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rambling-at-midnight · 6 months ago

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Guide Me Home

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: While walking downtown, you inhale fear toxin. It's up to the Bats to find you before your heart gives out.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Scarecrow attack, (kind of) graphic hallucinations (only a small allude to blood though)

Fun fact: As I wrote this, 'quiet' started to not look like a word anymore.

You rub at your eye, muttering below your breath. Wind has been whipping through the Gotham streets all day, drying out your contacts to the point of discomfort.

The next time you blink, one flips up. Cursing, you cup a hand over the affected eye and blink until the stupid contact rights itself. Digging around your purse, you find your suspicions to be true: after the last time you needed to use your emergency backup contacts, you forgot to replace them. The small bottle of contact solution is missing, lost to the abyss of the purse or somewhere else. All you know is that it’s not here.

The only alternative is your glasses, and those are always a last resort. With an outdated prescription, uncomfortably heavy bridge, and scratched lenses, they’re far from ideal.

It’s fine. You’ll splash some water on your face when you get to the cafe and blink a lot. They’re fine.

Your friend is already sitting by the time you get there, but hasn’t ordered their drink yet. You haven’t seen them for several months, though you used to see each other every day during undergrad. They’re only here for a work conference. They live in Metropolis now, and are wearing an ‘I SURVIVED MY VISIT TO METROPOLIS’ shirt to show it. A couple Gothamites around them are actively laughing into their hands at the sight of it. After all, compared to this city, really nothing is worse.

After the usual greeting, hug, and exclamations over how long it’s been, you say, “Sorry, but my contact’s actually killing me right now. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll watch your stuff,” they say cheerfully.

The bathroom’s about as good as someone could hope for in Gotham. The remains of scrubbed-away graffiti lingers on the wall around the mirror, and a paper towel with a suspicious red stain hangs over the edge of the trash can. Not quite the vibe this place is going for, judging by the painted ivy around the walls and the hanging plants, but oh well.

You blink, squeeze your eyes shut, rub them, and open them again. Much better.

There’s a drink in front of your friend by the time you make it back to the table they found, pushed in the back corner where things are a little quieter. “They have seasonal syrups,” they say, sipping the drink. “Though a lot of them are named after supervillains.”

You scoff and shrug off your coat. “Please. Clayface is hardly a supervillain. He’s just a washed-up actor.”

“That must be nice,” your friend says wistfully. “Did I tell you I had to replace my car last month?”

“No!”

“Yeah! Some alien dictator had beef with Superman. A lot of cars were thrown in that fight.”

“Ugh,” you say wistfully. “We had some good memories in that car.” They’d had it since undergrad.

“Gone but never forgotten,” they say, holding their cup up for cheers, and you both remember that you haven’t ordered anything yet.

Even though you’re on a bit of a caffeine ban—boyfriend’s orders—you order a coffee. One a day won’t hurt you, not when you were averaging at least four during the recent busy season. The pathology lab you work at always has a huge rush of biopsies ordered between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Now that it’s a little into January, you’re not scrambling quite so much.

With your drink in hand, you head back to the table to keep catching up. Your friend started a new job with a much better boss than their old one. They’re thinking about proposing to their partner of five years. Their dog got into their family’s big holiday meal and they had to order last-minute Chinese takeout instead. And they can’t decide whether to cut their hair or keep growing it out.

Then it’s your turn. You’re four years into your job at the lab, kind of feeling like you want a change, but the generous Christmas bonus is making you think twice. Your apartment is okay but not nice. Your cat is healthy and happy and extremely spoiled. Your family lives across the country, all with separate plans, so you stayed in Gotham for the (surprisingly uneventful) winter.

“What did you do for the holidays, then?” your friend asks, their drink long since finished. Judging by their eyes drifting back to the counter as you speak, they want another.

“My boyfriend’s family celebrates Hanukkah and Christmas,” you say. “Nothing too fancy, of course, none of us are terribly religious. But it was nice to see each other on a regular basis for a week straight.” Jason would disagree, but only out of principle. “We’re all busy people.”

“And your boyfriend? Jason, right? How is he? What does he do for work, again?”

Here comes the hard part. No matter what happens in your personal life, you can’t talk to anyone about it unless they’re in the know. Keeping Gotham safe requires a fairly large system; you and several other scientists or similar professionals are able to contact the Bats through Leslie Thompkins, Lucius Fox, and Commissioner Gordon, but of that number, only a fraction know their identities.

