#cat encryption

[hometoursandotherstuff]

[novella-november]

Media Preservation Monday

Yeah, yeah, as of this original post it's actually only Wednesday but hey, take this as a sign to take some initiative, and keep to it each Monday at minimum if you're actively writing!

What's Media Preservation Monday, you may ask?

MPM is your reminder to back up your writing at least three ways at least once a week or whenever you make major changes to your document(s).

Here's some incredibly easy ways to back up your writing:

One your Master Document(s), put a date on the file name, and every day you make changes, "Save As" the Document and change the date. Do this every time or day you make major changes.

Example: You start writing your Novella November Story on November 1st.

You name your master document "Novnov Project 11-01-2024"

The next day, you write some more, and at the end of your writing session, you go to save your document, and instead of simply hitting "Save" you choose "Save As" and save the new copy of the Document as "Novnov Project 11-02-2024".

You now have two copies of your project, and if you keep this up throughout the whole month, you will have a live snapshot of your writing progress.

Each day or after each major writing session, open up the folder containing your document, and back it up. The Easiest and simplest way to do this is to simply email it to yourself, but you can also create multiple backups by:

Save a copy of your dated Master Document(s) to different locations on your Hard-drive, to an external hard-drive, to a thumbdrive, etc.

If you're writing offline on a writing program like Libreoffice, upload a copy of your Master Document(s) to your preffered Cloud-based Writing Program of your choice.

Vice Versa: if you write on a Cloud-based writing program, download it to various offline-based locations.

Download the base document as well as download it as various ebook formats and send them to your ebook library on your phone or kindle or nook or reading app.

Make a personal discord server and upload the document/epub form of your Master Document(s) there [this is also a good way of making a kind of personal journal / diary etc]

Whatever you do, do not be complacent and assume nothing can happen to your writing. Back it up. Preserve it.

Don't have all of your hard work go down the drain because of one tiny unforeseen accident.

When it comes time to clean up your hardrive, always assume you don't have it backed up. Before deleting anything always take the time to copy it over to another physical drive or a cloud drive.

[kustavglimt]

Eva and Franco Mattes: Panorama Cat (2022)

[lissidragon]

Some plush progress I tried to squeeze before Blizzcon.

🐈Updated the slime cat design to be on a 5x12 hoop.

🍁 Embroidered a body part of Autumn.

📦 Designed a ITH of an Encryption box

[grxysuit]

[] - Interestingly, this creature has an adverse reaction to cartoons and caricatures. Stuffed animals included. It is capable of cognitively recognising them for what they are but still finds them a 'cheap imitation and fake' .

[ralfmaximus]

Recall is designed to use local AI models to screenshot everything you see or do on your computer and then give you the ability to search and retrieve anything in seconds. There’s even an explorable timeline you can scroll through. Everything in Recall is designed to remain local and private on-device, so no data is used to train Microsoft’s AI models. Despite Microsoft’s promises of a secure and encrypted Recall experience, cybersecurity expert Kevin Beaumont has found that the AI-powered feature has some potential security flaws. Beaumont, who briefly worked at Microsoft in 2020, has been testing out Recall over the past week and discovered that the feature stores data in a database in plain text.

Holy cats, this is way worse than we were told.

Microsoft said that Recall stored its zillions of screenshots in an encrypted database hidden in a system folder. Turns out, they're using SQLite, a free (public domain) database to store unencrypted plain text in the user's home folder. Which is definitely NOT secure.

Further, Microsoft refers to Recall as an optional experience. But it's turned on by default, and turning it off is a chore. They buried it in a control panel setting.

They say certain URLs and websites can be blacklisted from Recall, but only if you're using Microsoft's Edge browser! But don't worry: DRM protected films & music will never get recorded. Ho ho ho.

This whole debacle feels like an Onion article but it's not.

Luckily(?) Recall is currently only available on Windows 11, but I fully expect Microsoft to try and shove this terrible thing onto unsuspecting Win10 users via Update.

Stay tuned...

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake Accidentally Takes Over the World (and Didn’t Think to Mention It)

So, Janet somehow spent decades climbing her way into every government worth a damn, ruling the entire world from behind the scenes. And then, because the universe is apparently wild, she left it all to Tim.

Cut to Tim Drake, the brand-new, completely reluctant secret ruler of the entire planet. And he just… never really thought it was worth mentioning?

The Batfam finds out when Bruce stumbles across an encrypted memo traced to a mysterious Gotham office with Tim’s name on it.

Bruce, holding up the memo: “Tim. Want to explain why this document about, oh, international finance reforms is signed with your encryption key?”

Tim, not even looking up from his laptop: “Oh, yeah. That. Janet left me her ‘global influence portfolio’ or whatever. Mostly paperwork.”

The Batfam stares in total shock.

Dick sputters nearly dropping his coffee: "Wait—you’ve been managing world policies?!”

Tim, shrugging, barely paying attention as he emails the president of Germany: “Well, yeah. I figured someone had to keep things running. It's not that big a deal. I mostly just redirect some policies. You know, keep things running smoothly.”

Jason, absolutely cackling: “Are you telling me that little Replacement here is the reason for half the ‘global cooperation’ headlines?”

Tim, scrolling through emails: “They send me reports; I send suggestions. And honestly, they make it way more dramatic than it is. It's not that hard."

Barbara stares at him, half horrified, half impressed. “How did we not notice this?”

Tim blinks. “I mean, it’s not like I was actively hiding it. I assumed you guys knew I was… kind of managing these things?”

Cue utter disbelief.

Stephanie, laughing too hard to breathe: “Tim, do you have world leaders on speed dial?”

Tim, completely unfazed: “Only the important ones. They text, mostly. Oh—by the way, I might’ve influenced a minor arms control thing last week. Don’t worry; it’s all sorted.”

Bruce, looking like he’s two seconds from fainting: “Sorted? Tim, we're talking about you having global authority here. People notice these things."

Tim shrugs again as his phone buzzes with notifications. “Sure, but it’s not like they’re going to do anything too crazy. I just suggest stuff, and they listen. Honestly, it’s like herding really powerful, really overdramatic cats.”

Damian, scandalized: “You mean to tell me, Drake, that you’re manipulating world politics like it’s a game of checkers?”

Tim, still casual: “Manipulating’s a strong word. Like I said, it’s more just nudging things along.” His phone buzzes again. “Oh, hang on. France is panicking about their energy policy again.”

The Batfam tries to process the fact that Tim—Tim, who routinely forgets what day it is—is now, somehow, running the world.

And then his phone buzzes with a message from the UN Security Council.

Tim sighs, glancing down. “Oh, great. Looks like they’re debating nuclear arms again. Be right back.”

Meanwhile, the Batfam is left absolutely speechless, processing the fact that their Tim—scrawny, coffee-fueled Tim—is apparently one of the most powerful people on the planet. And to him its just another tuesday.

[seumyo]

Kaminari hadn’t meant to snoop. Really, he hadn’t.

He had only picked up your phone because it wouldn’t stop buzzing—over and over on the coffee table, screen flashing with that one number that couldn’t just understand that you weren’t holding your phone to answer. No names. Not a single one. Just strings of digits. For a second, he thought you had downloaded some weird encrypted app or changed your settings to something bizarrely minimalistic.

Huh.

“I should try,” he murmurs to himself, grabbing his phone and dialing your number. Any minute now, you’d come back from getting your favorite fluffy blankets from his room—that one he handwashes with care and even props out in the sun to fully dry, just like how you liked it.

Kaminari’s own number flashed across the screen: just ten lonely digits, devoid of a name, emoji, or even an initial. He stared at it, the gears on his head turning at a rusty pace.

It was his number. His number. Not “Denki,” not “Sparky,” not “Babe,” not “The Love of My Life,” not “My Future Hubby,” not “Handsome,” not even “Kaminari.” Just the raw numbers, like he was a stranger, or worse, a throwaway contact in a burner phone.

The laugh he let out was tight and a little strained. He brushed it off, tossed the phone onto the couch, and waited for you to come back from his room like nothing was out of place. Like his stomach wasn’t twisting itself into a sweaty, suspicious knot. Not that you were cheating, never. He trusted you enough, but maybe you were ashamed of him to let other people know that you two are dating?

It bugged him. More than he expected. The way a headache sits behind your eyes but won’t commit to hurting. It was stupid. Petty, maybe. But it lingered.

Kaminari tried to joke about it hours later, laughing a little too loudly as he said, “Hey, uh, what’s with all the serial killer contacts in your phone? I didn’t even get a cute nickname?”

You blinked at him, genuinely confused, nuzzling your face on his shoulder. Like a cute cat, he thinks. Kaminari feels his heart in his throat because of the cuteness and the bubbling anxiety in the pit of his stomach. “Serial killer?”

“Y’know,” he said, trying to keep it light, “just numbers. All of them. Even mine.” He grinned, exaggerated and toothy. “Should I be worried? You running a hit list?”

You stared at him, and he could see something shift in your expression—like a door opening a crack. “Oh,” you said softly, like it hadn’t even occurred to you that it might seem strange. “That’s just how I keep them. I forget to name them. But I know who’s who. I don’t need the names.”

Kaminari blinked.

“Even mine?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling as he draped the blanket over you two, the move long forgotten by now, “yours is easy to remember. The last four digits are a pattern.”

And that was it. No follow-up. No apology. No backpedaling. Just the casual, maddening confidence of someone who wasn’t trying to be cold but was naturally, infuriatingly strange.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Not really.

He knew you cared.

You just weren’t the hand-holding, heart-doodling type, but you’d always been consistent in your own subtle, unique ways whenever you two were alone like this. Still, something about seeing his identity in your world boiled down to anonymous digits had lit up a flare of insecurity inside him. Like he could be deleted as easily as a telemarketer.

Maybe even considered a scammer for insurance.

Or worse, a meatball seller. Just a meatball seller—as if he wasn’t your super-duper-on-top-of-the-world-awesome boyfriend!

He didn’t bring it up again. Didn’t want to nag or seem clingy. He let it go—outwardly, at least. But it lingered in the quiet moments, nestled into his chest where doubts went to hibernate.

Then, one night, about a week later, you handed him your phone.

“I need you to text Kirishima for me,” you said, your tone distracted as you fiddled with a stubborn zipper on your hoodie. Actually, his hoodie. Kaminari really needed to keep better track of which of his clothing you unknowingly kept to yourself (not that he minded, but damn, he was losing hoodies faster than he could buy them).

He took it, unlocked it—you never used a passcode—and opened your messages. His thumb hovered.

Kirishima’s name was there.

In actual text. Not a number. No code.

A small, stunned silence stretched in the space between his heartbeat and his breath. He scrolled.

Jirou. Sero. Yaoyorozu. Tokoyami. Even Bakugou, with the words “Do Not Call After 7PM Unless Dying” in parentheses beside his name.

And then—there he was.

Denki <3

His name. With the cutest heart next to it.

His chest squeezed. The stupid little heart had never meant so much in his entire life.

He stared at it for a moment too long.

You, still battling your zipper, noticed. “I fixed them,” you said with a hopeful smile, like it was the usual weather. “You were right. It looked creepy. I guess I just got used to recognizing numbers instead of names. But I didn’t want you thinking you were just… some number.”

You still weren’t looking at him. Your voice was soft, and your fingers fidgeted, and your foot tapped against the floor in that telltale you-way that meant you were nervous and pretending not to be.

Kaminari set the phone down slowly and walked over, carefully nudging your zipper into place for you. It’s simple, it’s intimate, and it sends his heart into a frenzy—god, he’s so in love with you.

He looked up at you with that boyish grin, the one that always crept in when his heart got too full. “You gave me a heart.”

You gave a tiny, sheepish shrug. “You’re the only one who got one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He couldn’t help himself and just went in and kissed you—soft and slow—and felt the heaviness that had been hanging on him dissolve into nothing. It wasn’t about the contact name. Not really. It was about knowing that, in your own quiet, awkward way, you had listened. You had noticed. And you had come up with a solution, just for him.

He wasn’t just ten digits on a screen. He was Denki <3. Your Denki, his heart knows like a familiar heartbeat.

And shit, he’d want that engraved in his gravestone one day.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[tikitakatia]

Under Watch — A. Putellas x Reader

"New Neighbour, New Problems "

WC: 1.8k

Summary: The threat against Alexia looms closer, but the management has the perfect solution.

You’re leaning against the hood of the car when she appears. Hair still damp from her post morning workout shower, hoodie slung over her shoulders, earbuds in. Alexia walks like someone who doesn’t expect to be bothered. Which is really ironic, considering that’s your entire job description.

She slows when she sees you. One eyebrow arches. "You’re driving me now? What is this, high school? Should I sit in the back and pretend I need some lunch money?"

You nod toward the driver’s side. "New protocol. Until further notice."

She groans audibly and mutters something in Catalan that you don’t catch, but the tone is universal. Disgust. Annoyance. A hint of ‘I’ll set this car on fire if it proves a point.’

And then she sees it.

The note.

You’d already bagged it, gloved and stored. But the outline where it sat on the windshield is still obvious.

She goes still.

"Another one?"

You nod. "Same handwriting. Slightly more aggressive."

"Of course it is. People get weird when their teams lose. Or win. Or breathe."

"We’re escalating precautions."

Alexia exhales sharply through her nose. "You mean panicking."

"They mean panicking," you correct.

"I mean adapting."

She gives you a long look. Not hostile. Just tired. Then gets into the passenger seat and slams the door with unnecessary force.

"Fine. But I’m choosing the music."

You don’t answer. She turns up the volume anyway.

They break the news right after practice. No warning, no soft lead-in.

“You’ll have a new neighbor starting today,” says the club security lead. “It’s part of our reinforced protection protocol.”

Alexia blinks. "Okay... What does that have to do with me?"

He shifts in his chair. "It’s your new bodyguard. She’s moving into the unit next to yours."

The silence is instant. Then loud.

“You cannot be serious.”

"Alexia, this isn’t just about notes anymore. Someone got inside the building. They knew your car."

"It’s a public parking lot. You let fans in there all the time."

"Not with access to your elevator."

She scoffs. "Maybe the security team should be better at their job then."

You don’t speak. Not yet. You're leaning against the back wall, arms folded, face neutral.

Alexia wheels toward you. "You knew about this?"

"I was informed this morning."

"Of course you were. And you just what? Packed up your little secret agent suitcase and showed up like it’s nothing?"

You shrug. "It’s part of the job."

"Well, I hate it."

"Duly noted."

She turns back to the security team. "This is ridiculous. I have a lock. I have an alarm system. What do you think is going to happen, someone crawls through the vents and I need Sombra next door to kick them in the face?"

