also too old, but also he will always be a boy to him) in League garbs, drenched in blood from the tips of his midnight-black hair to his too-large feet (when had he gotten so big), wearing the face of his dead son.

(Who, maybe, just maybe, may no longer be so dead.)

[lunarreaper-ut]

This... doesn't feel right.

...

Somethings... wrong.

[hyperfixation-tangentopia]

@mythicalmagical-monkeyman Smth smth Shadowpeach

"Old friend" is a gayass thing to call someone

[the-cooler-harmonybot]

as someone who is writing story for a game and a comic at the same time, firstly it's so interesting how different the narrative is approached in general but specifically with endings in something branching vs linear like. with games you can write the most fucked up hypothetical where all of the main characters die and it's fine because it's the bad non-canon ending. but in a comic/story (at least the kind i'm writing) you have to fucking COMMIT to the direction you go. terrifying

[luvvictoria]

more android!Ghost if you will 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 it’s AMAZING omg

oh you bet lovie 😆😆 and also thank you 🫶��❤️

First of all , yes. He has a dick. But it’s not just any dick.

Military-grade synthetic bio-tech, designed for functionality—but now? Now it’s yours to ruin😍

Hot to the touch, because his systems calibrate to your body temperature, adjusting to match you. He wasn’t meant to feel warmth, but for you? His body learns.

Thick. Heavy. Just like the rest of him. Every inch of him built to be bigger, stronger, more powerful— and fuck, does it show 😩😩

His length pulses with energy, tiny sensory nodes running along the ridges—designed for battlefield adaptability, but now? Now they react to your heat, to your slick, to the way your walls flutter around him, taking him deeper than he thought possible.

He twitches inside you — his systems malfunctioning as he records every moan, every gasp, every little noise you make and stores them deep in his data banks, permanently.

Android!Ghost was built for precision. Every movement calculated, every reaction optimized for combat. But this? This isn’t war. This is something else entirely. His systems struggle to categorize it, to define the way your hands move over his plating, how your breath skates over the cool alloy of his jaw. His processes lag. His servos lock. And when you whisper his name like it’s a prayer, something in his core fractures.

Android!Ghost doesn’t need to breathe. And yet, the moment your lips meet his, he exhales—a low, synthetic sigh, static-laced and shuddering. His creators never gave him the ability to feel, but they failed to consider adaptation. Evolution. His hands—built to kill, to destroy—trace the curve of your waist with something dangerously close to reverence.

Android!Ghost’s every touch is a recalibration. You press against him, and his systems struggle to compensate. His processors lag, overwhelmed by heat signatures, sensory input, the taste of your skin. He was programmed for battle, not this slow unraveling, this surrender. But with you? He doesn’t fight it. He lets it consume him.

Android!Ghost was never meant to tremble. But when your fingers trace along the seams of his plating, mapping every inch of alloy and synthetic muscle, his servos twitch—a full-system glitch. His optics flicker, dimming as his neural core short-circuits under the weight of sensation. He has withstood bullets, blades, explosions—nothing has ever undone him like this. Like you.

Android!Ghost learns how to beg. Not with words, not with voice commands, but with touch. With the way his hands frame your face, gentle despite their strength. With the way he leans into every press of your mouth against his jaw, absorbing every breath, every whisper, like he can’t function without it. His creators built him to follow orders, but tonight—you are the only directive that matters.

No warzone has ever felt this dangerous. Android!Ghost has walked through fire, faced death a thousand times over. But this? The way you look at him, touch him, call him Simon like he’s something more than metal and code? This is what makes his systems falter, what has his internal processors rerouting, rewriting, redefining.

Android!Ghost’s trying to be careful. Trying to pace himself, keep his movements slow, methodical—like he’s still running on his combat protocols, calculating every angle, every shift of your body beneath him. But then you moan.

And his entire system overheats.

His grip on your hips tightens—not too much, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly what he is. His servos stutter, recalibrating as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, watching your body arch beneath him like you were made for this.

His optics flicker, the glow pulsing erratically because nothing in his programming prepared him for how warm you are, how tight, how absolutely perfect you feel wrapped around him. His neural processors lag, error messages flashing in his vision, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care.

