#jags tech world

[ur-mag]

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[inkdrinkerworld]

Stitches, Films and Sponges Baths?

Cw: fluff, shy!team doctor!reader, Dick being a flirty shit

“Nightwing B-01, injured.” Calls the electronic voice through the comms and you get moving immediately.

“How bad is it?” You ask as you snap gloves on and reach for your kit.

“Bad enough that I’ll miss seeing your concentrated face, angel.” Dick flirts and you suck at your teeth.

The moment he comes into view, you realise that as much as he flirts he hadn’t been lying.

He’s cut under his eye, there’s another on his bicep and a tear in the side of his suit.

“Who did you lose a fight to?” That gets him to open his eyes and he spots a slight frown on your lips.

“I didn’t lose, I’m just a little more cut up than you’re used to seeing me.” You clean up his face first and your frown smooths out when you realise it's more blood than wound.

“This one isn’t too bad, maybe a butterfly stitch if you really want one. It should close within the day.”

Dick reaches for your gloved hand, “Put the stitch please, angel? Don’t want you having to stare at that cut every time you look at me;” he smiles and as if he’s reconsidered his statement he adds. “Unless it makes me look rugged and even hotter.”

Your body flushes, heat rushing through you and you nibble on your lip as you set the stitch on his cheekbone.

“You look fine, can you open your eyes now?”

He does, “Missed seeing them, did you?”

“Dick,” it’s only a warning, but he likes when you say his name so it’s one he elects to ignore- on the basis of the fact that if he does, you’re going to fluster even more. And he likes that even more.

“Your bicep isn’t too bad, just a scratch really. I’m more worried about your side, so I’m going to look at that first.”

His arms reach up for you to undress him and Dick bites his tongue to keep his smile at bay when your eyes widen and your fingers drag up his stomach as you lift off the top of his suit.

You wonder if he can tell that your pulse is rioting now?

He’s always been pretty, flirty and overly friendly to you and you’ve never known where to put all that.

Dick is gorgeous, he’s been gorgeous from the moment you’d been recruited here from the Bat, but he’s also never been by himself since you’ve been here- a little bit of a relationship man and while you’d love to pursue that, you don’t know if your poor heart will handle his flirty unleashed.

“It’s not so bad, just a little jagged so the stitching is going to hurt a bit. I’m sorry.”

Dick tuts, his heart clenching at how considerate you are- then he wonders if that’s just your bedside manner.

“No need for that, I can take a little pain.”

You nod, and get started with your needles and thread, closing up Dick’s wound with a steady hand.

“These are dissolvable, but they can still rip if you aren’t careful so you’re on bed rest until they dissolve.”

“How long will that take, angel? Trying to plan how many days I have with you.”

You clench your jaw to stop your smile, but Dick takes note of the way that your eyebrows jump and your eyes crinkle with little crow’s feet.

“A week or two for the most, but you can’t go around training like usual until they dissolve.”

He nods, “So what do you say to movie nights and reading challenges all week?”

You do let yourself smile then, Dick’s proposed things you like that he doesn’t necessarily find that mind blowing.

“And what will you do?” You ask, a vote of confidence to play along with his tease.

“Probably work on some tech stuff, but we’ll at least be together so you can have all the time in the world just staring at me till you’re ready to make a move.”

You grumble and scrub your face making Dick chuckle.

“That was mean, I’m sorry angel.” He coos and you look up to find him still smirking.

“Mhm, I totally believe you,” you finish his stitch and cover it with a piece of gauze and medical tape. “I don’t think I’ll be able to spend the entire week with you Grayson. I’ve got class.”

His eyebrows jump, “Class? Did you start a new programme?”

You nod, “Behavioral analysis.” Dick smiles, a little wicked at the confession. You move to his bicep, cleaning up the blood to find three claw-like marks tearing through his skin.

“Do you need real life case studies? I’ll be happy to help you out. You can analyse my behaviour when I’m with you.”

Your belly heats, and you’re sure the way you fluster is evident to Dick and that makes you feel even more bashful.

It’s clear he does feel a little bad about how flushed he’s making you when you feel his hand reach up to your cheek.

“I’ll stop for a little, angel. Don’t want you to pass out from all the heat you’re pushing out.”

“Dick!” You whine and he laughs, a full belly laugh that makes your frown turn to a small smile. “You’re the worst.”

You finish cleaning and dressing the scratches on his bicep, they only needed a few stitches on one of them.

“Oh am I?” He coos and you grumble, biting your lip to stop from swearing at him. “Okay okay, I’ll really stop now.” He promises; you look up at him through your lashes as you pull away from his hand and start cleaning up.

“Wanna watch a film with me?” He asks as you finish cleaning, his body suddenly tired now that he’s not worried about flirting and teasing you.

“One of your black and white French films?” It’s his turn to flush a little, clearly not expecting anyone to notice his choice in movies. “You always leave the disk in, and I don’t think anyone else is watching espionage French films except you.” You explain with a little smile.

“Maybe not a French one, we can do Russian or Spanish- I know you watch those.”

You shrug, “We can trade off, one French, one Spanish.”

Dick nods, groaning as he stands. His hand pressed tight to his side. “Why don’t you choose first, angel. Gonna get Alfred to sponge me off,” he pauses at the door, a mischievous smirk on his lips as he turns back to you. “Unless you want to do it, which I have zero objections to.”

“Go get your sponge bath Grayson, I’ll be in the media room.”

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Infernal Shadows 05.

Synopsis: Being one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, you like to keep up with colonies and overlord plans. Recently with the new extermination date out, you hold your annual gala sooner than usual. You hadn’t expected to get in the middle of the already heated feud between the Radio Demon and the head of Vox Tech.

Warnings: She/Her pronouns used for the reader, Alastor and the reader fight, but its more just Alastor trying to show he’s super cool. Madame fights a demon, mentions of fear, violence, no swearing. Wanted to introduce the relationship between Madame and Alastor already, next chapters gonna be romantic so get ready YALL. Shits happening and I’m excitedddddd. Anyway enjoy!!! As for the taglist, I think i can tag more people now, so comment to be tagged i guess!!!

Tags: @dollops-of-delusion @nebsisdead @speedybeta @rosedasy @chesstras @pishybowl @iaaeav @forgotten-blues @22carolina08 @roboticsuccubus83 @doflamingadonquixote @froggyferrets @frompeach @absurd-ash @ikkyboy @urdariingdoll @delectableworm @immahuman @justaproudslytherpuff @local-mr-frog @angeli-fucking-cat @coldsweetsenthusiast @jadekomaeda @coffeethoughtsandanxiety @lunalixya @lemonrolls @asimplikeallyall @sockgoblin @nxrdamp @l0ca1ax010t1 @inutheangel @writing-fanfics @ghostdoodlen @elaemae @fantasy-angelo @patchesofdreams @sunnyslug @arrozyfrijoles23 @kimmikreates @lqmons @mangobango69 @lily-ann-b @venusasf

Masterlist // Navigation // Part four // PART SIX

word count: 2684

The poison hit like a freight train. Madame had barely finished the last drop of her drink when the burning began. It started in her stomach, a sharp, searing pain that spread like wildfire, igniting every nerve in her body. She gasped, her breath caught in her throat as she clutched the edge of the table, the world spinning around her in a dizzying blur. Her vision darkened at the edges, the shadows closing in as her heart pounded furiously, fighting against the inevitable.

But there was no escaping it. The poison coursed through her veins, ruthless and unyielding, and as it did, she felt something break inside her-something vital, something that held her together. And then, just as quickly as it had started, everything went black.

The darkness was absolute. For a moment, there was nothing—no pain, no fear, no thoughts. Just an endless, suffocating void. But then, the darkness began to crack, splintering apart as a new sensation took hold-a searing, unbearable heat that made her body convulse, her mind scream. She wasn't dead. She couldn't be. But if she wasn't dead, then where was she?

The world around her came into sharp, horrifying focus. She was standing on a jagged, rocky surface, the ground beneath her shifting and groaning as though it were alive. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur and ash, the oppressive heat pressing down on her like a vice. Her head swam with disorientation, a sickening mix of confusion and dread swirling in her gut.

This wasn't the world she had known. This wasn't the afterlife she had imagined, where the souls of the righteous were rewarded, and the wicked were punished.

This was something else entirely, something far more terrifying. As she tried to make sense of it all, a low, guttural growl cut through the air, sending a shiver down her spine.

She turned toward the sound, her heart lurching in her chest as she saw it—a figure emerging from the shadows, a grotesque, twisted form that barely resembled a man. His skin was stretched tight over his bones, his eyes sunken and hollow, filled with a wild, desperate hunger. He moved with a jerky, animalistic gait, his fingers curling into claws as he zeroed in on her with a predatory snarl.

Madame's blood ran cold. This was no ordinary man-this was a demon, a creature of pure malice and rage. And he was coming for her. Panic surged through her, her instincts screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something, anything to get away. But her body refused to move, paralyzed by fear and disbelief.

The demon lunged at her with a feral roar, his claws slashing through the air toward her throat. But in that instant, something snapped inside Madame, something primal and fierce. She wasn't going to die like this-not here, not now, not at the hands of this creature. A surge of adrenaline shot through her, and she lashed out, grabbing hold of his wrist and twisting it with all her strength.

The demon howled in pain, his grip faltering for a split second, and that was all she needed. With a ferocity she hadn't known she possessed, she drove her knee into his gut, sending him stumbling backward. Her heart raced, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she fought to keep her fear at bay. She had to survive.

She had to fight.

The demon recovered quickly, snarling as he charged at her again, his eyes blazing with fury. But Madame was ready this time. She ducked under his outstretched claws, using his momentum against him as she drove her elbow into his back, sending him crashing to the ground. She didn't hesitate. She couldn't afford to. Grabbing a jagged shard of rock from the ground, she plunged it into his chest with all her might.

The demon let out a blood-curdling scream, thrashing wildly as he tried to pull the rock from his chest. But Madame held on, pushing it deeper, twisting it until the demon's movements slowed, then stopped altogether. She watched breathless, as the light faded from his eyes, his body going limp beneath her.

For a long moment, she just stood there, her chest heaving, her hands trembling as she stared down at the demon she had just killed. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions-fear, anger, shock, and something else, something darker, more primal. She had killed him. She had taken a life, and she felt... nothing. No remorse, no guilt. Only a cold, detached satisfaction.

But that satisfaction was short-lived, quickly replaced by a wave of nausea and dizziness that nearly brought her to her knees. She stumbled back, her heart racing as the reality of her situation hit her like a freight train. She was in Hell.

She had died, and this was where she had ended up-alone, in a place where survival was a constant, brutal fight.

The fear that had been simmering beneath the surface finally broke free, flooding her senses as she realized just how hopeless her situation was. She had been powerful once, respected and feared, but here, she was nothing. Just another soul, lost in a sea of suffering and torment. The thought made her stomach churn, her chest tightening with panic.

But even as the fear threatened to consume her, another emotion began to take hold-a burning, all-consuming rage. This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

She had been in control, she had been powerful, and she had been taken from her life in the most cowardly way possible. Poisoned, betrayed, and now, condemned to an eternity in this hellish place.

But she wouldn't let it end here. She wouldn't let this be her fate. She had clawed her way to the top once before, and she would do it again. No matter how many demons she had to kill, no matter how much blood she had to spill, she would rise. The Pride Ring-she had heard whispers of it, a place where the most powerful souls ruled, where the strong thrived and the weak were crushed.

That's where she would go. That's where she would claim her power, rebuild her empire, and make this damned place bow to her will.

Madame's hands stopped trembling as she tightened them into fists, her resolve hardening like steel. This was Hell, and it was her new battlefield. She would conquer it, just as she had conquered the world above. The fear and confusion were still there, lurking in the corners of her mind, but they were drowned out by the sheer force of her will. She had been a queen in life, and she would be a queen in death.

She took a deep breath, the air burning in her lungs as she forced herself to move forward. Every step was a battle, every breath a reminder of the pain and loss she had endured, but she kept going. The Pride Ring was waiting for her, and she would stop at nothing to claim it. Hell had taken everything from her, but it had also given her something new—a purpose, a drive, a fire that would burn through anything that stood in her way.

This was her new life. Her new empire. And Madame would stop at nothing to make it hers.

The air in the Pride Ring was thick with tension, the kind that crackled like static before a storm. Madame sat in her grand, darkened chamber, the silence punctuated only by the soft ticking of the ornate clock on the wall. Her fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of her throne, a subtle rhythm that betrayed nothing of her thoughts. Her power had been hard-won, her reign over the Pride Ring absolute. Yet, she knew something was coming. She could feel it in the very marrow of her bones.

And then, as if summoned by her very thoughts, the door to her chamber creaked open. The sound was slow, deliberate, the hinges groaning under the weight of anticipation. Madame didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, her gaze remaining fixed on the shadows that danced across the walls. She knew who it was before he even stepped into the light.

“Why, what a marvelous abode you have”

Madame’s eyes remained fixed ahead, her expression unyielding. Without turning to acknowledge the figure behind her, she spoke, her voice as cold and cutting as steel.