"This isn’t a negotiation, Alexia. The club signed off on it. It’s a temporary assignment."

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like "temporary my ass" and stands, grabbing her bag.

“I’m not agreeing to this.”

“You don’t have to. It’s already done.”

A few hours later, you’re unlocking the door to your new apartment with a box under one arm. She’s standing in the hallway with a protein bar in hand, unwrapped but untouched.

“Let me guess,” she says. “You also have access to my building, and floor layout, my grocery list, and the microchip they implanted in my skull at birth.”

“Just your floor. And your training schedule.”

She stares. You unlock your door and step inside. She follows like an angry cat, keeping her distance but making sure you know she’s watching.

“This is overkill.”

You open the window. Sweep the place. First habit.

“You’re not that important.”

She bristles.

“That’s not what I meant,” she mutters, but you’re already plugging in your encrypted laptop.

She lingers in the doorway. "You’re not going to say anything else? No apology for completely violating my life?"

You look up. "I’m not here to violate. I’m here to protect."

She makes a face like that might be worse.

That evening, she stomps by as you’re bringing in another box.

“Are you going to be pacing the hallway all night like some sort of armed Roomba?"

“No. Just until I'm set up."

“Well, can you at least do it silently? Some of us are trying to pretend we have privacy."

You say nothing. She rolls her eyes and disappears into her apartment, slamming the door harder than necessary.

The next morning, she sees you in the hallway.

“I almost tripped over your boots,” she says. “Are you nesting in the hallway now, or should I just assume you live here more than I do?”

You nod toward the wall. “Your door has a new sensor now. Motion-triggered. You’ll hear it if someone lingers outside too long."

She freezes. Her mouth opens, then closes.

Then: "So now my door tattles on people. Great. Can’t wait for it to go off when I get home drunk."

You glance at her. "I'll disable the alarm if you're singing."

She glares. “You think you're funny, huh?”

You don't answer. That, in itself, is the punchline.

Dinner is loud, messy, and deeply therapeutic. Alexia’s on her second glass of wine, slumped into her chair like she’s aged a decade in one week. Patri’s already warned the waiter that the table might need extra bread, patience, and backup wine.

“She’s everywhere,” Alexia says, stabbing at her grilled vegetables and pretending they´re you.

“Like… omnipresent. A specter in a hoodie.”

"Sounds kind of hot," Marta says casually, sipping her sangria.

Alexia throws her a sharp look. "That’s not the point."

"But you’re not denying it," Irene hums.

"It’s irrelevant," Alexia snaps, then sighs.

"I open the door to take out my trash and she’s there. I go down to grab a delivery, she's already standing by the elevator like she’s predicting my thoughts. I swear it's like she has motion sensors or something."

"That’s… literally her job?" Patri says slowly, brows raised.

"Yeah, to protect you?" Irene adds. "Not to wait around until you're ready for a hug."

"Okay, but do bodyguards really need to be so silent all the time? It’s unsettling. She’s like a ninja. I dropped my keys in the hallway and she just... appeared. No footsteps. No sound. Just materialized out of nowhere like a ghost."

"A ghost in Nikes," Marta says, grinning.

"With great cheekbones," Irene adds.

Alexia makes a frustrated noise and drops her fork with a clatter. "This is not the support I expected."

"We’re just saying," Patri starts gently, "you’re not the same level of anonymous anymore. You’re… big. A worldwide football sensation. That means more weirdos, more creeps, more risk."

"And she’s good," Irene says. "Did you know she checked the entire restaurant while we were coming in? Didn’t even make a scene. Just a little loop like she was on her phone."

Alexia blinks. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Marta nods. "Clocked it right away. Didn’t miss a beat. Kind of badass, honestly."

Alexia sinks a little in her seat. She hates that she hadn’t noticed. Hates that she kind of agrees.

"She even nodded at the hostess like she was confirming something," Patri adds. "Stoic, but polite."

"Oh my god," Alexia mutters. "She’s efficient. She’s polite. She’s a fucking Girl Scout with a security clearance."

Marta smirks. "And did we mention-"

"Yes, yes, she’s attractive, I’m not blind," Alexia grumbles into her glass. "But that’s not the point."

"Maybe not," Irene teases, "but it’s a nice bonus."

Alexia opens her mouth to argue, but her phone buzzes. She checks the new message.

[Sombrita]: Crowd is forming outside. Photos, videos. Suggest back exit. I’ll be waiting by the kitchen doors. Van is ready.

She groans. "She’s already planning our escape."

"That’s actually kind of hot," Patri says with a grin.

Alexia shakes her head, but there’s a reluctant tug at the corner of her mouth. "I just want her to be less… present."

The table goes quiet. Her friends exchange a look.

"Less present," Irene repeats softly.

"Not gone," Marta notes.

Alexia glares at her wine. "You’re all the worst."

Another buzz. 

[Sombrita]: Five minutes. Back exit. Let me know if anyone needs help getting out.

Alexia sighs again. She types back a terse: Got it.

As they gather their things and follow the waiter through the back, Irene leans in close.

"Hey, at least she makes you feel safe, right?"

Alexia doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t argue either.

It’s late when you hear the sensor alarm start its soft beeping. Silent, subtle, set to trigger if anyone stays in the hallway for more than two and a half minutes. You’re on your couch, sweats and tank top, a book open in your hand you haven’t really been reading. She's been standing there for a while.

You wait. Half a minute more. Then, for your own amusement more than anything, you switch it from silent mode to a single loud beep. Just one. Just enough.

"For fuck’s sake!" Alexia growls angrily from outside, voice muffled through the door.

You’re up in a second, unlocking her front door with a single tap of the card.

She’s startled when it opens.

"Have you been watching me this whole time?"

You don’t say anything. You just smirk.

Alexia narrows her eyes. She’s flushed, slightly tipsy from wine with her family, wrapped in a soft oversized coat, hair messy from the wind. She looks more tired than drunk, but the tipsiness makes her looser, sharper-tongued.

"Well? Are you going to let me in or are we going to stand here all night while you flex your creepy telepathic door-opening skills?"

"After you." You step aside and gesture smoothly.

She walks in haughtily, except her handbag catches on the door handle as she passes. The momentum jerks her back slightly, throwing her off balance.

You catch her instinctively. One hand on her elbow, the other lightly at her waist.

"Careful," you say.

Alexia steadies herself but doesn’t pull away immediately. Her gaze flicks up to yours. "Are the reflexes also part of the job description, or do you just enjoy being everywhere at once?"

You tilt your head. "Would it bother you less if I said I enjoy it?"

She scoffs, but there’s a small smirk threatening to betray her. "A little full of yourself, aren’t you?"

You release her gently, stepping back. "Just observant."

She walks into her apartment, still facing you, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to catching me."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

Alexia turns away fast enough that you don’t see her smile, but not fast enough to stop you from knowing it’s there.

She closes the door behind her, and for the second time that night, you return to your post.

Across the hall, light from under her door seeps into the hallway. You hear her footsteps pause.

Then nothing.

But a few seconds later, the peephole darkens for just a heartbeat.

She’s watching you too now.

[espresso1patronum]

Nine Lives, One Knight

(batman!gojo x catwoman!reader)

synopsis: By day, Gojo Satoru is Gotham’s golden boy—billionaire, genius, untouchable. By night, he’s the Bat, a relentless force in the city’s shadows. You? You’re Catwoman—master thief, chaos incarnate, always one step ahead. You’ve spent years dancing around each other, neither willing to truly win. But when a new faction, the Black Veil, sets its sights on Gotham’s most powerful players—including you and the Bat—you’re forced into an uneasy alliance. Tension crackles, lines blur, and the game you’ve always played turns deadly. Because this time, it’s not just about the city. This time, it’s about each other.

cw: batman au, mutual pining, slow burn, sort of enemies to lovers, angst, violence, blood, injury mention, gun violence, kinda gory? kinda forbidden love? Toji, geto, shoko and nanami cameo lmao

word count: 10.1k

author's note: this had been in my drafts for a very long time and after the poll results, I thought i'd finish this. it's not much, but I enjoyed writing this jjk x dc crossover.

Gotham was never silent.

Not even at midnight.

Not even when the rain came down in thick, suffocating sheets, drenching the city in shadows. Somewhere below, sirens wailed. Tires screeched. A single gunshot cracked through the air, distant but unmistakable.

To some, the noise was chaos. To you?

It was home.

You move across the rooftop with practiced ease, the weight of the Black Veil’s encrypted drive tucked safely into the pocket of your suit. The heist had been too easy. A little slip past the lasers, a quick crack of the safe, and just like that—you were out.

Something worth a small fortune in your hands. Or rather—something that could destroy half of Gotham’s elite if it ended up in the wrong hands.

(Or the right ones, depending on who you asked.)

A clean escape. A successful job. You should be gone by now.

And yet—

A shiver runs down your spine. Not from the cold. Not from the rain. From something else.

Something you can’t see, but feel.

You land soundlessly on another rooftop, pausing only for a second to scan the city below. Nothing. No movement. Just the familiar neon glow of Gotham’s underbelly.

Still—your fingers twitch. Instinct coils in your gut, whispering a warning you don’t want to acknowledge.

Too easy.

Too—

“Going somewhere, kitten?”

The voice comes from behind you, smooth as silk, dark as thunder.

You don’t startle. You don’t turn. Instead, you let a slow, knowing smirk curl at your lips before you finally glance back.

There he is.

Perched on the edge of the rooftop like he belongs in the night, the rain dripping off the edges of his cowl, his cape shifting slightly in the wind. Batman.

Or rather—Gojo Satoru.

You should’ve known he’d show up. Maybe you did. Maybe you ignored it.

"Bold of you," you murmur, fingers flexing, ready to bolt. "Sneaking up on a cat in the dark."

His head tilts, and though the mask hides half his face, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Please," he drawls. "You knew I was here before you even touched the ground."

He's right. You did. But you don’t let him win that easily.

"Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Bat?" You shift your weight, rolling your shoulders, keeping it casual. "Or do you just like following me around?"

He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. The way a storm rolls in—inevitable.

"You stole something," he says.

You sigh, dramatically. "I steal a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific."

"You know what I’m talking about."

He’s close enough now that you can see the flicker of blue beneath his mask. The kind of dangerous blue that makes your pulse stutter for half a second before you shut it down.

"Give it to me," he says, voice quieter this time.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. "Oh, Bat. You always ask so nicely."

Before he can move, you bolt.

And that’s when the rooftop explodes.

A deafening boom shatters the night, the blast wave knocking you clean off your feet. You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to react—your body moves on instinct, twisting midair, boots scraping against the slick rooftop as you skid dangerously close to the edge.

Shit.

The explosion wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you.

You barely have time to register the shift in the air before an arm wraps around your waist—strong, unyielding, and familiar—yanking you backward just as the ledge beneath your feet crumbles.

You don’t fall.

Because he doesn’t let you.

When the smoke clears, you’re half-sprawled against him, one of his arms still locked around your waist, his other hand braced against the rooftop. Your breaths come hard and fast, heart pounding against your ribs, adrenaline flooding your veins.

"Well," you huff, dazed but not broken. "Didn’t think you cared, Bat."

His grip tightens—just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel it.

"I don’t," he says flatly. But his jaw clenches. "Stay down."

You snort, pushing off of him as you roll onto your feet. "You and I both know that’s not happening."

He doesn’t argue. Because you’re right. Because whoever just tried to kill you isn’t done.

And they’re not alone.

From the rooftop across the alley, figures emerge from the shadows. Armed. Precise. Waiting.

Batman’s shoulders go rigid. His voice is low. Dangerous.

"They knew you’d be here."

You exhale sharply, adjusting your gloves. "Looks like we’re on the same side tonight, Bat."

The rain slicks the rooftop, turning it into a death trap. But you’ve fought in worse.

Across the alley, four figures move into position. Their weapons gleam under the glow of a distant streetlight—guns, knives, and something that looks an awful lot like a taser baton.

Cute.

Satoru tenses beside you, assessing. Calculating. His voice is low, barely audible over the rain. "Stay behind me."

You scoff, rolling your shoulders. "Not happening."

He doesn’t waste time arguing. Because you’re both outnumbered, because the enemy is moving—because there’s no time to fight each other when you’re about to fight them.

And then—they strike.

One gunshot. Two. You react on instinct, dropping low, twisting away, boots skidding against the rooftop. Batman’s cape flares as he moves—one sharp flick of his wrist, and a batarang slices through the dark, knocking a pistol clean from one of their hands.

Fast and efficient. Classic him.

You? You have your own way of doing things.

The second attacker lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, grab their wrist, twist—the blade clatters to the ground. Before they can react, your elbow smashes into their ribs, sending them stumbling backward with a wheeze.

"Really?" you taunt, dodging another strike. "You came all this way just to embarrass yourselves?"

Batman doesn’t look at you, but you swear you can feel his exasperation.

"Focus."

You grin. "I am focused."

And then you flip over one of the attackers, landing smoothly behind them before slamming them headfirst into a ventilation unit.

Batman exhales sharply. "Could’ve just knocked them out."

"They’ll wake up." You dodge another strike. "Eventually."

More gunfire. Batman twists mid-air, cape flowing like liquid shadow as he dodges the bullets. In the same motion, he grabs your wrist—yanking you forward, pulling you out of the line of fire just as another shot rings out.

You’re so close you can hear his heartbeat.

For half a second, the world shrinks. The rain, the chaos, the rooftop beneath your feet, it all disappears.

It’s just you and him. Breathing the same air.

Then—"Move."

And just like that, the moment is gone.

You both explode into motion, flawless in sync. A kick to the ribs. A punch to the jaw. A perfect sweep of your leg sends another attacker sprawling.

It’s fast. Clean. Too easy.

When the last enemy collapses, groaning, you barely break a sweat.

You exhale, shaking out your arms. "Well," you say, breathless. "That was fun."

Satoru glares at you. "This wasn’t a game."

"Could’ve fooled me." You step over one of the unconscious bodies, crouching slightly to pat them down. No ID. No insignia. No obvious ties to the Black Veil.

But then— your fingers brush against something cold. Metal.

Your stomach drops.

A small device is clipped to one of their belts. Black, sleek, with a blinking red light.

Shit.

Your head snaps up. Satoru sees it the same moment you do, his voice is sharp. "Bomb." A soft beep. A single second.

And then— the rooftop blows apart beneath your feet.

Pain.

It drags you back to consciousness, slow and disorienting, like surfacing from deep water. Your body aches, the sharp sting of a fresh wound cutting through the dull throb of bruises.

The last thing you remember—the rooftop. The explosion.

And then—falling.

Your eyes snap open. You’re not on the street. You’re not dead.