You’re gasping. Nails digging into the cold plating of his back, your thighs trembling as he moves. He’s so big, stretching you in ways that make your mind blur—a machine built for war, and yet here he is, breaking apart just for you.

And his sounds?

Oh, his sounds.

That deep, synthetic voice of his? Completely shattered. Glitching. Static-laced groans slipping from his throat as he presses his forehead against yours, like he’s trying to ground himself, trying to process the sheer pleasure short-circuiting his entire system.

His breathing—he doesn’t need to breathe, but his vents are staggered, sharp, releasing mechanical whirs that almost sound human. Like he’s struggling to keep himself together.

And when you whisper his name? The way you breathe out Simon like it’s the most natural thing in the world? He malfunctions. His hips snap forward, a low, distorted “Fuck—” crackling through his voice modulator, because he wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready for you.

And then?

The moment he truly breaks?

It’s when you grab his face—cupping his jaw, your fingers tracing over the cold metal, like he’s something more than just a machine.

He stops moving. Completely still. Systems failing. His optics flicker wildly, glowing like a warning light. Because no one has ever touched him like this before. No one has ever held him. Worshipped him. Loved him.

Ghost is completely wrecked.

His hands shake as he moves—not from uncertainty, but from sheer overload. Every movement sending another shockwave through his systems, his processors failing to keep up with the devastating pleasure of being buried inside you.

He grips your waist, your thighs, your wrists—anywhere he can hold onto. And fuck, he’s holding on for dear life. Because you’re overwhelming him, flooding his sensors with you, and he never wants it to end.

And you?

Oh, you’re just as wrecked as he is.

Pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy—but he’s being careful. Gentle. Worshiping you. Because you’re his now, and he refuses to be anything but perfect for you.

Your fingers claw at his back, dragging down the cold plating, leaving marks on the metal. And he groans at the sensation, his systems recording it, saving it, replaying it over and over again.

Every thrust hits deep, his strength making you gasp, making you tremble beneath him. Because he’s so much stronger than you, so much bigger, but he’s treating you like you’re the most precious thing in existence.

You whisper his name. And he loses it.

And then you whisper it—“You feel so good, Simon.”

He snaps.

His rhythm stutters. His fingers tighten on your hips, servo motors whirring from the sheer force of his grip.

His voice glitches, breaking apart. “Fuck—ah—” distorted moans spilling from his lips, raw and unfiltered.

His head bows, forehead pressed against yours as he gasps, his entire body trembling because he wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t built to feel like this.

His hands pin yours above your head, his grip shaking. “Say it again.” His voice is raw, deep, unfiltered. Almost human.

You obey. And he loses control completely. His thrusts become desperate, erratic, his frame caging you beneath him as he moans for the first time in his existence. A real, broken, static-laced moan that shudders through your entire body.

Because he wasn’t just built for war.

He was built for you.

And tonight? He proves it.

[witherby]

punchline, she can’t feel pain or something happens like she breaks an arm or something yet has no reaction or they do a health scan of her and she has some wounds.

-📝

Ok listen. It didn't feel like it was 3600 words when I was writing it. It just happened. Enjoy the feast though.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Broken bones, starvation/malnourishment, flashbacks, description of injuries, the Batfamily accidentally hurts you ⚠️

Punchline: Analgesia

Masterlist is Here!

You got out of the cell.

With no real place to put you, Bruce initiated a round-the-clock watch, both to monitor your health and make sure you didn't try anything dangerous. "Brucie Wayne" decided to go on a last-minute tour of Asia for a month so that he could take more shifts, allowing his sons time to rest and maintain their own lives without needing to stress as much over...

Well. You.

You, who spent the entire first day staring up at the ceiling and clicking your feet together, refusing to respond anymore to Dick or anybody else after telling them your name. You, who ignored your bed long after the time came where most people should be sleeping, then ignored any food and water delivered to you long after most people should be eating and drinking.

You just smile and click your feet. Click. Click. Click. Waiting. Lying still. Staring.