Working overtime at the lab as a new hire, you were the only one Leslie could reach at midnight when Black Bat came in contact with a mysterious substance through an open wound. From midnight to eight a.m., you collected blood and skin samples with hands that shook under the scrutiny of Batman’s white-lensed gaze. Your treatment was a gamble but a success, and after that, the Bats started to come to you more and more. So many of their rogues use biowarfare, after all. Still, it took over a year for Black Bat and Spoiler to take off their masks around you. At that point, you’d only seen Red Hood once, when he brought Robin in and ordered you to never tell Batman that he’d done so. Months after that, he took off his helmet around you, but only because of a nasty cut on his neck, and the domino mask beneath it stayed on. You’d known each other for a year and a half before he spoke more than five curt words to you at a time. Analyzing a new street drug was the first time you two ever worked together, and it was fun. After that, he just kept coming back.

It took so long to gain their trust, and you won’t risk it. But there are so many secrets. How can you explain to anyone else that not only is your boyfriend related to Bruce Wayne—yes, the Bruce Wayne of Gotham, billionaire, CEO, activist, and philanthropist—but he is, in fact, the man’s very publicly dead son?

So you can tell people about your boyfriend named Jason. You can’t introduce him to anyone from outside Gotham; the jagged scar on his cheek and glowing green eyes tend to raise more questions than answers. You can mention that he has a large family. You can’t tell them who his family is. You can tell them that Jason works flexible hours, usually at night, so the two of you see each other often despite your busy schedules. You can’t tell them what Jason actually does for work.

“He runs a not-for-profit community service organization,” you lie, the words familiar and tasteless from how often you’ve had to say them. And he sort of does, but with a lot more violence and criminal cavorting than most other not-for-profits. “He’s really passionate about helping Gotham’s kids that come from low-income households.” The foster system reform laws passed last year were lobbied by Wayne Enterprises, but it was the Red Hood showing up in politician’s houses in the dead of night that really sped up the process.

“I talked to Avery the other day,” your friend says. “They’re convinced you’re making him up.”

You sigh. Avery is another friend from college. You two were in the same friend group for years, but were never particularly close outside of it. “We don’t like to take pictures together, okay?”

Your friend eyes you with a faint air of dissatisfaction. “Well, if you say so. I was actually hoping to meet him while I’m here.”

You try not to let it show how your heart leaps into your throat at the thought. Around the lump, you say, “I’m sure he’d love to, but he’ll be stuck all day at the office.” Lie. He’s at home right now, baking muffins and wearing an apron with the words ‘Kiss the Cook.’ Damian and Tim scribbled over the two ‘S’s with Sharpie to make it ‘KiLL the Cook,’ but the sentiment is still there.

“Right,” they say slowly.

The meetup doesn’t last long after that. At the end of it, you hug and promise to meet up more often, even though it’s unlikely. With a wave, they head off for their conference, and you’re almost out the door when you blink wrong and—

Half the world goes blurry.

You feel the contact fall down your cheek and onto the ground.

“Goddamnit,” you hiss under your breath.

Glasses it is.

You’ve been wearing contacts for so long that you can take out the other one without breaking stride. The wind hasn’t let up in the slightest, and it makes your nose run.

Sniffling slightly, shoulders hunched against the chill, you don’t see the pumpkin until it’s too late.

They’re after you.

It’s not safe, not for you, not for anyone, they want you, they’re grabbing you, hands on your shoulder, people screaming—screaming at you—for you to stop—no—for—for something to stop?

Something is wrong. Dimly, in the back of your mind, you know something is wrong, but your hands are shaking and your bag is ripping, someone is clawing at you, screaming, desperate, they want you to fall back so they’re safe (from what?) and someone else shoves you and you go spinning out, bag in one direction and you in the other and—

They’re changing, the person clawing at you, turning into a monster, and you scream.

They’re after you

(who is after you)

They want to hurt you

(why)

(what is going on)

And you can’t see, something is wrong, you hear glass crunch and then the whole world goes out of focus.

You can’t see.

They’ll get you if you can’t see, and now you can see them, the dark shapes rising from the shadows, claws out and maws gaping, hungry, hungry, hungry for you and your marrow and your heart and they’re going to get you—

You run.

You trip over something (or someone; something like a bone crunches) and your heel slides and your hands catch you but not really, chin clipping the ground so hard your teeth click, and your hands burn, and your chin aches, but they’re still behind you, behind and getting closer—

You run.