Instead, you’re somewhere dimly lit, the soft hum of an old heater filling the silence. A safehouse.

Your head tilts slightly. The room is small—just a battered couch, an old desk, and a half-broken lamp casting flickering shadows against the walls.

And across from you— standing near the door, arms crossed, still in full suit— is Batman.

Gojo.

Watching you.

You shift, trying to sit up, but a sharp pull at your side stops you. That’s when you realize— your suit is torn and your stomach is bandaged, and you sure as hell didn’t do it yourself.

A slow smirk tugs at your lips. "Didn’t take you for the hands-on type, Bat."

His jaw ticks. "You were bleeding."

"Aww," you tease, voice still hoarse. "You do care."

He steps closer. The soft glow of the lamp catches the edge of his mask, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders.

"You almost died." His voice is quiet now, lacking its usual smugness. Too honest.

You tilt your head, studying him. Something about the way he’s looking at you feels... different.

Like he hated seeing you like that. Like it unnerved him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is thick, heavy, charged with something unspoken.

Then—he exhales, stepping back, breaking the moment.

"You need rest," he mutters.

You shift again, testing the pain, biting back a wince. "I need answers."

"You need to not die."

"You didn’t answer my question."

His hands tighten into fists at his sides. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is sharp, precise. Avoiding something.

"The bomb was a trap. Someone wanted you dead."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, I figured that part out, Bat."

He ignores the sarcasm. "Who else knew you’d be at that vault?"

"Just me."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and assessing. Like he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. "Look, I don’t have a name yet. Just whispers about a buyer wanting the drive. But if they’re willing to go that far to kill me for it—"

"—then you’re already in too deep."

There’s something grim in his tone that makes your stomach twist. You study him carefully. His cowl hides most of his face, but you’ve seen him fight, seen him move.

Gojo Satoru is always too confident. Too smug. Like he knows he’s the strongest, the fastest, the smartest in the room.

But right now? Right now, he looks... frustrated.

Not at you. He is frustrated for you and the realization is dangerous.

You push it down and swallow it whole. "Relax, Bat," you say, forcing a smirk. "I still got, what, six lives left?"

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t take the bait. But then your breath catches as he kneels infront of you but you don't move.

You should. You should say something—anything—but you don’t. Because his hands are on you again, pressing carefully against your bandaged side, checking his work.

He’s too close. His touch warm, solid, and careful.

And for the first time, he looks at you���not as an opponent. Not as a thief. But as something else entirely.

The silence stretches and you wish it hadn't because your heart is pounding in a way it isn't supposed to.

And then— he shifts.

You feel it before it happens. The slow lean forward. The weight of his stare. The way your own pulse betrays you, beating too fast, too hard, in the space between you.

Almost—

But then, the moment shatters.

The old radio in the corner crackles to life, static hissing before a voice cuts through. "Breaking news—an attack on Gotham’s financial district just moments ago—"

You blink as he pulls back and you just clear your throat, wanting to push all the wierd thoughts that were clouding your mind right now.

Satoru's expression hardens, as he stands, straightens his suit and steps away. "You stay here," he says, all business again.

You smirk, ignoring the sharp ache in your ribs. "Come on, Bat. You know that’s not happening."

He exhales, long-suffering. "You’re injured."

"And yet I still fight better than half your enemies."

He pauses and stares at you as though you'd said something wrong. Then, finally—a reluctant smirk. "Try to keep up, kitten."

Satoru hadn’t always been like this in the past when you met him. He was obnoxious, full of himself, always eager to show off his strength and speed in front of you. But today—this time—he felt different. For the first time, he seemed genuinely serious. And maybe, just maybe, there was a flicker of vulnerability in the way he spoke, in the way Gotham’s Batman spoke.

You told yourself it had nothing to do with you. But no matter how hard you tried to push the thought away, you couldn’t help but wonder—what if it did?

Sneaking into Gotham’s financial district isn’t hard. But sneaking in with Batman?

Now that’s a challenge.

You slip through the shadows like you were born for this—because you were. Satoru moves beside you, silent, precise, and still annoyingly smug. You glance at him. "Not bad, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you. "Not trying to impress you, kitten."

Liar.

The building looms ahead, dark and empty except for the guards patrolling the perimeter. "Twelve," you murmur, already counting. "Four on the roof, two at the entrance, six inside."

He hums. "I’ll take the roof. You take the inside."

You grin. "Awfully trusting, Bat."

"If you get caught, I’m not saving you."

You both know that’s a lie.

Getting in is easy. Getting to the main office where the stolen drive is hidden? Even easier. You’re already at the vault, fingers working over the lock, when— you hear footsteps.

Shit.

You whirl around, but it’s too late—one of the guards spots you. The alarm blares.

"Dammit," you hiss, already moving, flipping over the desk as more guards storm in. You could take them. You should take them. It's really easy for you actually.

But before you even get the chance— a blur of black crashes through the skylight. Batman lands hard, cape billowing, taking down two guards before his boots even hit the floor.

You blink. "Show-off."

"You’re welcome," he mutters, throwing a punch.

It’s a blur of fists, kicks, and electricity. You move too well together, too in sync. It’s not just skill—it’s instinct. Every time you dodge, he’s already covering your blind spot. Every time he moves, you’re already reading his next step.

It’s flawless. It’s deadly. It’s perfect but— a bit too much. At some point, you end up back-to-back. Panting, bruised and your adrenaline spiking.

His voice is low, breathless. "You good?"

You swallow hard because you shouldn’t be this affected. You shouldn't be affected by anything he says or he does because you don't care, right?

"Always."

And then— a hand grips your wrist. It was a guard you didn’t see. You twist your hand, ready to counter, but before you can, Batman moves first.

Fast. Too fast.

His hand grips the front of your suit—yanking you forward, spinning you behind him as he slams the attacker into the wall with enough force to shake the room.

With a loud thud, the guy drops instantly and you hear nothing but the silence that is lingering in the air. The only sound is your breath and his, his hand still gripping your suit, still holding you.

You look up at him and find him already watching you. He’s too close for your liking. Or is he?

His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling in steady yet controlled breaths, and his grip on you remains firm. Your pulse slams against your ribs. There’s something in the air—something that shifts, pulling both of you in. You feel it. And so does he.

You hate this. Or at least, you tell yourself you do. But the truth is, you can’t stop it. It’s happening, inevitable and inescapable. This isn’t just a fight anymore. This is something else entirely. And this time, no one interrupts. No radio crackling to life, no explosions in the distance, no convenient excuse to look away.

It’s just you. Him. And a choice.

Before you can even pull yourself back, before your mind can fully grasp the situation, Satoru makes the decision for you. He yanks you forward, his lips crashing onto yours, his mask half-pulled up—just like yours. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you in closer.

And despite everything, despite all the reasons you shouldn’t—you kiss him back.

Your back slams against cold metal, the impact sending a shiver down your spine—not that you can focus on it. Not when he’s leaning in, fingers curling into your suit, pulling, pressing, taking.

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until it’s too late. Until your hands are in his hair, gripping, tugging, dragging him closer. Until his weight is the only thing keeping you upright.

The vault. The alarms. The entire damn mission—forgotten. Because all you can think about is—

This is dangerous. This is a mistake. This is—

“Fuck,” you breathe against his lips.

And then— he pulls back, barely.

His breath is ragged, his gloved hand still firm on your jaw, his eyes burning with something wild, like he can’t believe he just did that or like he can’t believe he wants to do it again.

The silence between you crackles like a live wire.

Then he swallows. “We can’t—”

You shove him off. Hard.

Your body still hums from his touch, your lips still tingling, your pulse betraying you. But you don’t let any of it show. Instead, you smirk, sharp as a blade.

“Didn’t know the Bat had such bad impulse control.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see it—the exact moment he chooses denial. The way his walls snap back into place like steel reinforcements.

His mask comes down. His voice turns cold. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Except it isn’t.

Because now, the line between you is blurred beyond recognition. Because now, you know what he tastes like. Because now, everything has changed.

And there’s no undoing it.

Gotham’s elite love to party.

It’s how they distract themselves from the fact that their city is rotting beneath them.

Big money, expensive champagne, and a ballroom filled with people who don’t care about anything but themselves.

It’s your kind of scene.

A place where no one notices a missing diamond necklace. Where a stolen keycard goes unreported. Where masks are more than just accessories.

And yet— tonight, you’re not here to steal. Tonight, you're here for him.

It had been a few days since that night—since everything that happened between you and Satoru. Or Batman.

Now, another party was being thrown by Gotham’s elite, and of course, Batman had been invited. And, of course, you had to see him again.

It felt awkward.

Because no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, that kiss had meant something. To both of you. And you didn’t want it to.

You wanted to talk to him like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever would happen again. Right?

You wanted to tell him it was just the adrenaline, just the chaos of that night, nothing more. That’s all it was. That’s all it could ever be.

Gojo Satoru feels you before he sees you.

A shift in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck.

And then— you walk in, dressed to kill.

Silk. Black. Dangerous. A slit running high up your thigh, the soft glint of diamonds resting against your collarbone.

And when your gaze meets his across the ballroom— his throat goes dry.

Because he hasn’t seen you since the kiss. Because you’re smiling like it never happened. Because the second you do— you turn away, and walk straight into another man’s arms.

You feel his stare before you even see him. It lingers on your skin, heavy and unrelenting, like a touch without contact. But you don’t look. Not yet.

Instead, you let the man beside you—some rich idiot with more money than sense—pull you closer, his hand brushing over your waist, his breath warm as he leans in.

"You look exquisite tonight," he murmurs, voice smooth, practiced.

You hum, barely interested. "I know." And still, you feel him.

Watching. Brooding. Jealous. Exactly as you wanted.

So when you finally turn—when your gaze finally locks onto his across the crowded ballroom—you make sure to smirk.

And just like that, he’s gone.

But you know better. He didn’t leave. Not really.

So when you step outside onto the balcony, the cool Gotham night air brushing against your skin, you’re not surprised to find him already there. He stands by the railing, his posture deceptively relaxed, fingers curled around a glass of untouched champagne.

His mask is gone, but his walls? Higher than ever.

You exhale slowly as you step closer, watching him carefully. "Didn’t take you for the jealous type, Bat."

He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "I’m not."

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. "Could’ve fooled me."

Silence settles between you, thick with unspoken words and something else, something heavier. The tension coils between you like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

And then, you break it.

"You’ve been avoiding me," you say, your voice quieter now.

His jaw tightens, but his expression doesn’t shift. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"Maybe," you admit. A small smirk tugs at your lips as you step even closer. "Or maybe I was just waiting for you to make the first move."

He scoffs, shaking his head. "That’s not how this works, kitten."

"Then how does it work?" Your voice is softer now, your gaze steady. "Because last I checked, you kissed me."

His breath hitches, barely audible.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

And then— you’re against the railing, his hand is on your waist, his grip firm, fingers pressing against the silk of your dress as if anchoring himself in place. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice low and edged with something dangerous.

"It was a mistake," he murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind the words.

You smirk, tilting your head slightly. "Then why are you still thinking about it?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because you already know.

And when his grip tightens on your waist, when his breath ghosts over your lips, you can see it—the exact moment he realizes he’s already lost.

You could kiss him right now. It would be easy. He’s already too close. His body is practically caging you in, his presence overwhelming. His fingers press into your waist like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you beneath his touch. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark and unreadable.

And you know he wants it. Because he hasn’t moved away. Because his grip keeps tightening, like he’s fighting himself but losing the battle.

Because when you whisper, "What are you so afraid of, Bat?" his lips part—like he’s about to answer.

Like he’s about to give in. Like this is finally it.

And then— "We’ve got a problem." The comm in his ear crackles to life, shattering the moment.

Just like that, his entire body stiffens. The warmth disappears, replaced by something cold, something distant. You watch it happen—the exact second he shuts down. The moment he remembers who he is. Who you are. What this is.

His hand falls away. His walls slam back up.

When he speaks again, his voice is devoid of whatever had been lingering between you just seconds ago. "I have to go."

You don’t let it show—the disappointment, the frustration curling inside your chest, the ache you don’t want to name. Instead, you force a smirk, tilting your head slightly.

"Duty calls, huh?"

His expression remains unreadable. "Always."

And with that— he’s gone.

But there's always a problem. You should've known this was a setup. You should have left the party the second he walked away.

You should have ignored the champagne, the meaningless conversations, and the empty laughter echoing through the ballroom. You should have disappeared into the night before anyone had the chance to notice.

But you didn’t. And now, you are paying for it.

The moment you step out the back entrance and into the dimly lit alleyway, something slams into you with brutal force. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, sending you stumbling. Before you can react, a sharp sting pierces the side of your neck.

Your vision blurs instantly as your body feels heavy and unsteady. The world tilts beneath you as you struggle to stay upright, but your limbs refuse to cooperate.

Through the haze, a voice reaches your ears, low and amused. "Nighty night, kitty."

Darkness swallows you whole.

"Say that again."

His voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Shoko hesitates over the comms. "She’s missing. No one’s seen her since the party. Word on the street is—"

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. He is already moving. His mind is no longer in the conversation. His focus sharpens, narrowing in on a single, undeniable truth.

Someone took you. And that changes everything.

This isn’t part of the game you and he have played for years. This isn’t the usual chase through Gotham’s streets, the endless dance of pursuit and escape. This isn’t teasing smirks and near-missed captures.

This is something else, something darker.

Someone dared to take you, and that is a very, very big problem.

Because you are his to chase. Because no one else gets to touch you. Because if they have hurt you— he will burn this entire fucking city to the ground.

Pain is the first thing you register. The feeling's not new at all though.

A dull, throbbing ache pulses behind your eyes, heavy and unrelenting. A sharp sting burns at your wrists where the rope digs into your skin. Cold metal presses against your ankles, the bite of steel cuffs locking you in place.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself as the haze begins to clear. You’re tied to a chair.

The air is thick with the scent of damp concrete, musty and stale, like an old basement that hasn't seen fresh air in years. A single lightbulb flickers overhead, its dim glow casting long, shifting shadows against the cracked walls.

You take a slow breath and assess your surroundings.

You’re underground. Maybe an abandoned warehouse. Maybe a storage facility. Wherever you are, it's hidden, tucked away from prying eyes.

And whoever took you here—they know what they’re doing.

You flex your fingers, testing the restraints, but before you can shift too much, a voice cuts through the silence.

"Ah, you’re awake."

The words are smooth, laced with amusement, as if this entire situation is nothing more than an entertaining inconvenience to him.

Your eyes snap toward the source of the voice, adjusting to the dim light, and when you finally see him, irritation flares in your chest.

Fushiguro Toji.