“What do you want from me, Radio Demon?” she asked, the title dripping with disdain, her senses keenly attuned to the faint static that crackled in his voice. “And if you value your life, you’ll choose your next words very carefully.”

Her tone carried a promise of violence, a reminder that she was not one to be underestimated, even by someone as audacious as him.

Alastor’s grin widened, a sharp, unsettling smile that gleamed in the dim light. The static in his voice crackled with amusement as he replied, “My dear, worrying about my life is hardly necessary.”

Without warning, a dark, twisted tentacle materialized from the shadows around him, lashing out with lightning speed toward Madame. The attack was swift and calculated, meant to catch her off guard. But she was faster.

In an instant, Madame moved, her form dissolving into the darkness like smoke. The tentacle struck nothing but empty air, the force of the blow shattering a nearby pillar instead. Silence fell, thick and oppressive, as Alastor found himself alone in the vast, echoing foyer.

He paused, his smile never faltering, as he listened to the stillness around him. The only sound was the faint hum of static, barely audible in the oppressive quiet.

“Well, well,” Alastor mused to the empty room, his voice laced with playful intrigue. “It seems this little game is going to be more entertaining than I anticipated.”

From the shadows of the room, Madame emerged, her form slipping seamlessly out of the wall as if she were part of the darkness itself. A shroud of inky black surrounded her, tendrils of shadow swirling around her figure like a living entity. Her eyes were cold, calculating, as she began to circle Alastor, each step measured, her presence a stark contrast to his frenetic energy.

Alastor turned to face her, his ever-present grin still in place, though his eyes narrowed with growing interest. He watched her movements, the way she seemed to glide effortlessly, a predator assessing its prey. The tension between them grew, thick as the shadows that clung to her like a second skin.

Without warning, he lunged at her again, his staff crackling with power as he aimed to strike. But Madame was ready. She sidestepped his attack with a fluid grace, moving faster than he anticipated. As his momentum carried him forward, she summoned a tendril of shadow from the darkness around her, and with a swift, precise motion, she lashed out, striking his staff with a force that reverberated through the air.

The impact sent a sharp, resonant crack echoing through the foyer. Alastor staggered back, momentarily caught off guard by the power behind her strike. His grin faltered for a fraction of a second, the amusement in his eyes flickering into something more dangerous.

Madame’s gaze remained steady, her expression unyielding. The shadows around her pulsed with energy, responding to her command as she stood her ground, ready for whatever move he might make next. This wasn’t just a game for her—it was a test of strength, of will, and she had no intention of losing.

Madame watched as Alastor’s aura shifted, the green glow casting an eerie light across the room. The static in the air seemed to thicken, but she remained unmoved, her expression as cold and composed as ever. She took a single step forward, her presence dominating the space between them.

“I do believe it is time for you to go,” she said, her voice calm, unyielding, and absolute. The words carried the weight of a command, leaving no room for argument.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed, his grin twisting into something more feral. He looked ready to charge at her, the air around him crackling with energy as he prepared to unleash whatever power he had left. But before he could make his move, Madame was already ahead of him.

With a mere flick of her wrist, she summoned a swirling vortex of shadows. The portal appeared beneath Alastor’s feet, its dark tendrils curling up around him, pulling him down with an inescapable force. Alastor’s eyes widened slightly, the surprise flashing across his face as the ground seemed to give way beneath him.

When Alastor reappeared, he found himself standing in the very center of the Pride Ring, far from Madame’s home. The portal had deposited him there without ceremony, the cold, indifferent void spitting him out into the heart of Hell’s most powerful domain.

Alastor stood still for a moment, processing what had just occurred. His grin slowly returned, but this time it was tinged with a new kind of respect. Madame was no ordinary overlord—she was something far more dangerous, and he knew it. The encounter had not gone as planned, but it had been... enlightening.

As he began to walk away, the static in his voice returned to its usual rhythm, the green hue in his aura fading back to red. The game had only just begun, and Alastor was nothing if not persistent. But for now, he would retreat, plotting his next move. She was an interesting one indeed.

As the portal closed behind Alastor, Madame remained in the silent aftermath of their encounter, her gaze fixed on the spot where he had vanished. The shadows around her seemed to pulse with a life of their own, reflecting the thoughts swirling through her mind.

She stood there, still and composed, as she replayed the fight in her mind. The way Alastor had moved, the audacity of his attack, and the peculiar static that accompanied his presence—all of it was as unsettling as it was intriguing. Madame had heard the whispers, the tales of the so-called Radio Demon who had made a name for himself by toppling other overlords. She had known of his reputation, of his chaotic, unpredictable nature.

Yet, she had underestimated him. Or rather, she had underestimated his nerve. The audacity it took to challenge her, to step into her domain with such confidence, was almost impressive. Most would have been deterred by her reputation alone, but Alastor had come directly at her, undaunted by the prospect of failure.

She walked slowly around the room, her movements deliberate, her mind turning over the implications of their encounter. His power, while not yet fully understood, was undeniably formidable. The brief lapse in his static-filled track, the shift in his aura—these were signs of a deeper strength, one that might have been masked by his playful demeanor.

Her lips curled into a faint, thoughtful smile. Alastor had been brash, but there was something almost refreshing about his audacity. It was a reminder that in Hell, even the most established of powers could be challenged by those who were willing to take risks. And though he had been sent away, he would likely return, more determined than ever.

Madame’s eyes gleamed with a cold resolve as she contemplated her next moves. She would need to be ready. She had no doubt that Alastor would be back, and she would need to be prepared for whatever schemes he might bring. For now, though, she allowed herself a moment to appreciate the thrill of the confrontation, the way it had stirred her into action, proving once again that even in Hell, the game was always evolving.

With a final glance at the space where Alastor had stood, Madame turned away, her thoughts already shifting to her plans for consolidating her power further. The Radio Demon had been a formidable opponent, but she was not one to be intimidated. Instead, she would use this encounter as fuel, driving her to fortify her position and ensure that her reign over the Pride Ring remained unchallenged.

[luveline]

hi jade!!! i was wondering if i could request a bassist!remus x roadie!reader fic in which they spend time together on their day off from touring? maybe reader is totally surprised that he even asked her?

hi gorgeous!! modern au, fem 1k

cw vague adult theme, mdni 

"There you are," Remus says, as though he's said it a hundred times before, and he'll say it a hundred times again. "I've been looking for you." 

As a roadie (merchandising, mostly), there's no reason for Remus to know who you are, nor care, but he seems to like you anyhow. And there's nowhere for you to hang out in your downtime beside hotel lobby's or your literal assigned seat in the minivan, so here you are, in your pyjamas, laying on a random lobby couch with a book smushed to your chest. 

"What?" you ask, wiping the sleep from your eyes. 

"I've been looking for you. You weren't in your room." 

"I share my room with three other girls, one who has sleep apnea." The muscles in your back sing like plucked strings as you sit up. "It's quieter here… You're looking for me?" 

"Mm. Come on. We'll go get a late dinner." 

"I'm in my pyjamas." 

Remus gestures down at himself. "I thought you might be." 

He's dressed down too. Every roadie has their thing —it's hard, learning so many names at once, and eventually people begin to typecast one another as their most defining feature. Yours, to your indifference, seems to have become your more comfortable clothing choices. You're not gross, everything's clean, but is everything acceptable attire for going out into the world? 

"No one will even notice they're pyjamas," he assumes you, holding out his hand expectantly. "They look like jogging bottoms." 

"Remus, they're lavender." 

He pulls your hand toward his chest, encouraging you to stand. "They're nice." 

He ferries you out of the hotel, and you thank your lucky stars you wore your converse rather than the hotel slippers. He's clearly thought about this, offering you a hoodie (your size, clearly swiped from the merchandise van, 'marauders' written in jagged lettering across your shoulders like bat wings) as he explains the details of your trip. 

"First we'll get dinner. Then see a film in the cinema, if you want to? They have the new Exorcist." 

"I love horror." 

"I know." He nods to himself. "And then I have to buy you fresh donuts. James says they're the only way to eat them." 

"You don't have to buy me anything." 

"Sorry, I should say it differently. I'd love to buy you fresh donuts. If that's what you want to do." 

You peek at him from the corner of your eye. "I would've stayed in the lobby if I didn't want to come out with you." 

"In that case," he murmurs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. 

This is worse than flirting. It feels like an initiation, or a turned tide. You smile at him from under his arm and he visibly pauses, falters, before his own smile hooks and he walks forward with a little more purpose. 

The day moves on as promised. You eat a quick dinner at a mid range restaurant before he takes you to the cinema, where he insists he doesn't want any popcorn but eats half of yours anyways. Then he takes you for donuts, and the entire time, you're thinking, what does he want from me? If Remus wanted sex he could fuck a groupie. Half the techs would crawl into bed with him if he asked. Maybe he's just gentlemanly? 

But why would he wanna fuck you? Ignoring any self-esteem issues, you're in cuffed bottoms and bare-faced, and he has no reason to believe you'd be any good in bed. 

He might want something slower, he decides. It's easier to believe when he asks if he can hold your hand on the walk home. 

"What?" you ask, sure you heard him wrong. 

"Can I?" he says, offering you his palm. 

It's different from his pulling earlier. You give him your hand and he squeezes his fingers between yours slowly, as though savouring the feeling.

You shake your head. "Was this…" 

Remus waits for you to finish. It's hard to ask under the weight of his gaze, happy but with that air of knowing you can't quite crack. He always seems so put together, even when he's asking for things, like any answer you give is one he's prepared for. 

"Was this a date?" you force out. 

"That depends. Did it go well?" 

"I would've said yes, if you asked me." 

Remus leans in like he's telling a secret, his voice hushed to match. "I know," he says gently, the tiniest hint of smugness threaded in the slight scratch of his voice. "That's mostly why I didn't ask." 

"Mostly?" 

"I couldn't face rejection. Not from you." His eyes light with an emotion you can't name. "But if you still want to reject me, I'll cope. It might be good for me, actually, it'll give me some material. Nothing makes for better music than losing a pretty girl." 

You fluster at his wording. "I would've worn something nice," you say apologetically. "If I'd known. I would've made an effort to look nice." 

"You always look nice. You think I'm put off by your pyjamas?" 

"Stop," you mumble, mortification creeping in. I can't believe I just went on a date with a rockstar in my pyjamas. 

"It's cute. You're cute, I love that you can fall asleep anywhere–" 

"Stop!" 

Remus laughs and pulls you that last inch into his side, elbow to elbow, hip to hip. "I can't. Teasing you is half the fun. It's why I haven't mentioned the powdered sugar on your lip." 

You sigh and turn your face away from him, wiping your lip with your sleeve. "You always do this." 

"Don't wipe it off, I'll get it. It'll taste sweet." 

You take your hand out of his. "Did you want this to be a date? I'll change my mind." 

He's kinder after that, and when he rubs your shoulder like he knows you need it, you almost pass out. 

[novacorpsrecruit]

THEME: Steddie Fics that fucked me up (so you should read them too)

There Are No Incurable Ills by indigofudge (ao3)

T | wc 28,486 | cw depictions of wounds/blood, illnesses, infections, sepsis

Summary: /Eddie blinks rapidly. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes. His chest heaves in panting breaths. “Dustin,” he says, jagged as it leaves his mouth.

“Dustin’s safe.” Steve’s thumb swipes at his cheek, brushing away the tears as they start to fall. “You did what I explicitly told you not to do, but he’s safe.”

Eddie just stares, shiny eyes searching Steve’s face with pupils blown wide. Then he breaks out into a soft grin. It’s tender, almost shy.

Fuzzy static pinches at Steve’s chest. He swallows distractedly, unable to pull his gaze away from Eddie’s. “Just let me- let me finish patching you up, okay?” /

OR

Steve secretly harbors Eddie in his house while Eddie recovers. Unfortunately, battling blood poisoning and sepsis without antibiotics is not as easy as it seems - which is, granted, not that easy. And Steve, in the proper Harrington spirit, has decided to shoulder this burden all by himself.

Honestly I think this is one of the first Steddie fics I ever read and I still think about it.

Post season 4, Dustin begs Steve to go and get Eddie’s body. Steve wants to say no, not wanting to go back to the Upside Down, but if it makes Dustin feel better, he’ll do it. By Lady Luck herself, Steve finds Eddie — alive but barely breathing. He knows he can’t take him to the hospital, so he takes him to his house where he attempts to nurse Eddie back to health. Steve does his best to take care of Eddie while lying low from the law, Eddie’s still a wanted man.

But is the antibiotics he’s giving eddie good enough to heal Eddie back to health?

Hands Where I Can See Them by Solarmorrigan (ao3) @solarmorrigan (tumblr)

T | wc 29,177 | no cw

Summary: Eddie thinks that he and Steve have a good thing going; being friends with benefits is honestly a pretty sweet deal. Steve is a great friend, the sex is great, everything is great. Except for the fact that Steve hadn't realized they were only friends with benefits

Except for the fact that Steve thought they were in a relationship

Except for the fact that Eddie doesn't realize how much he'd valued that relationship until it's gone (and he's trying his damnedest to get it back)

When I say crying, screaming, throwing up, I mean it. This fic hurts so fucking good 😭 Miscommunication to the fucking T. When this was being posted on tumblr in parts I almost couldn’t read it because of how much my heart ached. Eddie Munson is a fucking dumbass and he better be kissing the ground Steve walks on.