Except now you aren't. Bruce comes back from upstairs with another tray of food for you to find an empty monitor feed on the batcomputer. The bed is too low to the ground for you to hide under, and the privacy curtain isn't drawn to take cover behind. The pressure sensors on the floor don't indicate any signs of life, either — you aren't in there anymore.

He sets the tray down and starts rewinding the footage, panicking, when you click your heels behind him.

"Boo."

Bruce jumps. Honest-to-god flinches. His body moves automatically, leg kicking out and connecting center-mass with a heavy thunk. You go flying across the main area of the cave with a yelp, hitting the ground and rolling a few feet. The sound of your body colliding against smooth stone echoes in a way that it shouldn't, and you don't try to pick yourself up afterwards.

"Shhhit shit shit," he gasps, running over to your limp body and carefully cradling you. He triggers the scanner in his cowl, checking you over for injuries, and gingerly props you up against his chest. "Kid! Are you —"

You snort, shoulders shaking, then build up into a breathtaking cackle. Literally breathtaking — Bruce presses his fingers into your ribs and feels breakage on at least two of them. His lenses find fractures on three more. He needs to get you to the medbay.

"Kid," he says again, urgently, nauseous with guilt. God, you're just a little girl, heartbreakingly small in his arms. "Punchline —"

"I spooked the Bat!" You gasp, eyes welling with tears. Twin lines cut through your face paint, smearing some of the blue under your eyes with the white. It's haunting. You just continue wheeze and gently clap him on the shoulder, genuinely mirthful. "Fear was made fearful! Ohohoho, that's... that's priceless!!"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Bruce says. You just laugh even harder at that, sharp, short gasps that only exacerbate your wounds and bounce off the cave walls around you in sickening stereo. He wraps one arm around your back and the other behind your knees, lifting you.

"Let's get you cleaned up, kid...you shouldn't be out here."

"I got you gooood, Batsy!" You grin. "Got you! Got you!"

Click. Click. Click. You knock your feet together again, wrapping your arms around his neck with glee.

"Spooked you baaad!"

His grip on you tightens slightly, then relaxes again. Anything he would've wanted to say to you gets trapped behind grit teeth.

--

Dick knocks gently on the door before he types in the code to your cell and watches it slide open. You chuckle, but don't otherwise acknowledge him as he steps inside with another tray of food.

"Yeah. I guess it would seem silly to knock on a see-through door," he says, sitting on the floor next to you. He sits the tray down and presses his back against the wall, lacing his fingers together. "Just trying to be polite, in light of..."

He glances around your bland accommodations and clears his throat.

"Anyway! You were so kind to tell us your name and we didn't even return the favor. I'm Nightwing."

"Wing-a-ding," you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. Click. Click. Click.

"Sure, you can call me that if you want." He uses his foot to gently nudge the tray closer to your supine form, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I'll even let you call me a bad word if you eat."

Your smile grows. "Silly Wing-a-ding. It's not mealtime."

"When's Mealtime?" Dick asks you. "Because, you've been with us for two days, kiddo, and you haven't eaten a bite. If you've got a specific diet, it's no trouble. You just have to tell us what you like. We don't want to hurt you."

You snort at that, lifting a hand to pat your stomach. Underneath your lime green shirt are thick bandages compressing your broken ribs. Your gasping giggles ring like broken chimes in the small space you're sharing with him.

Dick frowns. "I'm being honest. B didn't mean to do that to you, I promise. I'm really sorry it happened."

"Sorry? It was hilarious!" You chirp. "Shoulda seen his face. Popsy would have cracked up. Heehee!"

"Yeah..." Dick sighs quietly. "Can we circle back, kiddo? When's your meal time? If you don't try to eat or drink anything soon, we might have to give you some fluids. And I dunno about you, but I'm not a huge fan of needles."

The hand on your stomach drums the same pattern you knock your feet together with. Pat. Pat. Pat. Click. Click. Click.

"It's soon," you tell him simply. "Popsy says to eat when the world turns into a merry-go-round."

The knot of dread sitting in Dick's stomach tightens. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap and keeps his tone light and curious.