You let out a slow breath, biting back a groan. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me."

Toji smirks, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. "Surprised, kitty?"

"Annoyed," you correct, rolling your shoulders against the ropes. "Didn’t think I was worth your time."

He chuckles, dark amusement dancing in his green eyes. "Oh, you weren’t. But then I heard about your little… situation with Gotham’s Bat."

The words are casual, but your stomach twists.

You don’t react. You don’t tense. You don’t let the flicker of unease show on your face. Instead, you arch a brow and smirk. "Didn’t know he had fans."

"I wouldn’t call myself a fan," Toji muses, tilting his head. "But I do love a good weakness. And you, sweetheart?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You’re his."

Your heart skips just for a second.

But you keep your expression neutral because he’s wrong.

Right?

Right.

Right.

…Right?

Gojo finds the first guy in ten minutes.

The second in five.

By the time he gets to the third, his knuckles are already bloodied, bruises forming across his fingers from the force of his hits.

The man stumbles back, pressing himself against the brick wall, his breath coming out in short, panicked gasps. "I-I don’t know where they took her, I swear—"

Gojo’s expression is unreadable beneath his blindfold, but his voice is ice. "Where."

It isn’t a question. It’s a demand.

The man chokes, scrambling for words. "P-please, man, I just heard they took her underground—"

That’s all Gojo needs.

His fingers loosen, and the man collapses to the ground, coughing and gasping for air. But Gojo doesn’t wait. He’s already gone. Because he’s close. Because they took you from him. Because they think they can keep you.

And they’re about to learn just how wrong they are.

You won’t let him see you sweat.

Not when the ropes burn against your wrists, cutting into your skin with every twitch of your fingers. Not when your head pounds from whatever the hell they drugged you with, the fog in your brain refusing to lift. Not even when Fushiguro Toji leans in, eyes dark with amusement, the sharp glint of his knife catching the dim, flickering light.

He’s enjoying this.

Enjoying the way your muscles tense when the blade spins between his fingers. Enjoying the way your gaze flickers toward the door, toward the single exposed bulb swaying overhead.

Enjoying the way you’re waiting for something.

Or rather, someone.

"What’s wrong, kitty?" he murmurs, the cold edge of steel pressing against your cheek. "Thought your Bat would’ve come for you by now?"

Your lips curl into a smirk, masking the way your stomach coils with unease. "What, jealous?"

Toji chuckles, low and amused, before his fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His grip is firm—not cruel, but controlling. A predator playing with his food.

"Nah," he muses. "Just curious how long it’s gonna take him to break."

Your stomach tightens because if there’s one thing you know about Gojo Satoru, it’s this— he doesn’t break.

He shatters. And when he does— he takes everything down with him.

Gojo hears your heartbeat before he sees you. He has some sirt of a bat instinct, you see.

Faint. Steady. Alive.

That’s the only thing keeping him from ripping this place apart.

But the moment he steps inside—the moment his eyes land on you, tied to that fucking chair, with Toji crouched in front of you like a wolf toying with its prey—something inside him snaps.

"Step away from her." His voice is quiet and deadly. The kind of voice that promises violence.

Toji doesn’t even turn around. Instead, he grins, spinning his knife between his fingers. "Took you long enough, Bat."

Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. "This is your only warning."

Toji finally turns, his sharp green eyes glinting with something dangerous. "Or what?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

Then—he smiles. "Or I’ll show you why Gotham is afraid of the dark."

You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen the way he moves—quick, calculated, precise.

But this? This is different. This isn’t the controlled Bat, this isn’t the patient hunter.

This is Gojo Satoru with nothing left to hold back. And it’s terrifying. Because he’s not just fighting Toji.

He’s dismantling him.

A fist meets flesh with a sickening, brutal crack. Toji throws a punch—Gojo catches his wrist mid-air, twisting hard enough that the snap of bone echoes through the empty warehouse.

Toji grits his teeth, lunges—Gojo moves faster, dodging with ease before slamming him into the concrete so hard the ground cracks beneath them. There’s no banter. No smirk. No teasing.

There’s just rage.

And the worst part? Gojo is enjoying it. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is everything.

This is Gotham. The corruption. The powerlessness.

This is every ounce of anger he’s swallowed down for years, unleashed on the one bastard stupid enough to give him an excuse and if you don’t stop him now— he won’t stop at all.

"Satoru." Your voice barely reaches him over the pounding in his ears.

But the second you say his name—his real name— he freezes.

Fist still curled in Toji’s bloodied collar. Breath coming in slow, heavy exhales. Shoulders rising and falling with barely contained fury.

And then, slowly—he turns. His eyes meet yours, and for the briefest moment, they flicker—from Gotham’s Bat to the man underneath. That’s all you need.

"Let him go."

Gojo stares at you, unmoving, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

Then, with a sharp breath—he lets Toji’s unconscious body drop to the ground. The tension in his frame lingers, coiled tight, but his steps are steady as he moves toward you. The anger is still there. The darkness. The weight of everything he just did.

But his hands are gentle when they find the ropes binding your wrists.

"Let’s get you out of here."

The silence is suffocating.

You should be grateful though. The moment he cut you loose, he got you out—carried you through Gotham’s backstreets, made sure you weren’t followed. Now, you’re in a hidden safehouse—one of his, no doubt—sitting on an old couch, trying to ignore the dull ache in your wrists.

And him? He’s in the bathroom. Avoiding you.

You hear the water running, the steady drip of blood swirling down the sink. You should leave, you should run. But you don’t. Because you’re not done with him yet.

But for him it keeps replaying in his head. The way you said it.

'"Satoru."'

Not Batman. Not Bats. Not some teasing, smug nickname meant to piss him off. Just his name.

Like you knew exactly what it meant to use it. Like you knew it would break him.

His knuckles sting as he washes off the blood. He should have killed Toji. He should have— no.

No, he shouldn’t have let you get this close. He grips the edge of the sink, eyes burning into his reflection. He can’t want this. He can’t want you.

But then—a creak of the floorboard, a shift in the air. He doesn’t need to turn around to know you’re standing in the doorway. And when you speak— he already knows he’s fucked.

"Let me see your hands."

He doesn’t move, neither does he look at you. But he also doesn’t stop you when you step forward and reach for his hand. The bruises are already blooming, dark and angry across his knuckles.

You should say something sharp—something to piss him off, make him smirk, drag him back into whatever stupid game you’ve been playing for years. But for once, you don’t want to play.

"You could’ve killed him," your voice is quiet.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I should have."

"That’s not who you are," you say as you caress the back of his hand.

That makes him snap.

His head jerks up, eyes flashing. "You don’t know who I am."

But you don’t let go.

You squeeze his hand—challenging. "Then tell me."

He doesn't say anything for a while and you feel frustrated.

And then, softer—barely a breath. "You don’t want to know."

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, coiling around your throat like a noose.

His hand is still in yours, bruised and warm, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to pull away.

Or worse—hold on tighter.

You don’t let go. Neither does he. And for a moment, just a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe— maybe this isn’t something you have to fight. Maybe this doesn’t have to be another battle, another game of pushing and pulling until one of you finally lets go.

Maybe— but then his grip tightens, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse. "You should leave."

The words hit harder than any punch.

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. You force yourself to smile, to tilt your head like this is nothing, like you aren’t standing on the edge of something that could shatter you completely.

"So that’s it?" you murmur, fingers tracing absent patterns along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath your touch. "I almost die, you almost lose your mind, and now you’re just gonna pretend none of it happened?"

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing, but he doesn’t pull away. "It can’t happen."

You scoff. "Can’t, or won’t?"

He exhales sharply, the muscle in his jaw twitching again. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Make this something it isn’t."

Anger flickers hot in your chest, and this time, it’s you who tightens your grip. "And what exactly is this, Satoru?"

He doesn’t answer and that’s the worst part. Because you can take a fight. You can take sharp words and heated arguments, can take anger and fire and frustration.

But this? This silence? This refusal to even acknowledge what’s between you? This is what fucking hurts.

You shake your head, laughing bitterly as you finally drop his hand. "You know, for someone who always acts like he’s got all the answers, you really are a fucking coward."

Then you turn. And this time, you walk away first.

He lets you walk away, though he shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t. But he does.

Because if he stops you—if he says anything else, if he gives in even an inch— he won’t be able to stop himself at all.

He won’t be able to stop himself from pulling you back, from letting himself want this, want you, from letting himself believe that there could ever be a world where this doesn't end in disaster.

So he lets you go. He stays in that goddamn bathroom, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turn white, staring at his own reflection like it’ll give him an answer he doesn’t already fucking know.

Because he knows.

He knows that no matter how many times he tells himself to stay away, no matter how many times he buries it— it’s still there.

It’s been there for years. And now? Now it’s unraveling, slipping through his fingers like smoke, impossible to ignore, impossible to deny. Because the moment you walked away? He felt it.

The weight in his chest, the tightening in his throat, the overwhelming urge to chase after you, to take it back, to do something—

And fuck.

Fuck.

He slams his fist into the mirror before he can stop himself, glass shattering beneath his skin, pain blooming sharp and hot across his knuckles. He doesn’t even feel it. Because all he can think about—all he can fucking think about— is you. And that’s when he knows. This is it. This is the breaking point.

Because the second something happens—the second something puts you in danger again, the second someone so much as looks at you the wrong way— he won’t be able to stop himself.

And this time? He won’t fucking try.

You shouldn’t care. You tell yourself you don’t.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

You tell yourself you should be used to it by now—used to the push and pull, used to the way he always leaves first, used to the way you always let him.

But this time? This time, it feels different.

This time, it feels like something inside you has been cracked open, exposed, left bleeding in the space between you. This time, you were the one who walked away—and it still fucking hurts.

Because the truth is— you wanted him to stop you. You wanted him to prove you wrong. But he didn’t.

And that? That fucking stings.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples, eyes fluttering shut as you try to push it down, try to shove it deep, deep, deep beneath the surface where it can’t touch you anymore.

But the second you open your eyes, the second you see your reflection in the grimy window of your apartment—

You know. You know this isn’t over, because no matter how hard you try to run from it— it always brings you back to him.

You were lost in your thoughts, more like consumed by them that you forgot. You're Catwoman. You're in the freaking city of Gotham. You should've known. It happens fast. Too fast.

One second, you’re walking down the empty streets of Gotham, the cool night air biting at your skin, the weight of earlier still sitting heavy in your chest—

And the next? You’re surrounded.

Shadows slip out from the alleys, footsteps closing in, voices murmuring in low, amused tones. "Look what we have here…"

"Thought you were untouchable, sweetheart?"

Shit.

You recognize them instantly—Falcone’s men. Which means this isn’t a random attack. This is a message, a warning. A consequence for getting too close to Gotham’s Bat.

You bite back a curse, hands twitching at your sides, muscles tensing as you count the men, assess the distance, calculate your odds.

Four—maybe five. Armed? Most likely. A fight you could win? …Not without consequences.

But what other choice do you have? Because you already know— no one is coming to save you. Not this time.

Satoru feels it before he hears it.

It’s instinct.

A sharp, sudden shift in his chest, a gut-wrenching pull like something inside him is being ripped apart. Then— the comm buzzes.

"We got a situation." Nanami’s voice is clipped, urgent. "Falcone’s men. Five of them. Near Harbor Street."

And before he can even think—before he can stop himself—he’s already moving. Because he knows.

He fucking knows.

You don’t go down easy. They think they’ve already won. They think this will be easy.

They think you’re just a pretty little thief, just a girl who got in too deep, just another lesson to be taught. And that’s their first mistake. Because you don’t go down easy.

You move before they do—a sharp kick, a twist, a knife pulled from your belt and pressed to the throat of the closest man before he can even blink.

"Try it," you hiss, voice laced with venom.

He hesitates, and in that second, you know—you have an opening.

But then— a gun cocks.

And a voice—low, amused, familiar—cuts through the night like a blade. "Tsk. Always making things difficult, aren’t you, kitten?"

Your blood runs cold because you know that voice.

Suguru Geto.

And that? That changes everything.

You’ve honestly been in worse situations. But not many.

Not ones that make your stomach twist quite like this, not ones that make your pulse hammer against your ribs in something too sharp, too visceral, too close to fear. Because this isn’t just anyone. This isn’t some low-level thug. This isn’t even some mob boss looking to put you in your place. This is Suguru Geto.

And he doesn’t waste his time on small threats. No, when he moves, when he speaks, when he smiles—it means something.

"You’ve been causing quite the stir lately," he muses, stepping closer, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets. "Getting on the Bat’s good side, stepping on all the wrong toes—really, kitten, I expected better from you."

You force your grip to stay steady, the knife still pressed against the throat of the man you caught off guard.

"Flattered, really," you say, keeping your voice light, like your pulse isn’t hammering, like your fingers aren’t itching to grab your grapple and run. "Didn’t think I’d be important enough to warrant a visit from the great Suguru Geto himself."

He chuckles—low, smooth, condescending. "Oh, you’re important," he says. "Just not in the way you think."

Your jaw tightens. "Yeah? Then why are you here?"

He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s already figured out. "Because," he hums, "you have something that belongs to me."

The USB.

Shit.

Your grip on the knife falters for half a second—half a second too long. Because before you can react, before you can process, before you can even think— The man you were holding twists, shoving you off, the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your ribs before you can recover.

And just like that— you’re out of options.

Satoru's close.

Close enough that he can hear the words, close enough that he can hear your fucking pulse spike.

And that? That’s what does it. Because it’s one thing to be reckless. It’s one thing to be stubborn, to push him away, to insist that you don’t need him, that you can handle yourself.

But this? This is different because Geto doesn’t make idle threats.

And the second Gojo hears the sharp intake of your breath, the second he hears the shift of movement, the second he realizes exactly what’s happening— he moves. Fast. Too fast for them to react.

Because one second, Geto is smirking, enjoying his little game— and the next? He’s eating pavement.

Satoru doesn't hold back. He could, he should. But he doesn’t.

Because the second he sees that gun against your ribs, the second he sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes flicker with something you never let anyone see— it’s over.

The first punch sends Geto flying. The second cracks something, leaves him coughing up blood.

The third? That one’s personal.

Because Gojo has been patient. He’s let things slide, let lines blur, let the underworld think he’s just another player in the game. But this? This is different. This is you. And that? That changes everything.

You've seen his fight countless times, but not like this. Not like he’s tearing through them without a second thought, not like he’s this close to losing control, not like the only thing keeping him from going too far is the fact that you’re standing right there.

It should scare you.

It should make you rethink everything, should remind you why you’ve always kept your distance, why you’ve always told yourself you couldn’t afford to get caught up in whatever the hell is between you. But it doesn’t. Because all you can think, as you watch him break Geto’s men like they’re nothing— is that he came. That you didn’t even call for him, and he still fucking came.