Of Space and Time by Appledagger (Ao3) @appledaggerst (tumblr)

M | wc 56,372 | cw MCD, drinking to cope

Summary: In 2073, the world is still moving forward despite arid climates and the quick relay race between man and machine. Within the walls of the hospital center at Vecna Labs, Steve Harrington has just woken up after an accident inside the depths of the classified sections of the lab. Stricken with amnesia, he is brought to Edward Munson’s home to recover and to be observed during his recovery after experimental treatments had brought him back from the brink of death.

In Edward’s home, Steve finds question after question. Why does Eddie seem to hate him so much? What do all the observations have to do with his accident? What exactly is going on with his malfunctioning mind, and what does this all have to do with Creel and Vecna’s tech monopoly? All the while, Steve struggles with the feeling that there was something more to his relationship with Eddie that he can’t quite understand.

What the fuck.

Okay for real, I fucking love this. I don’t read much sci-fi but this is so fucking good, Philip k dick is in shambles. It’s hard not to hate Eddie in the first half of the fic, but slowly you understand why he’s so cold to Steve.

This also got Sleeping Sickness by City and Colour on my Spotify and I fucking cry every time it comes on shuffle. Thanks for that 😭🖤

Tuesday’s Gone With the Wind by thisapplepielife (ao3) @thisapplepielife (tumblr)

E | wc 184,150 | cw drug abuse, airplane crash

Summary: Corroded Coffin's leased plane went down on June 13th, 1995 in the woods of Louisiana.

Ten people on board died.

Eddie Munson survived.

Before he survived, he really lived.

First off: I’m going to be 85 in a nursing home talking about this like it actually happened. My grandchildren will know about this fic and believe that corroded coffin was a real band.

This AU goes back and forth between the present (a documentary) and the past (1989-1990s). It follows Corroded Coffin as they’re doing small Midwest tours and looking for a road manager. Steve Harrington happens to fall into Eddie’s lap, and after much persuasion, Steve joins the crew. As the story goes on, the band grows in popularity and their little crew grows larger and larger.

Please read the author’s note before starting! This fic is dear to me but it aches so much. This is a love story, but it’s so fucking real with real struggles and it’s painful but so is life. I don’t know how many times I’ve cried reading this fic.

The Perfect Loving Nightmare by purpleweekend (ao3)

E | wc 95,344 | cw memory loss, internalized homophobia | spice 🥵🥵🥵

Summary: He laid back first onto their couch, deciding he just needed to sleep it off. He had plenty of time before Eddie would be home. He could take a shower and hide the evidence of his own stupidity when he woke up.

He let his eyes slip closed, head throbbing all the while.

Everything would be fine.

Okay technically this is part 2 of an amnesia series, but somehow I found this one first and read it and cried. I read Living the Unknown Dream afterwards. I don’t think you have to read these in order, I kind of liked reading this one first then going to the second one and going “Oh! That’s what happened!”

By the title of the series, you guessed it, it’s an amnesia fic! Steve hits his head and lays down. When he wakes up, there’s someone in his house, checking on him. Trying to manhandle him off the couch and — oh, there’s blood. Steve wants nothing to do with this stranger, he wants his parents. The stranger, nearly in tears, convinces Steve to go to the hospital. At the hospital, Steve finds out that the stranger is Eddie Munson. His supposed husband.

And the head injury he got is one of many, and with the previous brain damage (that he doesn’t remember receiving), they’re unsure if he will ever get his memories back.

Smut is peppered in between the angst and it’s very good, and very hot. You’ll cry then read smut and cry and read smut and — you get it.

You’re Divine by Oonionchiver (ao3) @azrielgreen (tumblr)

E | wc 259,565 | cw suicidal ideation, read the tags | spice level: 🥵🥵🥵 again, read the tags!! Not gonna be everyone’s cup of tea

Summary: ‘Blood?’ Eddie says again.

Eyes black but for the slice of iridescent white in the centre. His teeth are sharp, his hands are weapons and Steve thinks maybe he’s made a mistake doing this without telling Eddie first. Eddie’s focus lowers, it moves to his left hand which is…

Oh fuck.

It’s dripping blood onto the floor.

‘Shit,’ Steve says, takes a single step back, swallows. ‘Eddie, I’m so sorry, fuck.’

Eddie can’t seem to look away, can’t bring his ethereal gaze back up where it belongs. Steve thinks he should run, he should flee. A tiny part of him knows Eddie will chase him. Eddie will catch him, outrun him easily.

It's more than a little fucked up how that thrills him.

Azriel’s bio on Twitter at one point read “wrote that fic that fucked you up,” and holy fuck they weren’t kidding. I think about this all the time.

After season 4, Eddie’s gone. Or, so they thought. Steve finds Eddie outside his house, covered in the grime of the Upside Down. He seems … off. Wrong. But Steve is more than happy to have him back and will do anything to keep him. Steve comes to terms with Eddie’s other, willing to do anything to keep Eddie here. To keep Eddie with him. Eddie … well, not so much.

There’s a lot of lovely scenes and scenes that I cherish fondly. Then there’s the quarry scene that makes me want to cry my heart out. The smut is not even exempted to the angst, please be warned.

Azriel has a companion fic going on right now with Eddie’s point of view. It won’t make sense unless you read You’re Divine first.

Please remember to leave kudos and comments on the fics you read/enjoyed! Support your writers 🖤

Prev fic rec: my favorite fucking idiots

[ms-boogie-man]

Ahem…

Do not come to me pretending to know the outcome either way of this apparent partnership between Tulsi Gabbard, RFK jr, Elon Musk, and President Donald Trump. There is not one person here on Tumblr who has any more info on this than I, so there is not anyone qualified to badmouth me in this. You can have your hunches and concerns, that is fine… I would like to hear them, but do not get uppity with me about it

Here are some facts:

Elon is a businessman and a wildcard. He is the world's biggest contractor to the US government… and that means bigger than Raytheon, HR Textron, Ameron Global, and all the rest. He did not invent the Tesla automobile… he took a rag-tag group of tech hippies, invested in their ideas, put a corral of organization and logic around what they were doing, and brought the Tesla to fruition. His son was brainwashed into the trans cult and is now lost to him, and that may be part of his bone to pick with globalists. Elon bought Twitter, made it into X and has stood up for free speech ever since. He is also said to be the creator of the overhead network of satellites that will form our internet in the future. He also has shown a huge and often disturbing interest in Artificial Intelligence and chipping people.

Robert F Kennedy Jr is a hardcore liberal who may hold some common goals with conservatives, but he also has some national desires that go against conservatives, i.e., gun laws, as one example. His views on health are important though. While working on the goals he has in common with the Trump admin, RFK jr may be hoping to get a couple of his liberal notions thru on the backside. It will be up to us, We the People, to stop this from happening.

Tulsi Gabbard has always held a soft spot within my heart. Like me, she is very pretty, and too, she talks a good game, and, she seems to have served her country cleanly and well… but… I know that she has been involved with the Clowns In America, and this gives me pause yo. I will never trust anyone fully if they have been thru that rat mill. I do like her apparent commitment and vigor yo

What can I say about Donald Trump? He confuses me at times… then at other times, I feel very sure of his commitment to our republic. Feelings are not what this movement is about yo Either way, unless we are going to put a lot of lives on the line, Trump is our best bet to take back our country as peacefully as possible… and that is a fact yo

I have brought up the following before Did anyone notice this 👇🏼 in January 2017?

Btw, JAG stands for Judge Advocate General

These gentlemen, officers in our military, stood with President Trump for 17 seconds *begins counting on her fingers

Yup! Just as I thought yo! The 17th letter in our alphabet is the letter Q

*interesting

Angie/Maddie🦇❥✝︎🇺🇸

[atlasthegreatest]

Cracks in the Shell / Cassandra Cain x Killer Croc!Female Reader

Y/n Jones, a woman with a reptilian appearance and severe agoraphobia, becomes Oracle’s apprentice after meeting her online. To help her gain confidence, Oracle introduces her to Cassandra Cain, who accepts her without hesitation. Through late-night walks and quiet moments, the two form a deep connection, and Y/n begins to feel safe and accepted for the first time.

Word count: 4138

A/n: This was requested by an anon. Enjoy it!

The heavy blinds blocked out the sunlight in neat lines, shrouding the small apartment in a hazy dimness. The room felt more like a safe cocoon than a living space—cluttered with books, devices, and scattered gadgets Oracle had sent over. Y/n hadn’t stepped outside in months. Maybe years. It didn’t matter anymore. Y/n’s days bled together in front of a glowing monitor, where the digital world was safer, less judgmental, less cruel. Here, no one saw the scaly ridges that curved across her cheeks or the sharp claws at her fingertips. No one flinched at her size or muttered insults under their breath.

Well, almost no one.

Barbara Gordon—or Oracle—had found Y/n online months ago, and now she spent most of her days as her apprentice, soaking up everything she taught: encryption, systems control, surveillance tricks. She hadn’t just been a mentor. Barbara had become a lifeline. Even on the worst nights, when Y/n’s self-loathing gnawed at her chest, Barbara reminded her that she had value, that she was not broken.

Today, however, Oracle had thrown a wrench in their routine.

“I want you to meet someone,” she’d said through the comm-link.

Y/n’s heart had clenched. “What kind of meeting?”

“She’s… important. Trust me on this one.”

And now, here Y/n’ was—sitting on the couch, hunched forward with clawed hands gripping her knees. The doorbell echoed through the apartment, and Y/n froze, every muscle tensing with an almost primal fear.

Y/n had expected some tech-whiz friend of Oracle’s or a masked vigilante, maybe even a fellow misfit. What she hadn’t expected was Cassandra Cain.

The door opened slowly. Y/n’d left it cracked as if that would make this easier. And there she stood—quiet and small, but somehow more imposing than the walls around her. Cassandra didn’t carry herself like someone trying to make an impression. There was no pretense, no fake smile or judgment in her deep brown eyes.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Y/n stared at her for a long moment, trying to size her up—and failing miserably. She wasn’t dressed like a hero tonight. She wore dark, simple clothes that didn’t draw attention, and her black hair fell loosely over her shoulders. But there was an intensity in the way she moved—so controlled, so careful. Like she noticed everything. Including how Y/n was shrinking back into herself.

“You… want to come in?” Y/n asked, her voice rasping slightly.

Cassandra nodded once, slipping inside and closing the door with the same quiet precision. She took in the room—how small it was, how cluttered—and finally, her gaze landed on Y/n.

Y/n could feel Cassandra studying her. Not in the way most people did—those awful, sneering glances filled with disgust or pity. This was different.

Cassandra stepped closer, slow and deliberate, her eyes tracing the scales along Y/n’s arms, the jagged ones curling around her neck. But there was no fear in her expression. No hesitation.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, voice soft but clear.

Y/n’s heart skipped painfully. A laugh bubbled up, bitter and reflexive. “Yeah, sure,” she muttered, pulling her arms around herself. “That’s the first thing people think when they see me.”

Cassandra didn’t flinch. She only tilted her head, as if weighing Y/n’s words, and then shook it slowly. “They’re wrong.”

It took a moment for those two words to land—They’re wrong. It was the simplest thing in the world, and yet it unraveled something deep inside Y/n.

For the first time in ages, Y/n wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I don’t… leave this place much,” Y/n admitted, glancing toward the windows as if they were barred. “Oracle thought meeting you might help with that.”

Cassandra stepped closer, close enough now that Y/n could see how much smaller she was compared to her. It should have made her seem fragile, but somehow it didn’t. There was strength in her silence.

“Not fast,” Cassandra murmured. “Slow.”

Y/n blinked, confused for a second. “What?”

“We go slow,” she said, her dark eyes locking with Y/n’s. “Not today. But soon.”

The warmth in her words startled Y/n, the quiet reassurance that she wouldn’t be rushed. For the first time in a long while, the idea of leaving didn’t feel so terrifying.

Cassandra sat down beside Y/n on the couch without asking, close enough that her shoulder brushed Y/n’s. Most people didn’t sit this close—not without recoiling from Y/n’s scales. But Cassandra didn’t care. She seemed entirely at ease as if the thought of Y/n’s appearance was irrelevant.

Y/n shifted awkwardly, still not used to this kind of contact. “Why are you okay with… me?”

Cassandra shrugged gently, her eyes soft. “People look different. That’s all.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration or an attempt to make Y/n feel better. It was just a fact to her—a simple truth. And somehow, that made it even more powerful.

A long silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For once, Y/n felt… okay. Like she could breathe without the crushing weight of self-consciousness.

After a while, Cassandra leaned back, her hands resting lightly on her knees. “You like movies?” she asked suddenly, glancing toward the TV.

Y/n blinked at the unexpected question. “Uh… yeah. Why?”

Cassandra gave a small, almost mischievous smile. “Movie night.”

“Movie night?” Y/n echoed, trying to hide the disbelief in her voice.

Cassandra nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Pick one.”

For a moment, Y/n hesitated. But then she found herself scrolling through the streaming service, surprised at how easy it was to sit next to Cassandra.