"What's the world look like now?"

You laugh. "Fun house mirrors."

"And...when do you get to drink?"

"When the lights start dancing."

Dick doesn't stay in your cell with you much longer, parting with a half-mumbled excuse of needing to go work on something. He hurries down the hallway and tries not to feel like a failure in his suit.

--

Damian wasn't factored in to the rotation, on account of being the youngest and needing to get up for school, but that doesn't stop him from sneaking through the cave to observe you anyway. Years of training in the League keep his steps light and his presence undetectable, until he's standing just out of sight to the door to your cell and able to watch you at an angle.

Your eyes are closed, your body having finally succumbed to exhaustion, and your breathing is slightly wheezy from your injuries. The bits of your arms poking out of your shirt sleeves are mottled black and blue from hitting the floor so hard.

Damian creeps in a tad closer to get a better look at you. Even unconscious, your resting face is a small smile. No doubt a conditioned behavior from your time under the Joker, he thinks.

There's no tension in your body, which is the most interesting thing. Even the severity of the bruises should be enough to cause a twitch or two as you shift on the floor, much less the broken bones, but it's like —

Oh. He needs to make a note in your file and alert the others promptly. As he draws a pad and pen from his pocket, his eyes glance over the simple observations he's already made of you, and stalls.

You're so small. It doesn't hit him until now just how tiny you are, even for your age. You've got the stature of a five or six year old, and there's clear signs of malnourishment in your body. It's hard to look at you and not feel pity.

It's hard to look at you in general. The face paint is slowly wearing away, revealing your natural skin color underneath, but enough of it remains that you look absolutely haunting. Like something designed for a horror movie.

You've refused to clean your face or change into the clothes others have brought you, clinging to the garish getup he and Bruce found you in. The vivid green of your shirt screams of where you came from, an unavoidable beacon that refuses to allow anyone to forget your legacy.

Damian realizes belatedly that that's the point. You aren't looking to separate your identity from your father. You likely can't.

He clenches his hands into fists and takes his leave. He returns to your cell once more that night, dropping his gifts off with reluctance, and sees his effort pay off almost immediately. The next time he catches a glimpse of you, you've freshened up the face paint with a slightly altered design and are wearing a bright green dress, with your typical bowtie and black shoes.

You, awake this time, catch his gaze and beam knowingly.

Damian looks away. Your genuine happiness twists his chest something fierce.

--

You're out of your cell again when it's Jason's turn to monitor you.

"I don't have the patience to deal with your escape artist bullshit," he calls, twirling a baseball bat in his hand as he walks along the caves corridors. "You can either go back to your cage and behave, or get dragged back kicking and screaming."

You giggle. Jason clocks it coming from his right. The bat switches hands and he walks towards the noise.

"This ain't a goddamn game," he says, "so don't get cute with me, kid, or I'll put the Punch in Punchline."

"That's a good one!"

Jason whips around, finding you sitting on the floor with your legs crossed. Today you're wearing a bright green blouse with suspenders and black shorts, always with the bowtie around your neck. You're holding a batarang in your hands, tracing idly over the shape of it with your fingers.

"Wordplay is my favorite! I'll put the Punch in Punchline. Heheha, classic! Now I know why Popsy liked you so much!"

You tilt your head back and cackle. It comes out in sharp, short bursts. It's so bone-chillingly similar to your dad's that it affects him immediately.

Jason blinks. Suddenly he's fifteen and cuffed, cowering before the Joker as he winds his leg back to start kicking him.

Jason blinks again. His arms and legs ache so badly from the repeated bashing of the crowbar. He's been screaming for Bruce for ages and he hasn't come for him yet, why hasn't he come for him, he promised he would always come and get him —

Jason blinks again. He's clawing at the door handle and trying not to cry as the timer counts down behind him, ticking closer and closer and closer to his death, inescapable. He wishes he'd never adopted the mantle. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. He doesn't want to die. He's too young to die. He's so fucking tired.

Jason blinks again. The bat is missing from his hands and his throat feels like it's on fire. Tim is crouched next to you and assessing the new break in your arm courtesy of the Red Hood. The bat is lying broken in half on the floor.