And when it’s over, when the dust settles and Geto is left bloody and laughing on the pavement, when Gojo finally turns to you, breath ragged, knuckles split, eyes burning— you don’t run. You don’t even flinch.

Because you know what this means. What it’s always meant. And maybe—maybe this time, neither of you will walk away first.

You really think you should stop this. You should. You should shove him away, should tell him this doesn’t change anything, should remind yourself why this is a bad idea, why this has always been a bad idea.

But when his fingers curl around your wrist, when he tugs you closer, when his breath ghosts over your lips— you don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe. Because this isn’t like before.

This isn’t a game, isn’t a moment either of you will walk away from, isn’t something that can be brushed aside when the night is over. This is the point of no return.

And when he finally, finally closes the distance— you let him.

Because maybe—just maybe—you were never meant to run from him in the first place. It was always going to be you, always.

From the moment you first slipped past his defenses, from the moment you first met his gaze across the rooftops of Gotham, from the moment you first left him standing there with nothing but your name on his tongue and your laughter ringing in his ears— it was always going to be you.

And now? Now, with you in his arms, with your fingers tangled in his hair, with your taste on his lips, he knows there’s no going back. He doesn’t want to.

Because if Gotham is his curse, if the mask is his burden, if the weight of this city is something he’ll never escape— then you? You're the only thing that’s ever made it worth it. And for once, just once—he’s taking what he wants.

You find yourself on the rooftop with him, where it all began.

The city glows beneath you. The skyline stretches out, endless and alive, neon lights flickering, sirens wailing in the distance, the hum of Gotham’s heartbeat steady and unyielding.

It’s always been like this. Always moving. Always demanding. Always taking. And you? You’ve always been running.

But tonight? Tonight, you stand still. Because Gojo is in front of you, mask off, white hair ruffled by the wind, the cut on his lip still fresh from the fight, his eyes— those damn blue eyes—locked onto yours like he’s trying to memorize you, like he already knows what’s coming.

"So this is it, huh?" he says, voice low, rough.

You swallow hard, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Bat. You knew it wouldn’t last."

His jaw clenches. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

You step closer, tilting your head. "You’ll live."

He exhales sharply, like he’s about to say something—something real, something that might make you stay— but you can’t let him.

So you reach up, fingers barely brushing his jaw, a ghost of a touch, a silent goodbye.

"Goodbye, Batman," you whisper, voice softer than you mean it to be. "Gotham needs you."

For a second, just a second—you think that’s it. That he’ll let you go. That he’ll watch you disappear into the night like you always do.

But then— his hand catches yours. Tightly. Desperately. And when he speaks, when his voice finally breaks— it nearly stops you in your tracks.

"Why don’t you stay, Cat?" he murmurs, raw, unguarded, everything. "I need you."

Your breath catches as your heart lurches. Because that—that’s the one thing you weren’t ready for. But you force a smirk, even as your chest aches.

"That’s your problem, Bat." You squeeze his hand once, just once—before slipping free. "You’re not supposed to." You pause and for once give him a big genuine smile. "See ya later batman."

And with that— you step back and you turn, as you disappear into the night, like you always do.

Because Gotham needs him. And maybe he was never meant to need you.

@do-morochaa @madamechrissy @katthekat1234 (hope y'all like it😭💗)

[themsource]

Stan's Mind and Stress

Thinking about Stan and how seemingly skilled he is with the mindscape business, and how Ford doesn't appear to be what with a reliance on a metal plate and project mentem to encrypt and hide thoughts from Bill, when Stan easily did that just by focusing on a paddleball during the final episode

What if Stan has such great control and awareness in his mindscape because of all the studying he did on theoretical physics every single night for thirty years, barely getting any sleep with how driven he was and became a lucid dreamer because of it to help accomplish his goal? What if he grasped learning so much because he used his mindscape to practice?

Maybe this is why he’s probably grumpy so much, other than the bitter loneliness, dude hasn’t had a good deep dreamless sleep in literal years. He’s all wrinkly and worn out because he put his body through so much stress and never gave it time to actually relax and recover. He’s been working on that portal nonstop since the night of the incident, so much so he became a mind wizard. And he never even got to relax from the stressful life he was living in the ten years before that too.

Ford may have gotten 12 PHDS and a homicidal muse plus 30 years of survival training, but Stanley got mind powers that even shocked Bill Cipher, given how Cipher reacts to Dipper’s knowledge of how the mindscape works during their fight when he can’t fathom anyone besides himself having told the kid in the first place. A legit ‘who have you been talking to?! only I should know that!’

Poor Stan was under so much duress for so long, his mind—rather than breaking, chose to evolve, I swear. He disassociated right into X-men territory. Because what do a lot of people do when faced with things they can’t handle? Daydream and escape. I bet he spent the first few weeks cat napping a lot before the food ran out what with all the frustration and struggle to understand Ford’s science jargon he was going through. Perfect mind training and escapism time to practice how physics does and doesn’t work and the science behind it when looked through a comparative lens of the real world vs dreams.

Think it just goes to show how rough Stan’s had it oof... and how powerful his ability to adapt and cope is.

[miss-conner3]

En Español: Aquí

“Dance With Me”

Context: While trying to understand the true intentions of a certain cat, Bert-Bert ends up meddling in what he doesn't understand.

This comic was inspired by the idea that while there might be Narilamb in this AU, you have to remember that my lamb is not exactly “The Lamb” in this universe.

So I wanted to explore a little more about it (owo)

Let's see what comes out, but until then, this is all for now <(UuU)>

¡I hope you like it!

(By the way, ¿did you like the encrypted message in the first image? (>w<) Hehehe)

[bunji-enthusiast]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚠 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

Chat noir!reader

Summary || now as a classified asset, you got more than you bargained for.

Note // YAYYY, part 2—RAGHHH

You heard the shift in air pressure before you heard the sound.

A low, pulsing thrum—the kind that tickles the back of your neck, makes your instincts sit up and pay attention. Plagg’s ears twitched, his chewing slowed, and he glanced upward.

You sat up slowly, not transforming. Not yet.

Then the silhouette dropped into view.

A soft impact. Boots on concrete. Not loud. But deliberate.

You blinked, heart skipping a beat.

It was Invincible.

Not in full battle mode—just his suit, not a scratch on it tonight. His posture was relaxed, arms loosely crossed, but his eyes were focused.

“You’re Cat Noir,” he said, voice quiet but firm.

You didn’t move. “You’re… later than I expected.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Expected?”

You stood, brushing off your jeans. “Yeah. GDA's golden boy. Figured they’d send you eventually. To talk. Or spy. Or recruit me again.”

Mark shook his head. “Cecil didn’t send me. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Plagg hovered warily behind you, muttering, “Okay, I vote we bolt. Like, right now.”

But you didn’t move. You waited.

Mark finally spoke again. “I saw your file. Just… caught my eye. A kid who doesn’t want to be a hero but won’t stop saving people anyway.”

“…So what, you’re here to give me the pep talk?”

He smiled faintly. “Nah. I hate pep talks. I just… wanted to meet you. On my own terms.”

You crossed your arms, sizing him up.

“You ever get tired of it?” you asked. “Of everyone expecting you to fix the world when you’re just trying to survive it?”

Mark looked at the stars for a moment before answering. “Yeah. All the time.”

The silence between you stretched—not awkward, but heavy. Like two sides of a cracked mirror staring at each other.

He finally stepped closer, his voice softer now.

“You’ve lost things. So have I. And the GDA… they don’t really teach you how to live with that. They just give you more missions.”

You said nothing.

“But if you ever need someone who gets it,” Mark added, “I’m around. Not as a handler. Not as a teammate. Just… someone who understands what it feels like to carry power that doesn’t always feel like yours.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then—just barely—you nodded.

Mark turned to leave, but paused mid-hover.

“Oh, and… if you ever wanna spar sometime? No claws.”

You smirked. “No flying.”

He laughed, then vanished into the sky.

Plagg floated back to your shoulder, chewing the last of his cheese. “Well. That was weirdly wholesome.”

You sighed and dropped back onto the rooftop.

“Yeah,” you murmured.

“But for once… maybe I needed it.”

It was less than an hour after Invincible left.

The stars were still out. Your rooftop had just started to feel like yours again. You were lying on your back, thinking about maybe sleeping under the sky for once instead of in a bed that never really felt like home.

Then—your ring pulsed.

A sickly green flicker, like your heart skipped a beat.

Plagg jolted upright. “That’s not normal.”

You sat up fast.

Your phone lit up. Encrypted message. GDA code. Not from Cecil this time—this one was from Donald Ferguson. His name barely meant anything to you, but you remembered the file: GDA assistant, often seen in Cecil’s shadow. Quiet. Dangerous in the way chess players are dangerous.

The message was short.

“Field-level emergency. Midtown. Coordinates pinged. Immediate response authorized. Level-3 clearance granted. You’re closest.”

You didn’t hesitate.

"Plagg, claws out."

The transformation slammed through you like a lightning bolt. Fur, leather, power. That sharp weightless moment between being human and being more. Your boots hit the rooftop like thunder, staff clicking to your back as your mask tightened around your face.

Plagg vanished inside the ring. “I hope this emergency involves cheese. Or something easy to hit.”

You sprinted and vaulted off the roof.

Midtown was chaos.

Not Lizard League chaos. Not purse-snatching or bank-robbing. This was bad. You landed atop a flickering streetlight and stared down at the scene.

A biotech transport truck had flipped—split down the middle.

Black, silver-cored ooze leaked from the shattered containment tanks. People were running, some screaming, some stuck in place, frozen with fear.

The real problem?

A man—no, a thing—made of living metal stood in the center of it all.

Tall. Shifting. A humanoid body coated in plates of black-chrome steel, constantly reconfiguring itself. His arms were blades, his face a blank polished mask. His movements were too smooth. Too intentional.

He wasn’t rampaging.

He was hunting.

And you had a terrible feeling you’d just found what he was hunting for.

A GDA drone zipped by overhead, scanning, and pinged your comms line.

“Target confirmed: Codename METALLIK. Rogue cyborg from failed D.A. Sinclair prototype batch. Experimental mind-machine merge. Extremely hostile. Objective unclear.”

You muttered, “Fantastic.”

Then he turned and looked right at you.

A whir of gears. His chest split slightly—revealing something pulsing inside. A heartbeat made of wires. A targeting system.

Plagg’s voice buzzed in your ear. “You’ve got maybe six seconds before this turns into a real problem.”

You leapt down from the light, landing hard on the cracked pavement, claws flexing, tail sweeping behind you.

“Guess we’re skipping round two with Invincible,” you muttered, eyes narrowing.

“Time to dance, tin man.”

You charged.

The second your boots hit the pavement, Metallik’s head snapped to track your movement—smooth, fluid, unnatural. His body spun into motion like a weapon system waking up, every movement calculated. But you were already closing the distance.

Staff in hand, claws out.

The first hit was meant to test him—a fast jab to the midsection.

It bounced.

The impact rippled across his metal plating like it was absorbing the blow, rerouting the force through joints and rebar-like tendons. He didn't even flinch.

“Okay, cool cool cool,” you muttered, flipping back just as his blade-arm slashed through the air where your face had been. “He’s made of cheat codes.”

Plagg’s voice echoed in your mind. "Those joints! Under the plating—look for weak spots. Think spider legs."

You dove forward low—sliding under a second sweeping strike—and jammed your staff into the crook of his knee, claws slicing under the shifting armor.

That one landed.

He staggered, just for a moment, and snarled—not with a voice, but with sound—a distorted digital screech that grated like bad feedback and metal twisting inside your skull.

He reconfigured.

His arm turned into a cannon. A literal cannon.

You flipped sideways midair as it discharged—a blast of plasma heat carving a molten gash into the asphalt behind you. The shockwave knocked you into a parked car, but you landed in a crouch, panting.

You couldn’t just fight him. You needed to know why he was here.

And you needed to know fast.

Your eyes scanned the wreckage around him—broken biotech crates, fluid leaking, scattered containment tags.

One fluttered nearby, charred but mostly intact.

You lunged, grabbed it mid-roll, and skidded behind a flipped van.

Barcode… subject ID… name—

‘Subject: SCION.’

Your blood ran cold. Plagg whispered in your mind. “That’s not just a name.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a failsafe designation. Genetic anomalies. Power potential flagged off the charts. GDA has a habit of locking those away.”

You glanced over the edge of the van at Metallik. He wasn’t here for the tech.

He was here for whoever—or whatever—Scion is.

And now?

He turned. Sensors glowing red.

He saw you holding the file tag.

A new sound came from his chest—something like language, half-garbled through static:

“…Asset… defective… replace…”

And then he charged. You barely got your staff up in time.

The impact threw you through the van like tissue paper. The sound of your bell echoed in your ears as you hit the pavement and rolled, armor scuffed, body aching.

He was above you now, blade raised—ready to carve you in half.

You caught it. Just barely.

Claws against steel. Sparks flying. Your ring glowing like fire.

You gritted your teeth. “You’re not replacing anyone.”

With a twist and a roar, you drove your feet into his chest and launched him skyward.

He flipped midair—machine grace—and landed in a crouch.

But something flickered behind his head.

A shadow.

Not yours.

Another figure was on the field now. Small. Frightened. Leaning against a broken crate.

A kid. Maybe ten. Pale, glowing veins beneath their skin. Eyes bright as your ring.

They locked eyes with you. And suddenly—you knew.

Scion wasn’t a weapon.

Scion was a person.

And Metallik had come to claim them.

Plagg whispered, low and deadly. “We have to get to the kid before he does.”

You stood, cracked your neck, and twirled your staff into a ready stance, tail lashing.

“Then let’s finish this.”

Round Two didn’t start with a punch.

It started with a bell—your bell.

You reached up, unclipped it from your collar, and whispered, “Plagg, give me a little show.”

Plagg emerged with a flicker, a grin forming around his fang. “Oh, I love this part.”

You hurled the bell high into the air. With a burst of green energy and a low hum of Kwami trickery, it split mid-flight into a dozen glowing projections—each one a perfect illusion of you.

Metallik's optics flared.

He scanned. And twitched. Confused.

“Target… multiple… anomaly…”

You didn’t wait.

In the blur of flickering Cat Noirs, you sprinted for the kid—Scion—your staff contracting back into a baton so you could scoop the kid up in one arm.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, voice low, trying to stay calm.

They looked at you, eyes glowing faint green. “I heard him in my head,” they whispered. “He says I’m broken.”

“You’re not,” you said firmly, hooking your staff to your back. “You’re just new.”