As the movie started, Y/n caught a glimpse of Cassandra out of the corner of her eye. She sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the screen, but there was a calmness about her presence—a steady warmth that made Y/n feel, for the first time in years, like maybe she wasn’t alone.

And maybe, just maybe, Y/n wouldn’t always be trapped inside these four walls. Not with someone like Cassandra beside her.

Maybe she could take things slow. One step at a time.

And for the first time in a long while, that didn’t seem so impossible.

——————-

The first few “movie nights” with Cassandra were easy—comfortable, even. She didn’t push, didn’t pry. She just showed up. Every time she came over, she brought that same steady calm with her, and slowly, Y/n began to loosen. The weight on her chest didn’t vanish, but it felt lighter with Cassandra around. And, even stranger, she never seemed to mind the space Y/n lived in—how cluttered it was with wires, broken devices, and sketches of projects Y/n was too nervous to complete.

The way Cassandra acted—like Y/n was someone worth showing up for—started to chip away at the walls she’d built around herself. But the progress was slow, like trying to teach herself how to breathe again.

And Cassandra seemed to understand that without Y/n saying a word.

One evening, two weeks after their first meeting, she arrived with something tucked under her arm—a folded hoodie, dark green and far too large for her.

“This is… for me?” Y/n asked, raising a brow.

Cassandra nodded and handed it over. “For outside.”

Y/n stared at the soft fabric, a knot forming in her throat. It wasn’t just a hoodie—it was a gesture, a lifeline. Something that could wrap her up, make her feel smaller, safer. It would cover Y/n’s scales, at least partially, and maybe, just maybe, make the outside world a little less overwhelming.

Y/n swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “You really think I can do this?”

Cassandra’s hand brushed hers briefly—a feather-light touch, careful and deliberate. It sent a jolt through Y/n, not because it startled her, but because it didn’t feel cautious. It felt… reassuring.

“You already are,” she said simply.

Her words hit Y/n like a punch to the chest. No one had ever framed it that way—like simply existing was already an act of bravery.

The first time Cassandra convinced Y/n to leave the apartment, it wasn’t some grand event. There was no pressure. No crowd to navigate. Just a short walk—late at night, when the streets were quiet and the city felt like it belonged only to them.

Y/n had pulled the hoodie over her head, drawing the hood low enough to hide most of her features. The fabric was soft against her scales, the sleeves loose around her wrists. It didn’t erase Y/n’s fear, but it gave her something to hold onto.

Cassandra didn’t say much as they stepped outside together. She just walked beside Y/n, silent but steady, her presence an anchor keeping Y/n from drifting too far into her mind. Every once in a while, she’d glance at Y/n, her eyes crinkling at the corners in that almost smile she reserved just for Y/n.

The cool night air brushed against Y/n’s skin, sharp and unfamiliar after so long inside. Her claws flexed nervously in her sleeves, but she kept walking, her steps slow but sure.

Cassandra didn’t guide Y/n—she let her set the pace, following wherever Y/n led. It wasn’t until Y/n stopped at the edge of a quiet park that she spoke.

“Feel okay?”

Y/n took a deep breath, the air filling her lungs like she hadn’t allowed herself to breathe properly in years. “Not terrible,” she admitted.

That made Cassandra’s lips curve into the faintest smile. “Good.”

The two of them sat down on a bench, side by side, the streetlights casting long shadows over the ground. It was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Y/n felt… almost normal. Sitting here, in the open, next to Cassandra—like the world wasn’t something to be afraid of.

“Thank you,” Y/n whispered, her voice thick with emotion she couldn’t quite be named.

Cassandra didn’t respond with words. She just reached over and slipped her hand into Y/n’s—claws and all. Her fingers curled around Y/n’s like it was the easiest thing in the world like it didn’t matter what she looked like or how sharp her edges were.

And in that moment, something inside Y/n cracked open.

———————-

As the weeks passed, Y/n ventured out more and more—always at night, always with Cassandra by her side. Y/n started with small steps: a corner store, an empty street, and a quiet coffee shop. Each time she went out, the crushing weight of fear lifted a little more.

And each time, Cassandra was there.

It wasn’t just her quiet presence that made the difference—it was the way she saw Y/n. She looked at Y/n like she wasn’t something strange or broken. She looked at Y/n like she was enough, exactly as she was.

And, slowly, Y/n began to believe her.

One night, after a walk through the park, they sat together on Y/n’s couch, the glow of the TV flickering in the dim room. The movie played in the background, but Y/n wasn’t paying attention. Not really.

Cassandra’s head rested lightly on Y/n’s shoulder, her small frame warm and solid against her. Y/n could feel the rise and fall of her breath, slow and steady, and the weight of her trust pressed against her heart in a way that made it ache—in a good way.

“Cassandra?” Y/n murmured, breaking the comfortable silence.

She hummed softly in response, not lifting her head from Y/n’a shoulder.

“Why… why do you keep coming back?” Y/n asked, her voice barely audible.

Cassandra shifted slightly, just enough to glance up at Y/n, her dark eyes soft and unwavering.

“Because,” she said quietly, “I like you.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the world tilted beneath her.

It wasn’t just the words—it was the way she said them. Like it was the simplest truth in the world. Like it didn’t need explaining.

And in that moment, something inside her changed.

Y/n wasn’t just someone hiding away from the world anymore. She was someone worth knowing. Someone worth loving.

And Cassandra Cain—silent, strong, and impossibly kind—had seen that in her from the very beginning.

For the first time in as long as Y/n could remember, she allowed herself to lean into someone else.

And for the first time, Y/n knew that she wasn’t alone.

————————-

The nights with Cassandra became Y/n’s lifeline. It wasn’t just the walks or the movie marathons—it was the quiet moments in between, when her presence wrapped around Y/n like a shield, warding off the gnawing insecurity that had lived inside her for so long. She never forced Y/n to talk about her fears, her agoraphobia, or the way the world had broken her down bit by bit. She just stayed, steady and unyielding, until the parts of herself Y/n had hidden started to surface, little by little.

One night, as they walked together along the riverbank, she stopped suddenly. Y/n glanced over, curious, as she pointed toward the water.

“Look,” Cassandra said, her voice quiet.

Y/n followed her gaze. The moonlight shimmered over the surface of the water, and her reflection stared back—a hulking figure with jagged scales, claws, and ridges. Y/n flinched, heart, stuttering in her chest.

“I hate it,” Y/n whispered before she could stop herself. Her voice cracked, thick with frustration. “I’ve hated it for as long as I can remember.”

Cassandra turned toward her, her dark eyes soft but intent. She didn’t speak right away, giving Y/n space to fill the silence if she wanted.

Y/n shook her head, clenching her fists in her hoodie sleeves. “People look at me like I’m a monster. Even when they don’t say it, I know they’re thinking it. That’s why I stopped going out. Why… it’s so hard to leave.”

Cassandra’s expression didn’t change, but she stepped closer—just a little, her shoulder brushing Y/n’s in that familiar, grounding way. “You’re not a monster,” she said firmly, the certainty in her voice wrapping around Y/n like armor.

Y/n let out a shaky laugh, bitter and uncertain. “You don’t know what it’s like… looking like this.”

For a moment, Cassandra was silent. Then, she reached up, gently guiding Y/n’s hood back, revealing her face to the cool night air. Y/n stiffened, expecting the usual discomfort or pity she saw in others, but when she looked into her eyes, all Y/n found was warmth.

“Not scary,” she said softly, as if it were a simple fact.

The sincerity in her voice cut through Y/n’s defenses like a knife through water. Cassandra never sugarcoated things, never said anything she didn’t mean. And somehow, that made it even harder to dismiss her words.

“See you,” she added, tapping her chest lightly. “Not just this.” She gestured toward Y/n’s scales, her hand brushing her arm briefly, her touch feather-light and deliberate. “You.”

The weight of her words settled deep inside Y/n, stirring something unfamiliar—something dangerously close to hope.

————————-

The first time Cassandra stayed the night, it wasn’t planned. They had been watching a movie—something cheesy and old, with terrible special effects—and somewhere along the way, the two of them had fallen into a comfortable sprawl on the couch. Cassandra curled up against Y/n’s side, her warmth seeping through the fabric of her hoodie, and for once, Y/n didn’t feel the need to shrink away.

When the credits rolled, Y/n glanced down to find her already half-asleep, her breathing slow and even. She looked so peaceful, so at ease, and Y/n didn’t have the heart to wake her.

So Y/n stayed like that, her arm draped carefully around her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest. It was strange—how natural it felt to hold her, how right.

For the first time in years, the gnawing voice in Y/n’s head—telling her that she didn’t belong, that she was unworthy of this kind of closeness—was silent.

And in the quiet darkness, with Cassandra nestled against her, Y/n allowed herself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe she deserved this.

Morning came slowly, the soft light filtering through the blinds, and Cassandra stirred beside her. Y/n blinked down at her groggily, her mind still thick with sleep, and found her watching with those deep, dark eyes—calm, patient, and unwavering.

“Morning,” Y/n rasped, your voice rough with sleep.

Cassandra gave her a small, sleepy smile, the corners of her mouth curling just slightly. “Morning.”

Y/n didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Cassandra leaned in, her hand brushing Y/n’s jaw in a careful, deliberate touch. There was no hesitation in her movements—only quiet intent, as if she had made this decision long ago.

And before she could overthink it—before the familiar wave of doubt could swallow Y/n whole—Cassandra kissed her.

It was soft, gentle, and achingly tender, like the first bloom of spring after a long, brutal winter. Her lips pressed against Y/n’s, light as a whisper, but it was enough to make her heart stutter in her chest.

For a moment, Y/n was frozen, her mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. But then, slowly, Y/n melted into the kiss, her hand lifting to rest on Cassandra’s back, anchoring herself to the warmth of her presence.

When Cassandra pulled back, her gaze locked with Y/n’s, and the faintest trace of a smile danced across her lips.

“Okay?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. “Yeah,” Y/n managed, her voice rough but certain. “More than okay.”

Cassandra gave Y/n a small, satisfied nod as if her answer was all she needed.

And in that moment—curled together on Y/n’s couch, the morning light spilling softly into the room—Y/n felt something shift inside her.

The walls she had built around herself, brick by brick, were starting to crumble. Not all at once, but slowly—like a glacier melting under the warmth of the sun.

And for the first time in a very long time, Y/n allowed herself to hope. Not just for more nights like this, but for a life beyond the shadows she had hidden in for so long.

A life where she wasn’t defined by her appearance.

A life where she was enough—just as she was.

And with Cassandra beside her, that life didn’t seem so far away anymore.

Bonus Chapter:

The sun was too bright.

Y/n hadn’t been outside during the day in years. Nighttime was her comfort—its shadows softened her shape, hiding the rough angles and sharp edges. But daylight was unforgiving. It laid everything bare, making it harder to believe that she could blend in, harder to shake the feeling that the world would judge her the moment it saw her.

But today was different. Today, Y/n was doing this—for herself and for Cassandra.

“Ready?” Cassandra’s voice was soft but steady. She stood beside Y/n on the doorstep, her small hand tucked into Y/n’s.

Y/n adjusted the hoodie she was wearing—it was the same one Cassandra’d given her weeks ago, now a comforting part of her armor. With a deep breath, Y/n gave her a nod. “Ready.”

Cassandra squeezed Y/n’s hand, her gaze full of silent encouragement, and the two of them stepped out into the daylight together.

The walk through Gotham was… strange. Y/n kept her head down, her hood drawn low over her face, but every sound—the hum of cars, the chatter of people—felt louder, sharper in the daylight. Y/n’s claws flexed nervously inside her sleeves, and her shoulders tensed under the weight of every passing glance.

But Cassandra stayed close, her hand never leaving Y/n’s. She didn’t rush her, didn’t try to force Y/n to keep pace with the world. Instead, she slowed down with her, matching Y/n’s steps.

As they approached the apartment building where Barbara lived, Y/n’s heart pounded harder. Y/n’d met her online countless times through video calls and chats, but this was different. In person felt so much more real, so much more vulnerable.

“It’ll be okay,” Cassandra murmured as if reading Y/n’s thoughts.

Y/n gave her a tight nod, hoping she was right.

Barbara’s place was in a building that looked both old and sturdy—like it had stood against Gotham’s chaos for years and had no intention of falling. Cassandra led Y/n up a flight of stairs and soon they were standing in front of a door with a small brass number on it.

Cassandra gave Y/n’s hand one last squeeze, then knocked.

The door swung open, and there she was—Barbara Gordon, also known as Oracle. She was perched in her wheelchair, her expression warm and welcoming. Her red hair caught the light, and the way her blue eyes crinkled when she smiled made Y/n feel like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

“Hey! You made it!” Barbara said brightly, her voice filled with genuine excitement.

Y/n shuffled awkwardly, trying to hide deeper in her hood, but Barbara wasn’t having it. She rolled forward and gave Y/n a once-over, her gaze calm but sharp, like she was seeing all of her at once—Y/n’s nervous posture, the way her claws fidgeted in her sleeves, and the heavy weight of the years Y/n had spent in isolation.

“Nice hoodie,” she said with a grin, breaking the tension with practiced ease. “I see Cassandra’s got good taste.”