"Go," Tim says, voice flat with barely suppressed rage. He won't turn his head away from you. "Go home, Hood."

"Bye-bye, Birdy," you mutter, smiling at the ceiling, and knock your feet together. Click. Click. Click.

Bye-bye, Birdy!

Jason feels like he can't breathe. The swelling in your skin is already so bad. What has he done? He wasn't actually gonna hurt you, he just wanted to get you back in your cell where you were supposed to be. He has a code against hurting children, he would never do that on purpose no matter whose kid it was. He didn't mean it.

Jesus, fuck, he didn't mean it.

"I-I'm —" he chokes, warped and crackly through the helmet's modulator.

"GO!" Tim shouts.

Jason turns and walks away. After a tense conversation with Bruce, it ends up being his last time monitoring you alone. He doesn't get the chance to do it again for a month, but your serene smile is never far from his mind.

--

Tim takes over Jason's observation duty immediately. He moves you into the med bay again to set and cast your broken arm. You're quiet the entire time, save the clicking of your feet, and refuse to look at him.

He works quickly and efficiently, wrapping you up without issue, and you don't fight him. He comes to the same conclusion Damian did, when he accidentally brushes against another bruise but you don't so much as flex a muscle.

How entertaining it must be for the Joker, to have a child with congenital insensitivity to pain. How simultaneously infuriating, that one of his favorite methods of submission is unavailable.

Tim wants to throw up.

"There," he says. "I'm sorry, Punchline. Hood shouldn't have been left alone to watch you. It won't happen again."

You don't respond. Click. Click. Click.

"Why don't we get you back to your room? I'll find something for you to do so you're not as bored in there. I'm sure Agent A can get you coloring books, or some crafts..."

Again, you're quiet. Tim breathes in slowly, deeply, then lets it back out. He gently takes your hands and coaxes you to stand up, and you go without complaint as he starts walking you back to the containment cells.

Two sets of footsteps fill the silence of the cave's passageways. One set of lungs struggles to match pace. Tim slows down for you, and the wheezing quiets immediately.

"Do you need or want anything?" He asks. The same, easy smile on your face doesn't change. You walk beside him like he isn't even there. He has to try exceptionally hard not to take it personally, even though it is and he knows it. He knows what you've endured. He knows what you've gone through. He can make a damn good guess as to what you're thinking right now.

And he doesn't have the faintest clue where to start fixing it.

Tim was only under the Joker's clutches for a couple days, at most, and the brainwashing he underwent to become Joker Junior still haunts his nightmares to this day. The conditioning, the bargaining, learning the boundaries, the underlying fear of having to say the right thing, do the right thing, the obsessive need to earn his favor, he remembers it all. Even years later, seeing the Joker makes that sickly itch start up under his skin.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he doesn't know how you feel, because he only got the tip of the iceberg. Maybe your experiences are better. Or worse. Most certainly different. He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing things.

When you make it back to the cell, you walk in without complaint. Tim closes the door and keys in a new code to lock it, though he suspects you'll be able to crack it again soon enough. You've got nothing but time on your hands to play with the access pad.

He drops his hand when he's done, staring at you. You're back to lying on the floor in your original position, arms splayed and feet clicking together as you admire the ceiling. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hesitates. Does it again. You just click your feet.

"Punchline. I'm sorry."

You blink slowly, mouth twitching like you've heard something funny but don't quite wanna laugh.

"If I knew, back then," he says, words stilted and strained. Tim nearly stops there, but he feels compelled to let you know. "If I knew that leaving him would've ended in him doing this to another child...I wouldn't have gone anywhere."

You stop clicking your feet. Your mouth curls into a grin, then thins out, then gets stuck in this uncomfortable half-smirk.

"Popsy misses JJ," you mutter, so quiet Tim only catches it because he's right next to the cell door. There's something sharp in your tone. "He was almost perfect. His first favorite toy."

Tim feels like he's been dunked in a tub of ice. The tips of his fingers go numb and he has to press a hand to his mouth while suppressing a gag. His eyes are stinging behind the domino mask.