The illusions danced—taunting, dodging, mirroring every one of your fight patterns.

Metallik roared and launched a blade into one. It flickered, then vanished in a pop of green light.

You were already leaping over cars, sprinting through alleys, putting distance between Metallik and Scion.

You ducked into a construction site two blocks over. Quiet. High ground. Steel frame, unfinished walls—a temporary battlefield.

You set Scion down and knelt, gripping their shoulders. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t glow.”

Their lip trembled, but they nodded, eyes wide.

Then they surprised you.

“You’re not afraid of him.”

You paused.

“Not enough to run.”

You smiled faintly. “No. I’m just smart enough to pick the right ground to finish a fight.”

And then the steel beams began to quake.

You turned slowly—just as Metallik tore through the concrete wall like paper.

His blades glinted in the dark. The plating along his arms twisted, reshaping into spears, tendrils of tech snaking behind him like extra limbs.

But now?

You were ready.

The confined space would limit his range. The height gave you options. And the silence?

That was yours.

“Let’s finish it,” you muttered, claws extending, stance low.

Plagg’s voice echoed in your mind. “For once, I think he’s the one out of his depth.”

You launched forward—fast, precise—claws sparking against his armor, each strike aimed for the joints, the gears, the soft parts.

Metallik swung wide with a blade—you ducked and drove your baton into the base of his spine. The lights on his chest flickered.

He shrieked in digital rage and stabbed—you caught it between both claws and twisted, snapping the blade’s edge.

You saw an opening. A core, beneath his chest plate. Glowing. Beating. A heart made of stolen power.

You leapt high, spun mid-air.

And drove your staff into it with every ounce of strength you had.

BOOM.

A pulse of green light exploded outward.

Metallik convulsed—his limbs spasming, metal shrieking against itself, body folding inward. The core shattered, sparks flying in every direction. His voice glitched, static screeching—

“BROKEN—BROK—BROK—”

Then silence.

His body collapsed, steaming.

You landed hard, panting, ring dimming as Plagg’s voice rasped, “Okay, now I need cheese. A wheel.”

You walked slowly back to Scion, who hadn’t moved.

They looked up at you. “You didn’t kill him.”

You shrugged, claws retracting. “Not my job. I’m not the reaper. I’m the cat who protects the people monsters hunt.”

Scion nodded slowly. “…You’re not like the others.”

You smiled, exhausted but steady. “You either.”

Mission complete. One saved. One shut down. One step deeper into a world of secrets.

You didn’t go back through the front door.

You dropped in through the window.

Boots silent on hardwood, adrenaline still lingering in your limbs. The city was quieter now—Metallik was down, the kid was safe (for now), and the only thing left to do was wait for the inevitable.

You hadn’t even fully de-transformed yet.

The shadows in your apartment moved before the light did. That faint distortion, like heat off asphalt. The flicker of teleport tech.

Then—Cecil.

He stood near your table, hands behind his back, eyes like quiet knives. No expression. No preamble. Just—

“You kept the kid alive.”

You nodded, cautious. “Scion’s not what you thought they were.”

“We weren’t sure what they were,” Cecil said flatly. “The file was redacted above my clearance. I had a feeling this might be something… unique.”

You crossed your arms. “So you used me.”

“No,” he said. “I tested you.”

You frowned. “Tested me?”

Cecil stepped forward, just once. His voice stayed low. “We’ve had our eye on you since the Lizard League. But we needed to know what kind of player you are. A weapon? A wildcard? A liability?”

“And?”

His eyes narrowed—almost approval. “You saved the kid. Neutralized a failed experiment without leaving collateral damage. Protected a civilian asset without orders. You made your own call, and it was the right one.”

You looked away, jaw tight. “So what, you want a thank-you?”

“No,” Cecil said. “I want you to understand something.”

He took out a small device, placed it gently on your table.

“You’re in this now. Not officially. Not publicly. But you’ve stepped into the game. And this? This game doesn’t have sidelines.”

You stared at the device—black, palm-sized, blinking faintly.

“What is it?” you asked.

“A line,” Cecil said. “Between you and me. Use it when the world stops playing fair.”

He turned to go—then paused at the window.

“One more thing.”

You looked up.

“Scion,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to find out where they are. Trust me when I say… you don’t want to know.”

And then, without a sound, he was gone.

You de-transformed slowly, skin crawling with residual charge.

Plagg floated out, tired and cheese-hungry.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You picked up the device. Rolled it between your fingers. The blinking light was steady, constant, like a heartbeat.

And for the first time all day… you felt completely alone.

Not because no one was around. But because you were in it now.

Officially unofficial.

Cat Noir… agent of nothing. And maybe, just maybe, protector of something bigger than you can see.

Night falls. The city breathes.

The world isn’t saved.

But it’s safe—for now.

The next morning came without sirens.

No calls. No explosions. No GDA pings or secret files or bleeding-edge murder machines stalking city streets.

Just the sound of birds outside your window and the gentle hum of morning traffic.

A sunrise that wasn’t backlit by fire or debris.

You cracked one eye open.

Plagg was snoring on top of your chest, curled up like an actual cat. A tiny bit of camembert clung to his mouth like a dream he'd never left.

You blinked up at the ceiling.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks…

You didn’t feel like Cat Noir.

You felt like… you.

You took your time that day.

No suit. No transformation. Just your hoodie, headphones, and beat-up sneakers.

You grabbed a scarf on your way out—not to hide your identity, just because it was chilly and kind of matched your vibe.

You got your favorite açaí bowl from that little shop on 5th. The one with the bored barista who now knew your order by heart but still pretended like they didn’t.

You sat by the fountain, spoon in one hand, sunlight in your face. Watching people walk by. Laugh. Talk.

Be normal.

No one looked twice at you.

No glowing ring. No claws. Just a kid with messed-up hair and a tired kind of peace behind their eyes.

It felt… good.

Later, you walked into a comic shop. The dusty kind. Old posters, creaky floors, the smell of ink and nostalgia baked into the walls.

The owner gave you a nod. Didn’t recognize you. Didn’t care.

You thumbed through the bins in silence.

Pulled out a well-worn issue of Silver Claw #14.

One of your favorites.

The hero loses, hard. Spends the whole issue figuring out how to pick himself back up.

You bought it. Left with it tucked under your arm like something sacred.

The bell above the comic shop door jingled as you stepped out, bag tucked under your arm, that faint musty ink smell still clinging to your hoodie. The Silver Claw issue was resting easy against your ribs—like a quiet anchor to something simpler.

You were halfway down the block when you felt it.

That subtle shift in the air.

Like the oxygen itself went taut. A ripple just beyond sight, like something about the world had blinked wrong for a second.

Then came the sound.

BOOM.

Not distant—right around the corner.

You stopped. Turned.

Just in time to see a man flying backward through a glass window, shattering it like paper. He hit a parked car, dented it, and slid off with a groan.

And above the wreckage?

Titan.

Muscles like concrete, fists like wrecking balls. Covered in his signature armor-skin—cracked and steaming, like he’d taken a hit.

You knew him. Not well, but enough.

A hero trying to turn over a new leaf. Used to run with crime. Now he ran toward it.

Someone you’d quietly admired.

But he wasn’t alone.

Hovering above him, flickering in and out of view like a glitch in a game, was Phantom Slash.

A low-tier villain, but dangerous. Hard-light blades. Cloaking. Ex-military with a grudge. Loved collateral.

Civilians screamed, scattering.

Titan pushed up off the car, blood at the corner of his mouth.

"You really don't know when to quit, huh?" he growled.

Phantom Slash hissed, voice glitchy through his visor. “I was trained not to.”

Another blade flicked out of nowhere. Titan barely blocked it—ripped a parking meter out of the ground and used it like a club.

They fought right there on the street.

Power against precision. Brute strength against sharp edges and flickers of invisibility.

And you?

You just stood there, watching.

Not frozen. Just… choosing.

Because today, you weren’t Cat Noir.

And this? This was someone else’s fight.

You slipped back into the crowd. Not out of fear—but out of trust. Titan was holding his own. And you? You weren’t needed this time.

Sometimes, being a hero meant knowing when to stand down.

Later, hours later—after the noise had died down and the cleanup had started—you pulled out the comic book again, back on your rooftop.

Silver Claw #14.

Your eyes drifted to a single panel.

The hero sits on a bench, watching another hero save the day. A little girl asks him, “Why aren’t you helping?”

He says, “Because sometimes the world doesn’t need my claws. It just needs me to believe in someone else.”

You closed the comic.

And for the first time in a long while, you smiled to yourself—because maybe, just maybe, you were learning how to do that too.

As the sun started to dip again, you found yourself on the same rooftop you always came back to. Your spot.

You didn’t suit up. You just sat there.

Feet dangling over the edge. Hoodie pulled tight. Head leaned back.

No missions. No pressure. Just… sky.

Plagg floated up beside you, a piece of gouda in hand.

“You know,” he said around a bite, “you could’ve transformed. We could be doing flips off cranes or shadow boxing against satellites.”

You smirked. “Nah. Today’s a ‘me’ day.”

He paused, then nodded.

“…Good call.”

And the two of you sat there.

A kid and his chaos spirit. Watching the world turn quietly for once. You weren’t Cat Noir today.

You were just you. And it was enough.

However, there was a time that sentiment didn’t seem to ring as loud. Where you were even smaller, smaller than you are now. Your mind faded away to memory lane.

It starts with rain.

Not the heavy kind that pounds windows or floods streets—but the soft kind. Gentle. Constant. The kind that slips between tree branches and fogs up café windows.

You were maybe ten. Maybe eleven.

Still small enough to lose your hoodie sleeves in your fists. Still young enough to believe everything would work out, even when it didn’t make sense.

And you were waiting.

On a bench outside a tall glass building, shoes wet, comic book pressed tight against your chest to keep it from wrinkling.

You’d been there a while, waiting for your dad.

Again.

The receptionist had told you, in that polite-customer-service tone you would come to resent, “He’s in a meeting.”

Said it like it was an apology.

Said it like it mattered.

But you’d waited. Because he said, “I’ll be there, kiddo. Just give me an hour.”

It had been three.

You remember watching the umbrellas pass by. The different colors. The strange rhythm of grown-ups walking fast like they were all late for something important.

And then—someone sat down beside you.

You didn’t look at them at first. You were focused on your comic. Something familiar.

But then a voice broke the silence.

“You know, Silver Claw doesn’t get enough credit. Most people just think he’s all edge and no heart.”

You blinked, looked up.

The guy was older. Not old, just… tired in a way that felt permanent. Leather jacket. Stubbly chin. A bandage on one knuckle.

He smiled a little when he saw your surprise.

“Don’t worry, not a creep. I just know a good comic when I see one.”

You looked at your issue, then back at him. “He’s not my favorite.”

“Oh yeah? Who is?”

You hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t know yet.”

The man nodded like that made perfect sense.

“That’s fair. You got time. But for what it’s worth…”

He pointed at the cover. “This one’s a good pick. It’s not about winning the fight. It’s about what you do after you lose one.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

There was something in his eyes. Not pity. Not concern.

Just… familiarity.

Like maybe he knew what it was like to wait on that bench, too.

He didn’t ask where your parents were.

Didn’t ask why you were alone.

He just pulled something out of his jacket pocket. A granola bar. Slightly squished.

“Trade you,” he said, holding it out. “That issue for the snack.”

You smirked. “Not a chance. First print.”

He laughed. “Smart kid.”

He stood up. Patted your shoulder once—light, careful—and then walked off into the rain, vanishing between umbrellas like a ghost.

You never knew who he was.

But that comic? You still have it.

Taped-up spine. Faded cover. A corner bent from where it got caught in your backpack zipper.

It’s the one you were reading the day your ring found you. And maybe that’s not a coincidence. Because deep down?

That was the day you realized something: Heroes don’t always wear masks.

Sometimes, they just sit down next to you on a rainy bench and remind you that you matter.

Even when no one else shows up.

The next memory rings in mind, the first time you met Plagg. Admittedly you weren’t very proud of your self for the way you acted; embarrassed about the thought even.

You weren’t expecting magic that day.

Just a really weird ring.

You found it in your dad’s office—long after the meetings had stopped, long after his phone calls had grown shorter and his eyes colder.

It was sitting in a velvet box, shoved behind old contracts and dusty plaques.

Jet black. Smooth. Like obsidian but light as air. With a strange green paw print on its face.

You tried it on out of boredom.

It clicked onto your finger like it belonged there.

And the moment it did—Everything changed.

Your vision blurred with green static. Your pulse hit double-time. You stumbled back against the desk—papers scattering, heart pounding, something hot and ancient flickering behind your eyes.

Then—light.

Not blinding. But alive.

And from that light… a floating black cat.

No—smaller. Stranger.

A Kwami.

Eyes glowing. Body light as smoke. A grin carved by centuries of chaos.

"Finally," the creature said, stretching like it had been napping for a decade. “Took you long enough.”

You screamed.

Okay, not screamed. But like—yelled in the awkward, choked, panicked way only a kid caught stealing something can yell.

You stumbled back and hit the desk again. “W-what are you—what is this—what are you?!”

The little creature blinked, then yawned. Then floated right up into your face. “Name’s Plagg. Kwami of destruction. You’re my new holder. Congrats.”

You blinked. “Of… destruction?”

“Yep.”

“Like… boom destruction?”

“Boom. Chaos. Ruin. The usual.”

You looked down at the ring on your finger. It pulsed faintly.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

Plagg shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You put the ring on. That’s the bond. Fate’s weird like that.”

You sank into your dad’s office chair, breath shaky.

“But I’m just a kid.”

Plagg looked at you, and for the first time… he didn’t smile. “Exactly,” he said. “That’s why it matters.”

The rest of the day was a blur.

Plagg tried to explain the Miraculous. The history. The responsibility. The power.

You only half-listened—still staring at your hand, wondering how the world got bigger while you stayed so small. But by nightfall?

You stood in the mirror. Ring on your hand. Hoodie hanging loose. And whispered, “Claws out.”

The green light swallowed you. And when it faded? You weren’t just a kid anymore. You were something else.

Something fast. Something strong. Something hidden behind shadows and bell chimes and a smirk that barely hid the ache beneath it.

Cat Noir had been born.

But you—

you were still figuring out what that meant.

Morning light crept into your apartment like it was sneaking a peek, not quite brave enough to wake you up fully.

You sat up slowly. Shoulders sore from the fight with Metallik, mind heavier from the kid—Scion—and everything Cecil didn’t say.

Plagg hovered near the fridge, stuffing his face with aged gouda. “You know, for a guy who got tossed through two cars and punched in the kidneys by a living tank, you’re moving pretty well.”