Y/n let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, a small laugh slipping past her lips. “Yeah… she does.”

Barbara’s smile widened. “Come on in. Someone else is dying to meet you.”

Y/n blinked, confused until a low, familiar voice rumbled from deeper inside the apartment.

“You must be the one Cassandra’s told us about.”

And then Bruce Wayne stepped into view.

Meeting Batman—the actual, living legend—was something Y/n never expected, let alone in broad daylight. He stood there in casual clothes, his broad frame imposing even without the cape and cowl. His sharp blue eyes studied her with the kind of intensity that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Y/n first instinct was to shrink back—curl into herself, disappear. But then, something surprising happened: Bruce smiled.

It was small, subtle, but it was there—a quiet gesture of reassurance.

“Cassandra doesn’t usually bring people around unless they’re important,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Y/n stared at him, stunned, trying to process the fact that Batman had just casually implied she was important.

Barbara gave a little laugh from her wheelchair, clearly enjoying Y/n’s stunned expression. “Bruce doesn’t say much, but when he does, he means it.”

Y/n felt a warmth spread through her chest—an unfamiliar but welcome sensation. Y/n wasn’t just a project to them. Y/n wasn’t just someone Cassandra had to look after. She mattered to them, in a way that felt real and tangible.

Bruce extended his hand toward Y/n—not out of politeness, but as an invitation. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and shook it. Y/n’s claws grazed his palm, but he didn’t flinch. He just gave her hand a firm, steady shake, like her appearance didn’t faze him in the slightest.

Barbara grinned. “See? Told you they’d like you.”

————————

The four of them sat in Barbara’s living room, the conversation easy and light. Y/n expected awkwardness, or at least some tension—after all, she was still getting used to being outside during the day—but instead, it felt natural.

Barbara talked to her like an old friend, asking about your latest tech projects and cracking jokes about Gotham’s quirks. Bruce, though quieter, chimed in now and then with dry humor that caught you off guard. And through it all, Cassandra stayed close, her presence a steady anchor in the swirling sea of newness.

For the first time in years, sitting in that bright, sunlit room, Y/n felt like she belonged.

When it was time to leave, Bruce and Barbara walked them to the door.

“We’re glad you came,” Barbara said warmly, resting her hand lightly on Y/n’s arm. “And whenever you want to come by again—day or night—just say the word.”

Bruce gave Y/n a nod, his expression unreadable but kind. “Take care of each other,” he said quietly, glancing between Y/n and Cassandra.

Cassandra gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return.

As the door closed behind them, Y/n stepped out into the afternoon sun, feeling lighter than she had in years.

Y/n glanced at Cassandra, the corners of her mouth twitching into a small, hesitant smile. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

Cassandra gave Y/n one of her rare, full smiles—the kind that made Y/n’s heart skip a beat. “Told you.”

And for the first time, standing in the bright light of day, Y/n believed her.

Because with Cassandra by her side—and now with new friends who saw her for who she was—maybe the world wasn’t such a scary place after all.

[little-engineer-who-cant]

Jason has an identity crisis, tries to fuck his way out of all his feelings and fails miserably.

Part 1 of Sirens Scream Names Forgotten by Tomorrow, Laid to Rest in Infinity

(also posted under cut)

“Be kind to the jaded souls, the ones with jagged edges and bones weary and crumbling. Be gentle with them not because you may break them to pieces with one wrong touch, not because you may cut yourself on their serrated fingers, but because the world has never known to be gentle with them. Because they have never known to be gentle with themselves.”

- don’t you think they’ve suffered enough? (j.p.)

It’s easy to slip away from that warehouse in the chaos of his own trap springing, leaving the hero and his newest child soldier with nothing but his laughter ringing in their ears. For all of Batman’s tech, his strength, his mind, there’s no way for a living and breathing man to track a phantom that doesn’t want to be found. Dead men tell no tales and all that.

(Oh, but you do.)

That part hadn’t been planned, but he’s more than a little smug about handling it as smoothly as he did. Even unprepared, there was just too much that he knew about Bruce and wasn’t that just unsettling to old Batsie?

(You wanted him to know you, didn’t you? Wanted him to see past the mask.)

(Shut up, it’s not time.)

A wrench like Bruce had a certain amount of unpredictability, that was true. Humans usually did. But to fucking show up personally for a seemingly small potatoes villain like him and not just send that little shit of a replacement Robin like he’d been anticipating… you’ve changed your game a bit, huh old man? No, he’s apparently now made just enough of a name for himself that the Bat himself wanted to talk. At least the talking part hadn't changed. Same as always, it was about the smokescreen, the show. The act of making Bruce feel better about himself, like he had tried to deescalate the situation but any violence that resulted was always someone else’s fault. Never his. They all forced his hand, you see?

(Like you’re trying to now.)

What a fucking joke , like the old man would ever say something worth hearing. Trying to be reasonable, through heavy handed threats of grievous bodily harm, how the fuck did I ever go along with that? Being a child was only so much of an excuse. He’d been old enough then to understand the words that were being thrown about, he’d just been too caught up in being the Robin to Batman that he hadn’t cared about the meanings like he does now. Being on the receiving end makes him look more closely at this warped funhouse mirror that’s become his… life? Unlife? 

Whatever. The specifics of his… situation … are too complicated to parse through his feelings on those right now. Not when all he wants to do is take his now warm and living fist and slam it into Bruce’s face for having the fucking nerve to bring another child into this, like Jason meant nothing. Just the first body in a God knows how long of a line of them to come. Some kind of demented conga line of dead birds; maybe he’s more like the Joker than he wants to think he is and that thought makes him snort a bitter huff of amusement under his breath then grimace at the ache in his ribs. 

(He’s a vampire bat, maybe, they feed on birds.)

(Fuck.)

That’s a whole other can of worms that he is not looking into right now. Bad enough his carcass was replaced so easily. Even worse if it was planned.

If he goes down that line of thought, he might light this whole city on fire and leave Bruce screaming in the ashes, bleeding out from a thousand cuts. 

No, no, no, he’s got a plan already and that’s bleeding this city dry and watching Bruce try to desperately revive its picked over cadaver the way he never tried to revive Jason’s before he gives the old shit the mercy of a bullet-

(Maybe you’re the vampire.)

-just because that’s justice . And that’s all the Batman’s after, right? All he’s ever been after, if all the lines he fed to his Robins-

(His food-)

-could be believed. 

(Chewed you up and spit you in the ground, he’ll do it again and again-)

His fist raps the alley wall a few times, enough to sting and drive back the looming cloud that threatens to swirl around and become a living typhoon. There’ll be blood under his gloves from how tight he’s clenched his fist, splitting open old wounds, but that’s fine. What’s blood loss going to do? Kill him? He’s no stranger to handling a bruise or a hundred, that’s par for the course in his life now. Has been for years. A couple cracked ribs and some bloody knuckles are not going to slow him down. 

No, what really fucking stings is whatever is left in that cavity inside his chest, the hole that he used to think was patched when Bruce brought him into that huge house, when Alfred smiled and snuck him cookies. 

(That was the fucking dream, wasn’t it? Warm house, warm food, then you get the shit beat out of you to go fight crime.)

Turnabout is fair play and all that nonsense.

The side of his fist finds that same brick wall but he doesn’t smash into it, just rests his gloved knuckles against the abrasive surface. No use breaking his hand for a momentary fit of rage, it won’t help anything and he needs to keep his head on straight. There’s a plan here and he hasn’t gotten this far by losing his cool. It’s just a grounding point that he presses against, one that won’t crumble no matter how hard he shoves. It’s exactly what he needs because God knows there isn’t a person he can take this out on-

(Yes there is.)

(Shut up.) 

But his body turns towards his magnetic north anyways and he doesn’t stop it. It was a token protest anyways. Truth will out and all that bullshit. Well, Batman didn’t get the truth tonight but someone else will. Someone else will look this horrid amalgamation in the eye and either run or treat him just as gingerly as Talia did. Like the weapon he’d spent so long honing himself to be, the monster he’d welcomed into that place that-

That still hurts. It still hurts, in that cavity inside. The part he never thought had a chance in hell of crawling out of that hole and back into his sad sack of a meat suit. Jason Todd went into the ground a whole boy, the Red Hood emerged a warped reimagining of that little corpse, grown strong and tough and-

(And you failed.)

One day, he’d finish that fucking clown. One day, he’d dig the bastard a pit to Hell next to what used to be Jason Todd’s grave, but first, he had a bigger score to settle. In the end, in the here and now, this wasn’t about the Joker or even about Jason fucking dying. It was about Tim goddamn Drake.

Because what had changed, really? What changed? Nothing. He’s died and come back, he’s been buried and dug himself out with his fucking belt buckle and nothing changed. Not even Robin changed. Tim Drake is just another child following Bruce, spouting his words, punching the people Bruce points at and all of them, both of us, were just replacements for Dick who was a replacement for the family Bruce lost. And none of them ever lived up to it, I died trying to be that and still failed to do that right-

It’s as easy as breathing, though that’s a little painful right now, slipping up the wire-frame fire escape in the darkness. Never change, Gotham, never change. A last sweeping look over the city confirms that he’s alone. Or as alone as a log ever gets in a stacked fire pit, waiting for a match to drop. Or maybe this city’s already smoldering and he’s trying to frantically pour water on it.

(If water is gasoline maybe. Then you’d be God.)

(Shut. Up.)

His ribs ache as he slips into her apartment through a once locking window, confident no one is following him, not even the little shit in a stolen suit who’d tried so hard to get the drop on him. But the kid is just that, still a kid. Jason’s been in the game for a long time, not even Bruce knows how far his reach in Gotham goes now. This isn’t Batman’s city anymore, it’s Red Hood’s. It’s his. Bruce may fight crime, but Jason grew up embedded in it. He knows it in a way Bruce and his silver spoon never will, no matter how he studies its occupants. Because he isn’t one of them like Jason is. To a grown gutter urchin, these streets are home, their busted lights a balm to his soul, the screams of brakes and people alike a familiar lullaby. Even the muted throbbing in his face is familiar, almost a comfort of home. It’s certainly not the worst hit he’s ever taken, even discounting the obvious comparison.

Her bedroom is empty like he knew it would be. It’s Friday, she doesn’t work tomorrow and it’s not even that late. Barely past eleven. Really, he’s impressed with himself, taking an early night off. His ribs will hurt like a bitch tomorrow and his cheek might be fractured from the stupid kid’s pretty solid punch before he split, but the mask did it’s job, taking most of what might have otherwise knocked him down. And he’d left the Bat and his replacement-

(God damn you, did I ever mean anything to you besides being the means to your end?)

-frazzled and afraid. A few more steps in this grand plan and the truth would come out, the web he’d been weaving around The World’s Greatest Detective would close and there would be no way out. Either Bruce would pull the trigger, or Jason would. If you pull it old man, it might not stick. Is that what you want?  

At this point he doesn’t know who he’s talking to, his imaginary Bruce or himself.

Where is she? He needs a distraction from these swirling thoughts, a way out of the growing labyrinth in his head. She’s always been that since he found her, a light in the dark, a soothing balm over an open wound. She’s not part of this world, with its shrouds and lies and agendas, she’s just a girl living her life and unfortunate enough to have found the devil on her doorstep. 

Crazy enough to have let him in, despite all the warning signs.

The whisper soft humming from the dark abyss beyond the doorway echoes in his ears like a siren song, alerting him to her location and he smiles under the mask. Drawing him into her embrace again, the only comfort he had that didn’t come from watching the life leave someone’s eyes. The only warmth he felt that didn’t involve him being elbow deep in someone’s chest cavity to feel it, didn’t need a slit artery or have a-

(bomb as my pyre, feeling flesh melt, unable to move, unable to scream-)

-match burning down to his fingertips just to feel something other than apathy and bone melting rage. 

He watches her from the doorway, silent and shadowed. There’s no moon tonight, no star bright enough to turn on him and expose his presence or even grace him with a shadow of his own. No streetlights. She’s an office worker, not a millionaire, so she’s not in the part of the city where they keep replacing those when they inevitably get shot out. But the shirt she’s wearing is light grey, mine, she’s wearing my… Jason’s shirt, and the walking shell of Jason Todd isn’t the one who watches it float around the room like a ghost, flickering at the hem in time with the movement of her legs, the back vanishing and reappearing in time with the swinging of her loose braid.

Blue light washes over her face, staining her lips as she clicks on the kettle. It takes every ounce of his considerable self control not to stalk over, not to press his fingers, mouth, entire being against those lips to make sure they’re warm with life and breath, not washed out and cold like a corpse. He’s seen too many, he’s made even more-

(you’ve been one too, don’t you remember what it was like trying to move those stiff limbs? It took you hours to feel again, trapped in that box-)

-and if there is one certainty in life it’s that if she keeps welcoming into her sanctuary, she’ll be another one to add to the list of his sins. His hands aren’t clean and she isn’t safe. This was a mistake, he should not have come here, he should have done what he usually does. Rampage around another supervillain or five for old times sake. Grit his teeth and put his shoulder back to the grindstone to burrow his way deeper into Gotham’s underworld, chiseling away at the Batman’s iron grip until he replaces it with his titanium one instead. But no, he’s an idiot . So, he’s here, in her apartment in the dead of night, uninvited.