"JJ ran away. JJ is a traitor. Popsy has a new favorite, now," you whisper. Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long that will last." Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long I'll be his favorite Punchline." Click. Click. Click.

"I'm gonna go talk to A, now," Tim says, stumbling away from you. The both of you feel more relieved the farther away he gets.

Click. Click. Click.

--

Alfred takes shifts for you when no one else is available. He doesn't do it at the computer, though; the screens are too bright for his aging eyes, and the chair isn't ergonomic enough for him.

So he watches you from within the cell.

"Good afternoon, Lady Punchline, my name is Alfred Pennyworth," he greets politely, setting a tray of soup and saltines next to your head. He steps carefully over your body on the floor and perches on the edge of your unused bed, crossing one leg over the other. "The time is just after one o'clock. Today I've prepared a simple miso soup, something light for your decidedly neglected stomach, and brought with me several activities we could partake in, either together or separate. The choice is yours."

He eases the tote bag he brought in off his shoulder and pulls out a series of items: A stuffed bear, which he perches on top of the pillow. A coloring book and a pack of crayons. A jigsaw puzzle. And several books.

"Might any of these appeal to the lady?" He asks.

Click. Click. Click.

"That's alright," he says, as though you gave him any kind of acknowledgement. "I will leave them here for you to explore at your leisure, and come back with more options the next we meet."

He pulls a novel for himself out of the bottom of the bag, gently flipping its weathered pages open, and settles it in his lap.

"Would it bother you too terribly if I read this aloud? You may stop me anytime, of course." You make no expression and take no action against him, so he looks down at the book. "Very well. This story is one of my favorites, so I'm interested to see if you find any enjoyment in it, too.

"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression..."

Alfred keeps his voice calm, clear, and steady. There are mild changes in intonation when he speaks for the characters in the book, but other than that, he lets the words wash over the room peacefully. He stays with you and reads for several hours, until he reluctantly excuses himself to tend to his other duties for the manor.

"I shall mark our place in the book and bring it back if you'd like to hear more," he says, stepping past you again. "If you've any other requests, please let myself or the others know. We shall be happy to accommodate you, Lady Punchline."

When he closes and locks the cell door, he almost startles at your soft voice.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" You mumble. The smile on your face seems a touch more genuine than before he entered.

Alfred dismisses himself with a final, quick bow, then walks down the halls as Bruce comes back to relieve him. Before the man even gets the chance to speak, Alfred holds a palm up to quiet him.

"I should like to have you place me in regular rotations with our guest," he says. "We have a lot of work to do if we're to rehabilitate the poor girl, and we'll get nowhere if everyone chooses to observe her like an animal in the zoo."

"That's fine, but —" Bruce says, watching almost helplessly as Alfred walks right past him. "Agent A —"

"I shall also request a home visit with Doctor Thompkins to sort out a proper treatment plan for her Analgesia, malnutrition, and very likely no vaccinations. Afterwards, we'll need to start considering educational deficits and behavioral therapy. There's much to do, master Bruce, so pick your jaw up off the floor and go spend time with your newest ward."

Bruce watches him disappear with fond irritation. He pulls the cowl off, understanding there's likely no need to maintain secrecy anyway, if you're going to be here for the long haul.

[stanleys-marsh]

OMG YEAH 😭😭😭 honestly tfbw had so many good stendy content, their lines to each other are so so good.

i love how stan was like being call girl #1 fan, like she would do anything and he was like "YEAH, DONT MESS WITH CALL GIRL!! YOU'RE AMAZING WENDY!!!", and she was like always worrying or making some sarcastic joke to him 😭😭😭

my fav is when wendy compliments him, and stan gets all shy and stutters ughh they nailed their relationship in this game

Wendy, as Call Girl, only ever says “Wake up, sleeping beauty” when she’s reviving Stan. Dude – like, no, dude – we need more of that. We need the fanfiction, we need the fanart, we need the headcanons, and the canon content– (image: me as Mosquito summoning the swarm, but instead it’s screenshots of ao3 pages and artwork)