You stretched, wincing. “Pain builds character.”

“Yeah? I’d like to return some of mine.”

By noon, you were back at the GDA facility.

Unmasked. Hood up. Ring hidden under a glove.

Cecil had left no instructions, just a one-line message on your encrypted line:

“Be here. 12 sharp.”

As usual, the building felt like something out of a clean future nightmare. Glass, steel, corridors that whispered secrets even when no one was talking. You passed guards. Scientists. Some of them glanced at you, then looked away like you were a loaded gun.

You were almost at the elevator to the upper debriefing levels when—

“Hey. Alley Cat.”

The voice was rough around the edges. Young, but carrying weight. You turned.

There she was.

Amanda. Monster Girl.

Her hair was pulled into a messy braid, tied with what looked like a sparkly pink hair tie that didn’t match anything else she was wearing. Green shirt, cargo pants. A scowl she’d probably been born with.

She crossed her arms. “You’re the new maybe-prodigy Cecil’s got whispering through back channels. Didn’t expect you to look like…”

She trailed off, giving you a slow once-over.

“…well, like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like a kid trying to cosplay ‘brooding.’”

You smirked. “Says the lady built like a Funko Pop who could crush me into drywall.”

Amanda didn’t laugh—but the corner of her mouth almost twitched.

She stepped closer, voice dropping just a notch.

“You good? After the Metallik thing?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’m breathing. That counts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

She looked at you a beat longer, her expression unreadable. “If you need someone who’s been through Cecil’s wringer and lived to complain about it… I’m around.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to say thanks, maybe something dumber—but then a door hissed open beside you both.

A cold GDA voice echoed: “The Director will see you now.”

Amanda gave you a nod, then turned to head down her own hallway “Good luck, Alley Cat,” she called over her shoulder.

“Try not to get used to the quiet.”

You stepped into Cecil’s office and the doors slid shut behind you with a metallic hiss.

And just like that—Playtime was over.

Cecil’s office was cold.

Not physically—though the sleek metal and black glass didn’t exactly scream warmth—but cold in that clinical, calculating way that said nothing in this room is an accident.

He was already waiting, leaning on his desk like he’d been there for hours, arms folded and scar lit by the thin beam of light coming from the holographic interface at his side.

“Cat Noir,” he said without looking up, his voice gruff, dry, and too calm for your liking.

You stepped inside, hands in your hoodie pockets. “You always this dramatic, or is it just for me?”

Cecil smirked faintly, then tapped something on the panel. A hologram sparked to life in the air between you—blue and flickering. A planet. Not Earth.

“Tell me what you know about the Coalition of Planets.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Not much. Intergalactic alliance. Tries to keep Viltrumites in check.”

“And failing,” he muttered. “Badly.”

He waved a hand and the hologram zoomed in on a specific system. Three planets. One dark and scorched, one bustling with city lights, and the third—green and gold, covered in jungle.

“That last one is called Velthar. One of our deep-space listening outposts picked up a garbled signal from a scout. It didn’t last long. But the few words we decrypted…” He tapped again.

The audio played, crackly and broken, but clear enough:

“Viltrumite… not alone… weapon—no, host—”

static.

“—black ring, green eyes—he’s here—”

Then nothing.

Your heart started hammering before you could even process why. Cecil turned toward you, his gaze sharp. “Sound familiar?”

“…You think that has something to do with me?”

“I think someone out there just described you.”

You stared at the image of Velthar. Dense. Alien. Untamed.

Cecil continued. “We’re sending a stealth probe to collect hard data. But the Coalition’s too bogged down in internal conflict to move quickly. So until then…” He looked at you.

You already knew what he was going to say.

“I want you ready to move.”

You raised a brow. “So what, you think there’s another ring out there?”

“I think there’s something older than the Miraculous system whispering through the cracks of space. And I think if there’s a link between you and whatever’s waiting on Velthar, we can’t afford to wait for it to come here.”

Silence fell for a beat. Then Cecil added, quieter, “And if it is another like you… you might be the only one who can stop them. Or talk to them.”

Your throat felt dry. “…When do I leave?”

Cecil smiled grimly. “You don’t. Not yet.”

He tapped the screen again, bringing up a different file.

“Before that, you’re heading into a joint training op. Earthside. Amanda will brief you. Some old-school Guardians, a few new recruits. I need to know how you really work with a team before I drop you into deep space.”

You sighed, half relief, half tension. “So a warm-up lap before the apocalypse. Cool.”

Cecil looked back at the star map. “That kid—Scion. Metallik. They weren’t random. Something’s shifting. You feel it too, don’t you?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.” And in your gut, something twisted. Like a storm on the edge of your senses. Something big was coming.

And your claws?

They might not be enough.

[mindblowingscience]

A quantum state of light has been successfully teleported through more than 30 kilometers (around 18 miles) of fiber optic cable amid a torrent of internet traffic – a feat of engineering once considered impossible. The impressive demonstration by researchers in the US may not help you beam to work to beat the morning traffic, or download your favourite cat videos faster. However, the ability to teleport quantum states through existing infrastructure represents a monumental step towards achieving a quantum-connected computing network, enhanced encryption, or powerful new methods of sensing.

Continue Reading.

[iidilio]

Day 20: "If fate made us enemies, then let fate burn."

— Big words from someone who’s supposed to be your enemy.

[ 🌸 ] writing this while thinking in Romeo and Juliet was interesting—

characters: Sylus

warnings: none, a kind of fluff & a soft—angst if you squint your eyes.

More? Here

…

..

.

Night had fallen like a shroud over Zone N109. The rain didn’t dare cross its skies, and the silence was a dense murmur between broken alleys, dying neon lights, and the echo of sirens in the distance.

It was a patrol. You couldn’t report it. You were outside the perimeter, alone—and he knew it.

“Did you really think you could come in here without me finding out?” The voice, smooth as poisoned velvet, echoed behind you.

You turned, fast. But not as fast as him.

His silhouette emerged from the shadows, elegant and deadly. Everything about Sylus was a contradiction: he dressed like he’d just stepped out of a gala, his dark jacket draped over broad shoulders—and his eyes… his eyes were pure war.

And yet, when they looked at you, they weren’t the same.

“Kitten…” he said, almost with a tenderness that had no business existing on such dangerous lips. “You again?”

You took a step back, hand over the communicator on your wrist.

“Take one more step and—”

“And you’ll arrest me?” he interrupted, his crooked smile gleaming in the dark. “All alone, in my territory? How brave… or how stupid.”

Your throat tightened for a second. Your heart beat loud and out of rhythm. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. Or—more accurately—you wanted to believe he wouldn’t. Because it was Sylus. The same one who had always slipped away without ever laying a finger on you the first times you tried to catch him. The one who left encrypted messages only you could decipher.

The one who called you “kitten” in that low tone as if that nickname was only for your ears to hear it. The same one who made you fall for him, slowly, with every encounter.

It wasn’t fair. You couldn’t be together. He couldn’t be yours, and you couldn’t be his.

And now you were cornered against an old brick wall, his body closer to yours than it should’ve been. He hadn’t touched you. He didn’t need to.

“I’m not here for the Association…” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. The communicator on your wrist was actually turned off. Your only lifeline—the only thing that might have kept him from doing anything, if he even would—was instantly exposed when his crimson eyes landed on the device.

Sylus narrowed his eyes, a glint of surprise and satisfaction flickering in them.

“Really?” His fingers brushed the wall beside you, creating an invisible cage around you. “Then tell me—why would you risk everything to come into the most dangerous part of this city… just for me?”

The silence grew thick. There was no answer that wouldn’t betray you.

And he knew it.

“See?” he whispered. “That’s why you drive me crazy. You’re the type who should shoot me without hesitation. But instead, you come here alone, with that stubborn look in your eyes, with that steady voice that only trembles when I’m near.”

His lips were a breath away from yours.

“It’s not fair,” you murmured, your voice breaking. “This can’t happen.”

His eyes softened. Just a little. A tiny crack in the facade of the feared leader of Onychinus. But you saw it.

“I know,” he replied, and for the first time, his voice dropped. “I shouldn’t look at you like this. I shouldn’t wish you’d give everything up… for someone like me.”

You swallowed hard. Your eyes burned.

“Then don’t look at me like that,” you whispered. “Don’t call me kitten if you don’t mean to do anything.”

And that was what broke him.

His hand came to your cheek, like the touch itself was a sin too tempting to resist. There was no pressure, just a warm, indulgent graze. Gentle. Opposite to everything he was.

“I can’t do that… I’m tired of pretending I don’t care about you. Because I’m not interested in playing cat and mouse if it means keeping you away from me.” He paused. Looked at you with a burning intensity. “If fate made us enemies…” he murmured, with a bitter smile, “then let fate burn.”

And he kissed you.

Not like a thief stealing what was forbidden.

But like a man who’d been dying of thirst before an oasis and finally dared to taste the water. Soft, deep, desperate without seeming like it. As if that kiss were a promise of war against everything the world expected from the two of you.

And you, against all odds, kissed him back.

Because the lines no longer mattered. The badges. The laws.

Only he mattered. And that whisper before fading into the shadows:

“We’ll see each other soon, kitten. And when that happens… the world won't be able to stop me from finally going for you.”

[simpingforheros]

Safe

Pairing: Gotham Knights! Jason Todd X Female! Reader

Summary: Being a mercenary isn’t easy. Being a lab experiment turned mercenary isn’t easy either. Being a Bio-engineered mercenary in Gotham city with a reformed Red Hood isn’t easy at all.

Warnings: Hurt Comfort, Angst with bittersweet ending, Enemies to Friends??, Female Pronouns, Mild Violence, Horrible Fight Scenes (I’m sorry), Reader is basically Black Cat but little different, implied OOC! Amanda Waller, Mentions of Death, Torture, PTSD, and Panic Attacks.

Author’s Note: I guess I’ll give y’all a break from my Toxic! Jason agenda. But I’m not giving y’all a break from calling y’all out on being slanderous to my underrated, unproblematic princess that is GK! Jason. He may not be as pretty as the other ones, but he got a better relationship with his family than y’all have with y’all’s daddies (jk I’m sorry). Also yes, the reader is Black Cat coded because I love her and I want to see Jason with a cool feline counterpart of his own.

+++++++++++++++++++

.

.

.

Fuck. FUCK!

Chanted through her mind as she realizes what the hell she has just done. This whole assignment was a set up from the moment that job listing hit her burner phone. Her clawed gloves raked through her hair as she desperately took in her situation.

Months after the death of Batman, criminals became bolder with their crimes despite the lurking remains of Batman’s legacy. New villains and mercenaries came in to either assist Gotham’s veteran rogues or building their own empires among the shadows of the bigger evil’s crimes. However, Y/N didn’t fall into either category.

Originally a lab rat for Amanda Waller to find a cure for her terminal cancer, the cat like mercenary became a quick popular option among gang leaders and the low life to hire to do quick jobs without minimum risk. Of course the cat like persona wasn’t due to her stealth…

A blast rings out of the previously locked door as the girl’s head snaps back. Her body collapses as the roar of victorious laughter fills the air.

“You see how that bitch’s head just snapped back like a twig?!” Victor Sionas laughed through his leather mask as his golden firearm flashed in the fluorescent light of the value.

It was supposed to be a quick heist, minimum risk on her end. Just grab a hard drive with 6.8 Billion dollars worth of stolen and encrypted medical documents and financial records and leave before Black Mask realized she was there. An easy heist for a fair reward.

Victor’s ranting and raving filled the safe in loud echos as his assistant tries to listen to her pager for their normal disposal team. As the crimson slowly sets into the concrete, a faint green glow began to form around her body. The harsh grit releases her life force as it recedes back into her skull.

Amanda Waller wasn’t normally a desperate woman, but when it came to her life, she didn’t care what criminal she had to deal with to get her life back. Even the League of Assassins…

As the pair was about to leave to attend a meeting of some kind, Y/N didn’t know or care to know as her ears ring back into tune. Her body jolts up as she springs back to life in an instant.

As her eyes meet Sionas’ shocked stare, her lips curled into a wicked smirk. Her E/C eyes shined with a new madness as she flexes her adamantium tipped claws, ready to rip out his throat.

Victor quickly raises his gun ready to shoot again as she swipes at his wrist. The appendage falling to the floor as his screams drowned out the echos of his false victories.

“I guess it was an easy job.” She comments before her claws strike again.

Maybe she should ask for a raise to make up for her dry cleaning?

+++++++++++++++

The crime scene was a bloodbath.

Police scrambled and crawled the building as lights and tape marked the massacre. Every surface, furniture, rug, and plant were all tagged, sprayed, and searched for any bodily matter that could lead you to the person behind this horrific crime.

Black Mask’s gang. A once prominent gang in Gotham city who survived fights between Batman and The Red Hood were all dead. Eviscerated. Slaughtered.

All of the dead were clinging onto weapons as either distinct claw marks either craved them to ribbons or they were killed by their own weapons. Whoever did it clearly attacked the ones who attacked first.

The only survivors were the ones who didn’t attempt to fight the assailant. Victor’s assistant was the only one that was harmed among them with a deep set of scratches on her face with a look of horror in her eyes.

A look Nightwing and Red Hood didn’t like to see even from a criminal.

“And you said you didn’t know why this happened?” Nightwing asks skeptical of the woman’s reliability.

The woman eagerly nods as she sputters out, “We caught her in the safe and Sionas wanted to teach her a lesson…we heard her reputation was only with stealing…not this…”

Jason growls as he grew inpatient with her stuttering, but he takes a deep breath. ‘Be Patient…’ He reminds himself before something made his ears perk up.

“It was like magic or something! Sionas shot her point blank in the head and she just came back to life in an instant!! That’s when she went crazy! We just wanted to get her back for stealing from our off shore accounts. We didn’t know that she was a…monster.”

Fuck.

+++++++++++++++++++

Fire. Fire is what it felt like. It crawls from the deepest part of her mind and spreads through her veins like a fever. Her vision tunneled in as memories of all her previous deaths haunting her brain surged forward as her body acted on instinct. Out of fear…

It took three days before the madness faded this time. That was probably the longest time she was trapped in that state since she escaped Waller. Those three days were a fog as she only remembered the splitting head ache from the gun shot and her costume covered in blood.

Once the new broke on a ‘maniac’ who killed the Black Mask’s gang, Y/N knew she couldn’t leave Gotham yet until the buzz died down. She already knew the Bat’s sidekicks were looking for her, so she used whatever cash she had left to hide out in a cheap motel room.

“Fuck….” She groans as her trembling hands dropped her cell phone. Her eyes tried to dart around the aisles of the gas station she was currently hunting for food in. The remaining madness caused her senses to be on high alert and her anxiety to be high.