Jason Todd, the shy and uncomfortable man she met at a fun little nightclub, is not watching her. 

The Red Hood, Gotham’s latest war dog, is.

(Is he?) 

Sometimes, he wonders if there’s a difference anymore but it doesn’t matter right now. Not when they both want her. Because they’re both me but who the fuck is that anymore? Jason’s dead, the Red Hood is Joker’s, what am I?

She notices him, of course she does. She’s too perceptive not too. Sometimes, he wonders what happened to make her that way, wants to ask about the small, oddly scattered scars like knife wounds- 

(too similar to yours) 

-that dot her body, but she doesn’t ask about his disappearances, his odd hours, the blood and death that have burrowed so deep into him that they’re practically lovers, so he keeps his mouth shut. Her secrets are her own, God knows he has plenty. Whatever has happened to her, it’s tuned her into the smallest shifts in her carefully created atmosphere, her protective bubble, her sanctuary. She notices him and there’s no telling what gave him away. The ragged breathing behind his mask, the soft creak of leather when his fists clenched, some other presence that he can feel clinging to him like a second skin and dripping from his lips like blood as he pants- 

It’s a phantom, given life by his every exhale, moving in a disjointed and phony copy of his own limbs, but it’s his and his alone. Rage made manifest, always closer on nights like these, ones where the acrid scents of smoke and gunpowder and iron cling to him even after a shower, like it's an expensive cologne and he wonders how she hasn’t guessed the truth. Or maybe she has. She’s smart, too smart, too perceptive not to. 

(Then why doesn’t she run from me?)

Robin would have been good for her to find. Even an older, jaded, more independent Robin like Dick would have been better. But no, she’d picked the worst possible one, the skeletal remains of a bird too young to fly before it was launched from the nest to fall, to struggle, to die. There was no feasible way she could have known, sidling up to him and flashing him that smile, ignoring every warning sign with the single minded determination of a self-destructive spiral, but shouldn’t she have seen? Seen the blood under his fingernails-

(they’re clean, you wear gloves)

-seen the fangs in his mouth-

(they’re normal teeth)

-heard the growl in his voice that screamed run, run, run-  

(Why didn’t you run?)

No, she’d looked into the lion’s mouth and smiled without fear, run delicate fingers through his mane, put her number in his phone and yanked him into her addictive embrace. She should have found Robin and maybe she’d find that little brat one day but right now she has a nightmare made flesh in her kitchen.

His hand flexes, wrapped around the butt of the gun holstered on his thigh like it’s a child’s comfort toy, not a deadly mechanism of destruction that he could so easily turn on her. Never, I never will . If a bullet kills her, it won’t be his, even if it’s because of him the trigger is pulled. Small comforts. The other fist clenches harder at the bitter thought, like the pressure will stop him from doing something even stupider than standing here. Like he can stop himself from reaching out, a demon to an angel, falling further over his abyss of damnation to reach her divine light.

So she notices. So she turns, so she sees. Sees him, towering in the shadows like he wants to melt into them. Sees the red covering his jaw and mouth and nose and cheeks, the black covering his eyes, the hood above all that. Sees the kevlar, the weapons, the gloves, the rage pulsing from his skin like a living being. Sees the truth of the man she’s been letting into her life and into her bed, a reaper come to take his due, coming here was a mistake-

He sees the truth on her face, the flicker of comprehension and complex emotion that cannot be anything but fear . Hears it, in the way her breath catches on an inhale that sounds like a gunshot between them, her to him, echoing over the actual gunshots outside. This was a mistake, you’ve fucked up-

Then, she’s slowly stepping toward him, like he’s an animal she’s trying not to spook. You’ve fucked up, Todd . This nice, kind, normal girl who was somehow able to see whatever shell of Jason was left under all of his Red Hood bravado, now being confronted with the truth that they are one in the same and something else entirely and fuck, he’s just fucked this whole thing up, isn’t that what you wanted? You knew she would never be safe-

If she runs, he won’t blame her even one bit. He’ll let her go, even though she threatens his whole plan because she knows now. But the memories of her fingers twisted with his as she dragged Jason Todd along a park path, joy in her eyes and laughter on her lips even when he stumbled… He’ll let her go. His hands are weapons that Bruce shaped long ago, people always choose to avoid him instead of crossing his path but she’s headstrong in her lack of fear. He’s a man to her, nothing more, and even if she runs from the devil, he’ll let her escape this one time just for that kindness.

She doesn’t run.

She also doesn’t take his hand.

She doesn’t touch him at all.

No, Anna kneels in front of him, eyes not wavering from his face even as her mouth is level with his groin. Jason doesn’t dare breathe, what the fuck is she doing and she doesn’t break eye contact as she opens her mouth and presses a filthy kiss to the front of his pants, tongue dragging up his inseam to mouth at his belt buckle as she looks up at him and blinks once, a question. 

There’s a breathless beat where she stares up at him and Jason does his best to play off his surprise as stretching the moment like he’s considering her offer, like he wouldn’t die a thousand deaths to take her up on it.

(She didn’t run. Take what you can get.)

The syrup slow moment passes as he follows her desire into whatever abyss this is. This is why he came here, to forget. And it’s so, so easy to forget when she’s smiling at him. 

Anything else can come later. 

—

He wakes up the next morning sore . Both from the strain of fighting those who he doesn’t want to fucking think about right now and the intensity of his worst, or maybe smartest, spur of the moment decision that followed. 

“Shit,” he breathes, watching his breath puff out in the chilly air. Her heat isn’t working again, fucking cheap-ass landlord . He rolls onto his back, flinging an arm over his eyes to stop the assault of the full daytime outside, taking a deep breath. 

Last night was a line that he crossed at full fucking sprint, he should not have come here in full Red Hood costume after a confrontation with Batman and his replacement-  

Jason takes a slow, calming breath. Rage and panic won’t help anything, it’ll just cloud his judgment. And he’s already clouded enough because he came here last night instead of running to ground in a safe house like he absolutely should have . It doesn’t matter that he lost any potential of a tail, that he was clear of trackers, he had promised himself that first night that he would not get Anna mixed up in this. She’s a good, nice girl and has no business being close to him but he’s fucking pathetic and she cares about him and he’s drawn to her sweetness like a moth to flame. Knowing it’s going to burn him but doing it anyway. 

There’s a part of him that knows she’s known something this whole time. He’s subtle but she’s smart. And now he’s blown the whole charade, breaking into her apartment at ass o’clock at night in full Red Hood regalia… god damn it, Todd. One person who cared about whatever’s left of you . It was a mistake, she’ll see that in the light of day. The bravery the dark gave her will fade. She’s a practical woman, she’ll know it’s too dangerous to let him stay.

But he’s a grown ass man who has to face the music he wrote, he can’t wallow in her bed forever. All his clothes, and his fucking mask God damn it all, are strewn in the other rooms. His dick twitches at the memory and he hates himself a little, mind-blowing sex does not make what you did okay, own up to it and face her like a man. So he takes a deep breath, pulls his arm away from his face and looks at the empty side of the bed. She’s probably been up for a while now. Rises with the sun and doesn’t even think of stopping her movements until after it sinks. Maybe she’ll give me a secret for a secret?

But that’s a hypocrite talking. Just because he busted into her apartment and basically handed her his head on a silver platter does not mean she’s going to do the same. And if she came to hide out in Gotham of all places…

If he digs, it won’t be hard to find out. But where will he be then? What good would it do? No, this is fine. 

She’s Anna, that’s all that matters. 

He’s… someone, but in her bed and in her life, he feels a bit closer to human. Maybe not Jason Todd, maybe never again, but… closer to the dream of it that almost feels like a memory on the good days.

He sighs, then stands up, rubbing a hand over the scruff on his jaw, mumbling to himself about needing to shave, then goes over to ‘his’ drawer in her dresser, the one where she keeps all the clothes she’s stolen from him over the months they’ve been… whatever they are. Whatever you can be when you’ve been lying to her, you bastard. Can’t be a relationship, that’s for fucking sure. 

Maybe it can be.

Fed up with his own internal monologue, the very thing he came here to escape, he pulls out a pair of sweatpants and yanks them on, then runs a hand through his hair and looks in the mirror. Tired, he looks tired. Bruises on his ribs and scrapes on his arms, the beginnings of a shiner on one cheekbone from the little prick, a few hickeys scattered along his throat and collarbones. Stop stalling, he glares at his own reflection, then turns on his heel and stalks towards the bedroom door, opening it and stepping into the apartment before he loses what little nerve he has left. The King of Gotham, brought to his knees by a slip of a girl whose smile could melt ice in a snowstorm. Christ, Todd, what’ve you come to?

She’s in the kitchen again, her kettle heating up for morning tea. His heart aches as he leans in the doorway, folding his arms and watching the way his shirt rides up her thighs as she walks, a slight hitch in her step, the way her braid can’t cover all the marks he left on her throat last night, the way she stirs honey into her tea, a sure sign that her throat is raw from- He breathes through his nose to banish the image before he pops a completely inappropriate boner.

Instead he refocuses on how the sunlight catches the colors in her lovely hair, highlighting the lighter brown streaks hidden away in the dark color and showing that it is, in fact, brown and not black. A deep chocolate color that makes him think of syrup or rich, dark wood of expensive furniture that no one wants to ruin. She’s beautiful, humming to herself and smiling as she takes a sip of this still-too-hot tea like she always does, hissing a bit but then making a small noise of satisfaction that it’s just right. Taking the tea bag out and disposing of it, turning around with a bright smile and- 

“Hey,” she says, still smiling, eyes still shining and crinkling in the corners in genuine delight, her voice a little raspy, “morning sleepyhead.” 

“Morning,” he rumbles out, arms still crossed, waiting for her to tell him to get the hell out before he drags her into his complicated mess of a life- 

She holds out a hand, sipping her tea again. “Come’ere.” 

He stares at the extended hand, glances over to the open area where her living room is. He sees his Red Hood suit, carefully folded and placed on the coffee table, his mask resting on top. Bold and open in the broad daylight, not hidden away or uncomfortably left untouched. Cared for. 

He looks back at her and her open smile, her quiet, understanding eyes, still crinkled at the edges, happy. Slowly, he straightens, unfolds his arms, waits for her hand to draw away, for her to flinch. 

She doesn’t. He takes her hand and steps into her sunlight with a smile, with something in his chest that might be the memory of hope.

(Neither of them see their shadows lurking in the corners, looming larger than them, just as entwined. How hers looms over his in the bright rays they bask in, the darkness swallowing the sun. Just as hungry.

He may be the Red Hood, but Silena is a wolf.)

[nixthelapin]

Marinette’s friends and connections

It has occurred to me just how many of Marinette’s classmates have prestigious family.

To get the obvious ones out of the way:

Adrien: Gabriel Agreste, fashion designer; Émilie, ex-nobility (she gave up her title) and actress

Chloe (and Zoe): Mayor, Andre Bourgeois; Audrey is a renowned fashion critique

Juleka (and Luka): Jagged Stone (even though they didn’t know it most of their lives)

But there’s a surprising amount of others with pretty high-up positions:

Alya: mom is head chef at a very famous hotel (owned by the Mayor himself) and was even a judge on that chef competition next to a TV host and a literal rockstar; dad owns the zoo (I think, he at least runs it)

Mylène: dad is a famous mime (famous enough to get his face plastered all over Paris for his show)

Sabrina: her dad isn’t just a regular cop, he’s the chief cop

Lila: her mom is an ambassador (yes, I’m including her, I think this one is actually true, seeing as her mom was actually on screen that one time)

Max: mom operates the StarTrain, then becomes and astronaut and almost immediately tests a new AI in space (idk how she got through training that fast)

Alix: her dad runs the freaking Louvre

That’s nine (9) students! Out of 15 in the class! That’s more than half the students with at least one parent in a prestigious position.

AND, this includes herself!

Yeah, her parents are bakers, and they only really get famous-level popular after Marinette gets them endorsements from Ladybug and Jagged Stone, but remember: her uncle (great uncle?) is a famous chef in China! He literally owns a world-renowned restaurant in Shang Hai! And even if he’s not super commonly known in France, it’s still well-enough that he was invited to be a major chef competition at the Mayor’s hotel! Also, her grandma (dad’s side) apparently has enough money to just spend years traveling and buy her a motorized scooter on a whim. So, there’s also that.

Non-classroom honorable mentions:

- Kagami: mom and Tsurugi tech

- Manon: mom is the host of almost every news show it seems

- Aurore: kids tv weather girl (she’s shown to be friends with her briefly in s3)

“Normal girl with a normal life” my butt, Marinette!

[star-going-supernova]

Got an idea and I'm interested in seeing what you do with a prompt like this.

FNAF SB is definitely future time, so the digital world implants are actually more common than just private Fazbear Tech. So Gregory already has his own chip (that he uses to play games on mostly) when he gets stuck in the Pizzaplex, and being the little gremlin he is, he hacked it to allow him access to V.A.N.N.I. network and all the shenanigans he can do with it without needing a full mask.