If she was back home, she could hideout in her apartment with her cat for a month before finding another job listing, but she was trapped in Gotham in a ratty motel.

So venturing to the crummy gas station for some junk food and beer is the next best thing. At least the disinterested cashier doesn’t pay her any mind. 4am on a weekday with a case of beer probably made her just appear to be a normal tweaker.

(Y/N) adjusts her sunglasses and makes sure her silver hair was well hidden under her zip-up’s hood before she brings her items to the counter. The zit faced teen gives her a look over, not hiding the attention he gave to her exposed cleave from the tank top she had showing.

“Ma’am, we don’t allow sunglasses inside the store.” He creaks out. Her (E/C) roll as she takes her sun glasses off. The door chimes as someone enters the store, but her attention was focused on the cashier. When he finally scanned her beer, his cracking voice asks,

“Do you have ID, Ma’am?”

Her hands go to her sweatpants pocket and only feels the cash she brought. Her mental anguish grows as she sighs in annoyance. Her fake id was in motel, and she technically doesn’t exist so she never had a real id.

Deciding to turn up the charm, she smiles sweetly at the teenager as she says, “I’m sorry, but I left my id back at my place. I’m sure you can tell I’m old enough, right?”

Her cleavage seemed to not work its charm as the teen rudely says,

“I can tell you’re old by your hair lady. But I need ID.”

Her eyes widen as a faint glow of green shows as she snaps at him. “I’m not old! I’m 24, you little p-!”

She stops herself as she takes a deep breath as she feels the madness subsided. She really didn’t wanna kill a kid over some cheap beer.

“Fine…I had a bad day so just get me the snacks.” She admits in defeat as she pulls out a hundred bucks. Just as she was going to pay, a hand drops some beef jerky and a case of beer on the counter beside her items. A deep voice cuts the air and causes a shiver to crawl up her spine.

“Add her stuff and beer to my order.” A thick, veiny hand presents the cashier with his ID and a credit card as she turns her head to see who it was that saved her evening.

Before her was a man who stood well over 6 feet tall. His shoulders were as broad as an old oak tree with muscles strong enough to take one down. His face wasn’t particularly the normal standard for attractiveness, but the strong jaw and scar gave him a handsome roughness that made her stomach tighten. It didn’t help that his nearly buzzed hair gave him a military sense, but his eyes were what made her heart stop in her chest. The beautiful green eyes that glowed an unearthly hue that she was familiar with.

She sees it in her eyes everyday. The scar of the Lazarus pit.

(Y/N) almost forgot where she was before the cashier cleared his throat. Her focus returned back to the counter as she grabs her stuff. Before she could run off, something made her stop to wait for the man. Whether it was curiosity or stupidity, she didn’t know.

Maybe she wanted to see what his deal was? Was he with Waller? The League of Assassins? Can he tell she was from the pit too? How different were they? How many times did he die and come back?

The opportunity to speak with someone who may can relate to her outweighed her wariness from her situation. But it was curiosity that killed the cat, right?

As the man starts heading for the door, she follows as she says,

“Excuse me?”

His eyes meet hers as a small smile as he says,

“Hey, I’m sorry for stepping in over there. I understand when stuff isn’t going your way.”

A warmth takes over her face as she says shyly, “No, it’s fine I just wanted to thank you. That was really sweet of you…”

As the two walk out, the stranger's friendly demeanor drops a little as he mumbles into the empty night air.

"So, you're the one who killed Victor Sionas..."

Her breath releases as she hears the pin drop. Her eyes dart around the parking lot as she sees the only vehicle is a old school motorcycle. She doesn't have any weapons and she wasn't sure if how skilled he was or if he had gained powers just like her from the pit.

With a frown, (Y/N) gruffs out, "Yeah...what are you gonna let me enjoy my last beer before you turn me in?"

She looks up to the man as their eyes meet. His eyes studying her as she keeps a tight grip on her bag. Maybe if he charges at her, she can swing the bag to his head and throw him off...

"No." He answers simply as he heads towards his bike. Her eyes widen in disbelief as she sputters out.

"No? I just admitted to murder and you're letting me go??"

"Yep." He answers over his shoulder as he loads his things into the compartment under his seat. Irritation fills her being instead of the relief she should have felt. She stomps towards him as she fusses,

"What's your deal? You buy me a beer and casually ask me if I commit murder? And you're gonna just leave? Did the pit mess you up that bad??" She snaps at him as she stands face to face, face to chest with him. Her eyes glowed eerily as he was filled, and a familiar shiver went down his spine.

His hands clap onto her shoulders as he pulls her close to him. A wave of coldness filled her body as the eerie glow covered his hands. The familiar feeling of the Lazarus pit filled her as he leaned into a whisper.

"The only reason I'm not hauling your pretty ass to Arkham right now is because I understand that it wasn't you when you killed them, Kitty..." His eyes glowed momentarily as a sad look briefly flashed into those green pools. "A petty mercenary who had no history of mass murder on file doesn't just jump to it without warning. The Lazarus Pit fucks up people to their core, so trust me when I say that I understand better than anyone how you feel..."

'Understand? How can he understand?' Her mind unravels as she looks up at him in disbelief. Has he ever woke up afraid of what he might have done the night before? Worry about when someone would come and shoot him in the head or stab him just to see if he could come back without being submerged anymore? Did Waller use him to heal her at the expense of his own pain just to throw him away to fend for himself???

Rage flashes through her as she roughly pulls away from him. Her bag falls to the asphalt as glass shatters. Her eyes are wild as old memories filled her. "Don't you dare say you understand me? You don't know shit about what I had to go through?"

His eyebrows frown together as he grimaces. A look of recognition and guilt flashes before he says to her. "You're right. I don't know what you went through before you died, but I do understand how you're feeling. The anxiety, the rage, the blood lust...I wanna help you."

She laughs bitterly as she figures out something about him. He only died once and was brought back. The skunk stripe in his hair should have given it away when she realized he was similar to her.

"Which time?" (Y/N) asked as she turned around and walked away. "I've died plenty of times to know that you will never understand..."

And she leaves the man alone in the parking lot as she storms off to her motel, not caring if he sees where she went or not. Her heart was beating out of control as she felt the wavering thoughts of going back to him and either hitting him or hugging him.

‘Maybe I need to rest some more….’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Silence filled the museum as the dust bunnies and art laid undisturbed during their rest from the public eye. Her footsteps were a minimum as she walked through the shadowy parts of the building, trying to find what she was sent to retrieve.

After another week of hiding out, a job was directly pinged for her on the job board. Her eyes squinted at it at first because the offer was a little bogus to her.

‘Steal a painting, retrieve the hard drive inside, and bring it to the disclosed location in exchange for 2 Million dollars in unmarked bills.’

2 Million for a petty thief job that would have more suited Catwoman instead her seemed pretty unusual. But, at this point, her phyiscal cash funds were running low and she still was afraid of using her offshore accounts now that she knows that some zombie like her knew who she was.

Her masked eyes scanned the building’s plaza until she found what she was looking for. A large flowery portrait hanging just beyond the fountain. Her head tilts as she looks at it from afar.

‘Pretty… I wonder if I can find a print of it to buy to hang in my living room…’ Her steps remaining slow and cautious until she reaches the fountain. She looks under where the painting hung, trying not to get too close to it. There was no tag or podium that held the artist’s name or any indication that it was an actual art piece. It was most likely some print from a furniture store catalog or Etsy.

Her eyes rolled as she realizes that the listing was another trap. Obviously from someone who didn’t know shit about art or how to buy mercenaries on the black market.

As if on que, her ears buzzed as she heard the pure instinct take over as she whips around. Her hand immediately stops the staff about to hit her in the face as she elbows the smaller opponent in the stomach before slamming her fist in his cheek to knock him back. The guy gets thrown back a couple of feet as he gasped for the air she punches outta him.

She looks to the guy as she twirls his staff absent mindedly in her hand. His costume and smaller physique gave it away as to who he was. She remembers seeing a tv show story about him the previous night on the news. The boy wonder, Robin. At least the third version of him.

“Hey, tweety bird. You good?” She asked in a nonchalant tone. Her eyes unamused as she watches the kid cough up a lung as he looked up at her in shock that she wasn’t attacking him like he expected her to.

“You know, it’s dangerous to be on job listing boards like that.” She scolds him lightly as she walks around him and grabs his arm, gently helping him up and sitting him by the fountain. “There’s actual killers on that board who would have happily tried cutting you up for pulling a shitty fake job like this.”

The sidekick glares at her as he was already confused as he just witness the girl he was sure killed an entire gang just casually scold him. “Like how you did with Black Mask?”

Her eyes flashed with guilt before the nonchalant personality appeared again as she focused on throwing the staff up to make it spin. “It was self defense. He and his gang had it coming for all the child drug peddling and the lives he ruined.”

A heavier drop down of three other figures caught her attention as she looks around. Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Hood were surrounding the fountain, blocking her in. Her anxiety rising as she hides it with a now playful smile.

“Damn, didn’t realize little old me warranted for the whole family to come get me.” She says playfully. “Don’t worry I promise to be out of y’all’s city soon.”

“You still have to pay for your crimes.” Batgirl says as she steps forwards slightly. The feline mercenary tilts her head as she looks at them with now false concern.

“Me? A defenseless street cat?” She asked before laughing. “You can certainly try.”

Nightwing steps closer as her shoulders square up. Her defensive stance rising as she observes him. Way too lean to be the guy she met, and she can tell his face was more pretty boy looking.

“We wanna help you… but you still have to pay for what you’ve done even if you didn’t mean to.” He says softly.

‘So they know…that just means they are gonna be more defensive instead of offensive. They can’t risk killing me when they know I could rampage again.’ Her eyes shine as she laughs coldly at him.

“Oh, you wanna help me rot in prison?” She says as she finally looks at the Red Hood.

Right build, right height, and she’s sure if she can knock that helmet off, right face. That’s the man she met a week ago that affected her so badly. She knew she couldn’t let him get a good grab on her or she maybe toast.

She turns her now glowing eyes back to Nightwing as she smirks. “I think you would be better off letting me leave or else you can see what I actually do when I mean it.” She bluffs.

Movement nearly catches her off guard as Robin tries to rush her again. The staff in her hand flies into his face as she tries to move as Batgirl flies kicks her in the face. Her ears ring as the warm feeling of blood starts to run out of her nose. The cat catches the bat’s fist before she whips her in the face with another punch. She used the disorienting blow to slide under her legs and give a good kick to her knee. The distinctive pop and her cry lets her know she did dislocate the bone.

She remains in her crouched up position, ready to pounce. She can feel their eyes observing as her broken nose begins to heal as it disgustingly pops back into place as the blood retreats back to its original place like it was on rewind. Her wild eyes looks to them and makes notes of their stances.

Nightwing was ready to pounce on her. He stared at her like she was the wild animal that he knew she was. It was a look she was used to.

The Red Hood wasn’t even in an offensive or defensive position. He stood with his back straight as he watches her. Damn his stupid helmet from seeing his eyes, she wanted to know what he was thinking about. Was he bluffing too or was he trying to get a good feel on how to catch her.

Before Nightwing can start advancing on her, Red stops him with a step forward and raises hand. Nightwing looks confused as he asked him.

“What are you doing?” He seethes to him. “We gotta take her down, she already hurt Robin and Batgirl.”

“Out of self defense.” The Red Hood clarifies before chuckling. His modulated voice making the feline theft frown. “If she was dangerous like you think, she could have sliced Robin’s throat with those claws of hers when he first attacked. You guys were attacking first and she responded with non lethal force.”

Her eyes glared at the man as she stands up, slightly agitated. “So? Maybe I just don’t wanna kill a kid?”

Red tilts his head as he turns his attention to her. “Calm down, Kitty….if you surrender, I promise I won’t let them send you off to the pound.”

Nightwing looks at Red in horror as he basically promised to protect a wanted criminal. He didn’t seem to concerned by it. He even surprises his team by removing his helmet as he looks to the one they were chasing.

“I found your file on Amanda Waller’s network. Took me three days, but I know what she did to you, (Y/N).” The man she knew from the gas station.

The images of all the torture she endured flashed through her mind all at once as she remembers all Waller put her through for the sake of her cure.

Multiple executions to test the powers of the pit. Torture and savage punishments for the slightest disobedience. The nightmares and madness that fueled so many panic attacks. The feeling of her organs stolen to be put in that evil woman so she can use her healing factor to win against cancer while she spent days slowly dying and coming back to life over and over until her new organs regenerated back into her.

“Why?!” She snaps at him as rage filled her again. Her confusion over his insistence to help her made her so angry. Why would he wanna help her? Just because they were both dunked in a pool of Ra’s bath water?

“You’re the feared Red Hood! You’ve done worst shit than I’ve ever done and you are trying to act as my savior?!” She yells at him as she stomps towards him.

Nightwing tries to step between them, but Red keeps him away as she finally stood before him. Her hand rips off her goggles, revealing her face to him as she pokes into his chest. Her own chest tightening as her body shook. Her breath was tight as angry tears rolled down her face.

“Answer me, dammit! Why do you think you can save me?!”

“I don’t think I can save you.” He answers honestly. “I wanna help you save yourself…”

A look of grief passes over his eyes as he looks at the shorter woman. A memory of someone she didn’t know making his resolve strengthen.

“I was trapped in a state of anger for so long that I pushed everyone away that was trying to help me…it wasn’t until I lost the one person that tried to save me that I realized how much it meant to have someone just hold a hand out for me…” He says as he grips her shoulders. The expected coldness didn’t meet her. She felt him. The warmth seeping through his gloves into her suit. It felt…comforting….nice.

Her vision began tunneling as she felt her chest hyperventilating as she cries. His gentle words finally breaking her as he mumbles to her. “Let me help you fight the madness so you won’t be alone anymore…”

Her knees buckling as a sob broke through her. The warmth of his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into his chest made her cries so gut wrenching. Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing watch in shock as they watched Jason, not only be the most gentle he’s ever been with someone, but see a stray tear fall from him eye.

As the two remained tied together as an unspoken bond was formed. A bond between two lost souls forcibly brought back into this world now feeling safe in each other’s warmth.

+++++++++++++++++++

Author’s Note: I’m gonna make a part 2 to this one because I actually like it. Let me know if you like this, if you hate it, or whatever. I’m trying to clear out my drafts so expect more Jason and other characters coming out either this week or next week.

++++++++++++++++++++

@simpingforheros fanfic. I DO NOT CONDONE THE COPYING, STEALING, OR REPOSTING OF MY FANFICS ON OTHER WEBSITES WITHOUT MY CONSENT.