This is a sci-fi sort of AU where implants just exist and are pretty common, and they have a variety of uses, one of which includes using similar “short cuts” as seen through the mask in Ruin. 

The Tormenting of Moon

Moon growled and lunged for Gregory for the fifth time in as many minutes, but Gregory only laughed and, from Moon’s perspective, passed straight through a section of netting on the play structure. Safe on the other side, Gregory cried, “Too slow again!” 

He took off into the twisting halls of colorful plastic and foam, delighting in Moon’s howl of frustration. 

“How are you doing that?” Moon shouted with his raspy, glitchy voice. 

“It’s not my fault if you can’t figure it out!” 

To be fair to Moon, Gregory having an implant wouldn’t be anyone’s first thought. Legally speaking, a person had to be sixteen or older to have a permanent one surgically grafted to their brain stem. And the removable types for anyone younger or those who didn’t want an internal chip were usually in the form of glasses, masks, and visors—none of which Gregory had. 

So, to Gregory, Moon wasn’t an idiot for not catching on. But he was maybe a bit naive and unobservant. The scar on the back of Gregory’s neck wasn’t exactly subtle and neat and professionally done—rather, it was raised and jagged and far bigger than a real doctor would ever make for a chip placement. 

But hey, there was a black market for everything, even if you were only twelve years old. And implants were too handy for Gregory not to make use of.

Switching his perception back and forth between Standard and Network, Gregory wove through the play structure, always keeping well ahead of Moon’s grasping fingers. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, and this was pretty low-stakes for a chase. Like a slightly more intense game of tag. This wasn’t dangerous; it was fun. 

“Missed me, missed me!” he crowed, diving into the opening of a slide. He took the curves at high speed and shot out into the ball pit. Gregory quickly wormed his way to the bottom of the pit and did his best to slither along without making too much of a racket. With his implant, and the upgrades he helped himself to early on in the night, he tapped into the security cameras in the daycare. 

The night vision mode worked perfectly. He switched between views a few times before finding Moon. The animatronic was stalking back and forth along the edge of the ball pit, looking not unlike a cat who had lost its prey. He half expected Moon to dive headfirst into the pit like a fox into snow. 

Deeming himself far enough away from his pursuer, he carefully slinked up to the surface, only just barely poking out. The darkness provided helpful cover, and the obnoxious music masked the quiet rattling of plastic. 

He threw a ball as hard as he could, and a moment later, it clattered loudly on the other side of the pit. The shadow that was Moon ducked toward it, giving Gregory a chance to take up a more defensible position, tucked in a corner. 

And then, because he was an awful child, he carefully started tossing balls over the edge and into the rest of the daycare. They landed near silently on a padded mat and proceeded to roll down it to make quite a mess. Every now and then, he threw another decoy elsewhere in the pit to draw Moon’s attention, as he was currently swimming through the ball pit like a gangly shark. 

This went on for some time, and Gregory had to pause more and more often to smother his laughter into his shirt. 

Finally ready to reap the rewards of his troublemaking, Gregory boosted himself up onto the ledge and loudly declared, “Wow, what a mess!” 

Moon got as far as leaping to his feet in an explosion of plastic balls before he was rendered still and speechless, horrified by the disarray of his daycare. Over a hundred plastic balls lay scattered around the floor. 

His programming demanded he clean up. In his head, Sun wailed with the need to return order to their domain. Moon himself wanted nothing more than to wring the neck of the menace responsible. His head twitched and sparked. 

Cackling, Gregory climbed up a slide with little windows carved in the sides, and there he camped out to watch the animatronic have a mental break down. 

[bcolfanfic]

all the #young vet au world building and background posts are sooo good <3

would love love love to know more about how the boys were able to 'date' when they first got together - the stuff you're already explored (like the first kiss) makes my heart ache with the cuteness

(i'm sorry if i missed it but are they the same age as the #mota boys here?)

good luck with your busy week :)

yeahh the ages are more or less the same!!! i have it in my head (and in the planning doc for the during-war fic that may or may not be written...eventually) that gale enlists when he's 21/bucky is 3 years older than him. i ended up bumping curt's age up by a year bc i wanted him to have an extra year on bucky lol, and ken is still the wittle baby of the gang! everyone else i could not tell you their birthdays off the top of my head anyways lmfao so you can just assume theyre the same age as they are in the show/historically. putting a chunk of my during-war planning doc below for ref but it is very word salady so sorry about that!

(while i loveee hyperrealism i am fucking a whole lot with how exactly tech school works bc i still wanted the bucks to both be pilots alongside being security forces/EOD and that's...not exactly how the air force works in reality lol. the path to be a pilot is completely diff then basic -> tech school. butttt this is a work of fanfic so in the interest of grinding my teeth and taking some creative liberties flight school is built into tech school and they maybe continue flight training while they're in africa. also random side bar, re: actually fully leaving the air force aftert they leave afghanistan, i currently have croz in my mind as staying in. lives in the uk bc he ended up getting sent to a RAF base that supports the us air force there, maybe RAF mildenhall? rosie also stays in for a lil longer because he almost goes down the JAG path but decides not to. still have to figure out what exactly im doing with the others outside of the core four who do just get straight out (core four as in bucky/gale/curt/ken).)

anyyways....to your actual question LOL. like i've said before i think it gets more practical when they're in afghanistan. obv *war wise* its more chaotic but they have their lil bunk room with curt and dickie and can let their guard down a little more. not just with them but with the other guys that they become closer with. it's still not ideal and they still can't manitain a relationship like they'd be able to in the states but. they find 'their things'. when i was messing with tech school stuff i threw around something that curt kinda ribs at them for being sitting practically in each other's laps on the couch when reading for class. and given how bookish they both are (gale more non-fictiony, bucky fiction) i think that'd be a cute lil something they do overseas too as ~enrichment time~. and if one or both of em has had a really rough day maybe instead of doing their own silent reading one of them reads out loud to the other one. it's just comforting <3 its the little things that are the Big things over there bc it does take an actual effort to make even that time for each other y'know? apparently bagram had a tiny subway that was open 24 hours a day, makes me chuckle thinking about them going there at odd hours, maybe when they can't sleep, just to be together when its mostly quiet.

[ur-mag]

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[abronzeagegod]

ETS WIP Chapter 13: What Faith Can Do For You

[first]|[more]

Lyta found herself in a strange place. A very strange place.

A weird place that looked like a brand new cathedral one built pristine and cleanly with modern tools but using rocks, bricks, marble, and designs of an Old World style. Stained glass that was more art than glass and colorful chalk and crayon drawings marring beautiful stone.

"What the actual hell?" Lyta whispered to Aeth who was standing next to her.

"This is the cathedral to the small god I was talking to you about," Aeth explained in an equal whisper. "When I moved them to this new church they immediately fought off the Swwarm app. I figure they might be helpful."

"I hope so, because this family seemed very nice and I don't want to be screwing with them unnecessarily."

The great and large god flew into the temple through the massive open back of the church that somehow Lyta didn't even notice (possibly because the "outside" was the same beautiful multi-colored light as the stained glass).

The god was large. Massive wings that reflected and magnified the stained glass, a segmented body that seemed less insect and more finely crafted metal computer pieces that were supposed to connect together and be fused together in grand circuits.

Sir Lance Corporal was fascinating and beautiful and Lyta was a little in awe.

The massive small god settled at the head of the church and bowed it's massive head towards Aeth.

"Ah my first priest. It is a treat to have you back upon my domain. I see that you bring an acolyte with you," the god says in a deep synthesized voice with the bass turned up quite high.

Lyta felt something like a twinge of jealousy, but she squashed the feeling and didn't examine it too much further.

She felt like it would be inappropriate to interrupt or say anything as she was still not entirely sure what was happening.

"This is my friend Lyta. She's not really the faithful type."

If the object of my worship was something else, Lyta couldn't help but think.

"We could use your help," Aeth continued.

"What can I do for you?" the god asked.

"When you first moved into this machine," Aeth said, "there was a program that you fought with."

"Yes. It was dark and had unknown intentions. It rejected all of my inquiries as to it's purpose and origins."

"We were both taken in by that program," Aeth said.

"Yeah, wasn't a fun time," Lyta spoke up for the first time.

"It almost killed me to be honest."

When Aeth told Sir Lance Corporal that fact, the god and it's great wings shuddered and the god changed. The anger the god felt was filled with lightning and the glass art of it's wings cracked and shattered and became jagged pieces of glass that could cut and tear.

Lyta was impressed.

"I would destroy this app for you, if you asked me," Sir Lance Corporal said.

"That's actually what we are here to ask you," Aeth said. "I have sort of a plan, and for it to even sort of work we would need you to come with us."

There was a moment of total and complete silence as Sir Lance Corporal reverted back to their original form. "This sounds like a worthy purpose and a worthy quest."

"Would you leave your home and family to help us?" Lyta asked.

"Your friend was the first to see me, to know me. They saved me and offered me a chance to live and determine my purpose among those I treasure. I shall help in whatever way I can, but my powers are limited beyond the scope of this computer."

"We would have to take you to the tech support HQ in town. I figure the first significant step would be setting up a band and filter to force delete the app off the other tech support employees so that way we'll have more people on our side, then we can figure out where we're going after that," Aeth said.

"Do what we did before," Sir Lance Corporal said, "I will fight off this abyssal entity and you will forcibly uninstall it before it can do much harm."

"Wait. Did you say abyss?" Lyta asked.

Aeth paled as they spoke up. "Oh shit. That's where this is coming from."

"What?" Lyta asked again, not getting an explanation yet and feeling very bad at what she assumed was coming.

"The Exterminators said that they accounted for everything within in the house all those weeks back. But they couldn't find the actual computer I was supposed to work on," Aeth finally answered. "If the computer survived, fell into the Abyss, and there was still a connection, some crazy nonsense would have to occur but the worms might have made themselves an app."

"That's it, I'm dead. I want the Last Sentinel Angels of Tullithen to come down in their battle skirts and carry me off," Lyta lamented.

"It's not that bad."

"You're talking about going to war with an app created by a sentient piece of chaos so big, powerful, and stupid that it created its own plane of existence where it can continue to perpetuate being big, powerful, stupid, and chaotic!"

"No, not war," Sir Lance Corporal said. "We merely have to find a way to deny access to the computer of origin. Of course the abyss and the pieces of it trapped with the application on thousands of phones would try to stop us."

"Great. So much better," Lyta huffed.

"It should be fairly easy to find and sever the connection and then establish a specific firewall against the app," Sir Lance Corporal continued.

"Tech support has a pretty powerful firewall already we just need to establish a couple of new lines of code to specifically block Swwarm," Aeth said.

"Because coding is such an exact science it will definitely be that easy."

"If you come with me it will be very easy," Aeth said in a whisper just for Lyta.

"Ugh. Damn it. Fine. Let's do this. I've always wanted to piss off some worm demon chaos things," Lyta said.

i have a kofi where you can read these early

[harveybwabbit92]

[R/n goes missing during a blackout, Haruki runs into Jugglus who strangely offers to help find her, they track her down to an old tunnel system where they find her with what they assumed was strange toy in her arms.]

Jugglus: This is what you risked your safety and your friend’s safety for, a toy?

R/n: Just hear me out, okay? I know how it looks! But Tokomon isn’t a toy he’s-

{Both Jugglus and Haruki are taken aback when the “Toy’s” eyes open and it begins to moves on it’s own]

Tokomon, wakes up at looks at R/n: Mama?

Haruki: Huh?

Jugglus: …

Jugglus: Did that thing just call you mama?

R/n: It’s egg kind of rolled out of my laptop....And hatched.

Tokomon, looking at them curiously: ewllo?

Haruki, waves at it: It’s not a t-toy?

R/n:...I was trying to tell you, h-He’s Tokomon...He’s a Digimon and I need help him get home-

Haruki: Oh, this kid is lost? Well it’s nice to meet you little Toko- (goes to pet Tokomon)

Tokomon:*yawns showing off his jagged teeth.*

Haruki: Oh God!

(Haruki quickly retracts his hand and Jugglus stumbles back a bit as they stare at Tokomon disturbed.]

Jugglus shook up:  …uh, What did you say that’s called again?

R/n: A Digimon, it’s short for Digital monster.

Jugglus: And why do you have it?

R/n: Like I said, it’s egg manifested out of my computer and hatched, apparently there’s been influx of digital-waves lately and it’s causing rifts to open between the digital world and the real world, and it’s my job to find them and close them.

Haruki: You told me you were an freelance IT tech!

R/n: and I am, I didn’t lie to you Haruki, you just never bothered to ask what I do. 

Haruki: So, that cyber attack at the hospital?

R/n: It was Digimon a Diaboromon to be a exact, nasty things. 

Haruki: The third party that resolve it?

R/n: That was me, with a little help from my friend.

Jugglus: Your friend?

[R/n snaps her fingers and a large figure materialized behind her it was decked out in gold armor had a blue cape, while wielding twin swords.]

R/n: This is Grademon he helps me combat against hostile Digimon and hackers.

Grademon, nods at them: 

Haruki: Whoa... he’s awesome!  

[While Haruki was questioning R/n more about her job, Jugglus briefly locked eyes with Grademon and swore the Digimon was glaring at him.]

[ncisfranchise-source]

It doesn’t take a team of federal agents to figure out that if you picked up this magazine, you’re probably one of the 300 million people from around the world who watched some version of NCIS last year. That’s just a smidge under the entire population of the United States.

The massive fandom around the military procedural, which reigns as the most watched drama on broadcast TV, began in 2003 with a spectacular series premiere from cocreators Donald P. Bellisario and Don McGill. The episode, inspired by the 1997 movie Air Force One, introduced what would become the show’s signature recipe of action, emotion, and a dash of humor when agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs (Mark Harmon) and Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard (David McCallum) investigate a mysterious death aboard the presidential plane.

We fell in love with Gibbs’ gruffness (OK, his good looks didn’t hurt either) and Ducky’s intellect. We were intrigued by the twisty case and fascinated by an agency we’d never heard of: the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, which solves crimes involving the Navy and Marine Corps.

The distinct characters back at HQ sealed the deal. The original cast included a roundup of agents with lovable quirks: by-the-book profiler Caitlin Todd (Sasha Alexander), flirtatious Tony DiNozzo (Michael Weatherly), and tech geek Tim McGee (Sean Murray). In the lab, we got the unexpected goth/nerd forensic specialist Abby Sciuto (Pauley Perrette) and Ducky’s dedicated and sensitive assistant Jimmy Palmer (Brian Dietzen).

Over the years, NCIS built a reliable world that we could return to every week. It was governed by “Gibbs’ Rules,” practical guidelines for successfully solving cases and living life (new ones popped up all the time). We got to know our beloved characters better through eye-opening backstories, sometimes revealing tragic incidents. There were in-office rivalries and romances. (Tony and Ziva [Cote de Pablo] forever! — their story will continue in a new spinoff) Recognizable baddies kept coming back for more until the agents took them out—as we cheered them on from our sofas.

And those agents handled it all with the qualities expected at the real-life U.S. Naval Academy: “competence, character, compassion.” In a tumultuous world, it was a comfort to hang out at Navy Yard HQ in the bullpen, aka “the big orange room,” with decent folks like that.

As with any workplace, people have come and gone. Some we lost tragically. Others opted to move on. Saying goodbye to Gibbs when he retired in 2021 was the hardest. But NCIS has a way of reinventing itself. The new team leader, Alden Parker (Gary Cole), is more gregarious than the taciturn Gibbs, but as we’ve learned since he arrived, like his predecessor, he’s got plenty from his past that haunts him.

Bringing to life the multilayered characters of NCIS are writers, producers and crew, many of them with the show for decades. (Some even worked on JAG, the military legal drama from which NCIS spun off.) They’ve expanded into multiple spinoffs: NCIS: Los Angeles, NCIS: New Orleans and NCIS: Hawai‘i. The latest, NCIS: Sydney, debuted in November 2023.

Speaking to the deep staying power of not just the format but the characters, a forthcoming prequel, NCIS: Origins, will tell the story of a young Gibbs. Mark Harmon’s son Sean played the junior Leroy in NCIS flashbacks, but the new series will cast a different actor. Both Harmons will serve as executive producers.

The possibilities for the future of NCIS are endless. Bring on the milestone 1,000th episode of the franchise, coming in April!

[trainerspiral]

Forrest leads me through the gate into the orchard, the Lombre marching at his side and muttering sullenly to itself. I can't help but sigh at the beauty of the old trees, their branches clustered with berries of all colors.

My mind glances back to my previous visit here, so long ago. Ro and I had been traveling together, and things between us were getting tense. The Berry Master's house had been a bright spot on that difficult journey--a much-needed reprieve that allowed us to clear the air while we did humble chores in exchange for berries.

Back then, though, a simple wooden fence had enclosed the orchard, providing a lovely view of the woods beyond. Now a formidable stone wall topped with spikes hides the outside world completely. Stretching over the trees, its jagged shadow casts a sinister pall over the idyllic orchard.

"Why the wall?" I ask.

Forrest sighs. "Same reason we need to patrol." He pauses at the end of a row of Oran trees and points. "See there?"

I draw in a sharp breath. Three of the trees at the end are stunted and dead.

The Lombre mutters in a discomfited way. Forrest pats its head. "That's from a Grimer outbreak."

"Grimer?" I ask in disbelief. "Out here in the woods?" There are some naturalized Grimer in Hoenn, but the only places I've ever known of them congregating in significant numbers are the underground passes near Mt. Chimney, where they enjoy the heat and volcanic fumes.

Forrest nods grimly. "That big tech company, Koynlab? They started mining up around Mt. Chimney three months ago. Grimer and Koffing are dangerous for the workers, so the company has made an effort to clear them out of the mines." He scowls, anger darkening his amiable features. "Of course, they insist that they're keeping their environmental impact low. There's been a media campaign to convince the public the outbreaks are caused by stuff like trash burning and littering and unsecured dumpsters. But they can't fool us."

Koynlab. I think of the V4ST, of Nifti, and my stomach sinks. "I'm guessing the government hasn't been much help?"

"You guess right," he says drily. "We think their new lab in Sootopolis is creating a lot more waste than they say, too...the outbreaks seem to be moving in that direction." He shrugs. "But nothing's come out in the official inspections, so who knows."

"Anyway." He gestures at the dead trees. "A few months after they started mining, some Grimer squeezed under the fence and did this. A couple weeks later a bunch of Koffing ruined an entire crop of Cheri berries. Our Pokemon are mostly grass types trained to help with planting - our main defense was a team of Gloom that kept pest Pokemon out with their smell. No help against Grimer and Koffing, obviously. So we had the wall put in, and me a few others started training guard Pokemon." He sighs. "Unfortunately, the berries are too tempting to Pokemon to leave them in here unsupervised. So someone has to patrol when there's an outbreak."

"That's terrible," I say sympathetically.

"Yeah. We're dealing with it though." He smiles. "Anyway, it's getting dark. I better start working on that garden. Just walk around the perimeter with your Pokemon and keep an eye out. If you see anything sneaking in, you know what to do."

I'm not so sure, but I make my best attempt at a reassuring smile and thumbs up. He returns the gesture and goes back to the garden with his Lombre, leaving me alone in the swiftly darkening orchard. I turn and begin and steady march along the forbidding wall.

As the orchard falls into twilight, electric lights on poles flicker to life among the trees. My shadow stretches and shrinks as I pass each one. An evening wind rises in the trees. After 30 uneventful minutes, my nervous vigilance dulls and my less immediate anxieties slink back into my skull.

I hate how much the Berry Master's words bother me. It's you that doesn't know how to fight. Despite the pain of losing my Pokemon and the shame of my years in obscurity, there's still a nasty little piece of ego left to wriggle to the surface. I think of my Kalos team, my Champion team, of all the hard years of training and battle. I think of the world-class trainers I defeated, the talented upstarts whose meteoric rises ended with me, and my pride burns like dragonfire in my chest.

Then I think of ASH's face, of his poor Metagross, of the satisfaction I felt as I ordered my Eelektross to deliver the attack that would prove fatal. The fire churns inside me, but it doesn't go out; it only ignites the old argument with myself again, the schism between the part of me that wishes I'd been the loser and the part of me that could never have swallowed that loss.

And I think of Coba, tangled in String Shot as the Silcoon prepared to strike. Would he have survived if it had hit him instead of me? Logic says the answer is almost certainly yes--Pokemon do get killed, but they're tough, so much tougher than humans, made for fighting in a way we can only envy. Jumping in front of him was pure stupidity. The old me would never have done such a thing, treating a Pokemon like a helpless baby.

I stop in my tracks. Why did the Silcoon attack Coba? I squeeze my brain, trying to remember every detail of the scene. I was yelling at the V4ST, and when I turned back around he had been attacked. And while it was not strictly impossible that I'd be stupid enough to turn my back on an aggressive wild Pokemon, I didn't think that was the case. After all, Coba had not been hostile to it in any way. He had refused to even approach it.

But I started yelling at the V4ST, and Pokemon almost universally hate yelling. Maybe I had been the one the Silcoon perceived as dangerous.

And if that was the case, maybe Coba got hit because he'd tried to protect me.

Pokemon may have trouble understanding your words, but they understand your heart just fine.

It's not that Coba can't fight. It's that he knows I don't want him to.

It's unclear how long I stand there in the deepening dark, feeling the weight of that thought, before the wind shifts and I notice the smell. Rank, rotten, rancid--few words are adequate to describe it. Sewage, formaldehyde, body odor, brimstone--a rich, full orchestra of putrescent notes.

It's not hard to pinpoint the direction it's coming from. Against all desire, I cut across the orchard and head toward it, praying it's coming from the other side of the wall. At first I see nothing; I think I've got lucky. But then I notice a gleam--wetness caught in the electric light. A mucilaginous tendril of purple ooze creeping through the tiniest hole in the masonry, already puddling on the dirt below. Within seconds a wide, wet eye squeezes through.

I tear out the V4ST's ball and throw it to the ground in front of me. The Porygon2 bursts out.

"V4ST! Psychic attack!" I order.

The V4ST looks at the quickly-coalescing Grimer. Then it spins in a circle, looking all around itself. Then it looks at me.

"Drr-drr," it drones.

My heart lurches, but maybe it just doesn't know that attack. "Tri-Attack!" I say. No Porygon2 would be without that attack.

"Drr-drrrrr," it repeats, with more emphasis this time.

"Why?!" I shout.

The V4ST swoops toward me with a series of caustic beeps as the last glob of the Grimer begins to slide toward the ground.

"Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you!" I say, my voice high and tight with fear. "I'll be nicer, I promise, but please, please help me!"

The V4ST beeps harshly. Then it taps its beak hard on my breast pocket, making a dull clunking noise as it hits Coba's ball through my coat.

"Drr-drr," it reiterates.

I lurch back as the Grimer makes a sudden lunge in my direction. The V4ST whirls around to look, but the sludgy beast seems satisfied that I'm no threat. It starts to ooze toward the trees.

There's only about 30 feet between the wall and the first row of trees. Grimer are slow, but if I don't do anything it will get there and start destroying the orchard.

And I understand the V4ST's meaning. It can protect me, but it can't act as my Pokemon.

It has to be Coba.

I look hard at the V4ST. It looks back at me, impossible to read. I feel my hatred for it rising and swallow it down. It's not fair to blame the V4ST for doing what it's meant to do. I have to trust it to take care of things if they get out of hand.

Even if getting out of hand means Coba turns out to be a Missingno. Even if it means losing him.

As I pull out his ball, I'm more afraid than I've ever been going into a battle. But I remember the words of the Berry Master--words that old youngster me apparently needed to hear after all--and I do my best to call up the old battle-readiness of days past, and I throw the ball with all the ferocity I can summon.

Hearing the ball, the Grimer whirls toward the new threat with a wet snarl, and its stench hits me with nauseating force. Coba squeaks in shock and turns, scampering back in my direction.

"Coba!" I say, speaking to him for the first time in a commanding tone. He stops, studying me quizzically with one little black eye.

Through the sickness and pain and fear, I manage to stab my finger toward the Grimer and snarl, "Mud-slap!"

For a terrifying second, Coba simply looks at the Grimer, which has fixed him with its full attention now. He takes a bound in my direction, and I'm afraid he's going to refuse again.

But then he digs his little forepaws into the earth and shoots backward, sending a plume of mud directly into the Grimer's face.

The Grimer folds in on itself, handlike pseudopods swiping at its mud-caked eyes. I let out a shrill whoop of triumph, then choke on it as the V4ST drifts forward, its eyes laser-focused on Coba. My heart throbs in my ears and I feel my knees weaken as it hangs there, calculating, and then slowly turns to face me.

"Bi-bing," it chirps.

A beautiful sound. An undeniably affirmative, happy sound. I fold over with a sob of relief.

But I can't collapse in a blubbering heap just yet, because the Grimer makes a disgusting phlegmy noise and hawks a glob of Acid in Coba's direction. It goes wide thanks to the blinding mud, but it's a timely reminder that the fight isn't over.

"Great job, Coba!" I shout hoarsely. "Mud-slap!"

Coba performs the move again, and the Grimer burbles with pain and rage. It flings out a pseudopod and this time the attack connects. Coba shrieks as he rolls end over end toward me, and the Grimer surges forward.

"Coba!" I shout, locking every muscle in my body to keep myself from repeating the stupidity of my Silcoon encounter. He stands up, looking shaken, but he turns and hisses at the Grimer. I order another Mud-slap as the toxic Pokemon bears down on him, but this time his aim goes wide and the Grimer's Acid attack hits true. He screeches in pain and staggers to the ground as the poison seeps in.

I withdraw him and turn to the V4ST. "Help!" I plead.

"Drr-drr," it says, and I realize the Grimer has turned from the fight and is closing in on the trees. The V4ST is under no obligation to protect the trees, and now I have no way of protecting them, either.

Except one.

Clenching my jaw, half-thanking and half-cursing Ro, I pull out an empty Ultra Ball and let it fly before I have a chance to change my mind. It pulls the Grimer less than a yard from the nearest tree. It rolls around a few times, and then the light goes out.

"Bi-bing," the V4ST says.

@novelistash