You run and they get closer and you see the corner of something dark and blurry, and maybe it’s another monster or maybe it’s a building, and you skid to a stop and throw yourself behind it.

It’s not a monster. It smells awful—a dumpster—and the ground is wet, you hope from rain, but maybe it’s blood

(you’re sitting in a pool of it)

(you’ll be covered)

(the monsters will smell the blood and come running and they’ll hear you shuffling, they’ll hear you panting, they’ll hear your heart pounding, pounding, pounding—)

You scramble to the farthest corner between the brick building’s corner and the dumpster—maybe their clawed arms will be too short to reach you—and hide your face in your hands—you need to stop breathing so loudly—you need to be quiet, quiet, quiet—

People continue to scream. The city, the city Jason and his family try so hard to protect, everyone is dying and you’re going to die and maybe they’ll die, too, or maybe they’ll survive, and maybe they’ll find your dead body and that would ruin Jason, or maybe they won’t and you’ll rot behind the dumpster, smelling just as bad as the trash inside it—

Quiet quiet quiet.

You can’t stop shaking, your teeth won’t stop rattling, and you have to be quiet quiet quiet.

But your heart keeps pounding, faster and faster. It hasn’t slowed down since the monsters came, it’s only getting louder and faster.

Dimly you think you might be having a heart attack.

Everything gets a thousand times worse when one of the monsters shouts your name.

How do they know your name?

Footsteps on the pavement and people have stopped screaming.

Dead, you think. And you’ll be next if you’re not quiet quiet quiet.

The monster shouts your name again. It’s louder—they’re closer. You curl into a tighter ball. They can’t find you.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Your chest hurts; your heart wants to jump out of it.

Jason, you think wildly. Jason will save you. If Jason finds you, he’ll keep you safe. Your hands fish at your side, but find empty air: your purse is gone. There’s no way to reach him, and he can’t even track your location through your phone.

The monster shouts your name again. It has a deep voice.

Another voice joins it, deeper, pitched lower. You can’t quite make out the words.

“They’re around here,” the first monster insists. “B, we don’t have long, this strain is strong—”

“They’re strong,” says the second monster. “Their heart can handle it.”

Something thumps and a third monster says, “Everyone else is clear. Signal had to take two people to the hospital, but they’ll be fine, don’t look so upset, B.”

“You have the antitoxin?” the first monster demands.

“Relax, Hood,” drawls the third monster. “‘Course I do. So you tracked them here?”

“Yeah, I just—” Again it shouts your name. It sounds almost upset. “Please, it’s me, I can help you. Come on. You’re safe. You inhaled fear toxin, I know you’re terrified, but it’s me. You know me.”

It’s trying to lure you in. You won’t fall for it.

You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath. Let them move on. Let them search somewhere—

“There you are.”

A hulking figure is blocking the light.

The monsters found you.

“Stop it!” you yell, trying to sound brave. “Leave me alone or—or you’ll regret it!”

“Please,” it wheedles, “I’m just trying to help you. Don’t you recognize me?” It reaches out with clawed hands and you kick frantically, but there’s nowhere else for you to go.

“Hey, aren’t these their glasses?” asks the third monster. “What happened to their contacts?”

“Don’t come any closer! The Red Hood will get you, I know him, if you hurt me he’ll kill you! Stop it!”

“I’m really sorry about this, honey,” the monster says, and its clawed hand latches around your ankle and you howl. The sharp points dig deep through skin into muscle and sinew, and it hurts and you’re going to die—

“Jason!” you shriek. “Jason, help me!”

“I’m right here,” the monster lies. “Please, I’m right here, look at me—”

You won’t. You won’t do it. You can’t watch while it kills you. “Jason, please!” you bawl again, but it’s too late. The monsters have you, you’re surrounded, he’ll never forgive himself but what could he even do against them—

Sharp teeth dig into your neck.

You’re dead.

“There we go, darling,” the monster says. Strong arms wrap around you—it wants to crush you to death—and you struggle, but there’s no use.

Except—

You can hear now, kind of, the rush of blood in your ears is receding a bit, and something heavy lands on your nose. This time, when you blink your eyes open, the world’s edges have sharpened. And the monster in front of you—

Well, you recognize the dark hair with a shock of white, and the brilliantly green eyes would be visible if not for the white-lensed domino mask, and the jagged scar on his cheek.

“Jay?” you murmur, hand coming up to touch it. He doesn’t flinch away. It took so long for him to stop flinching when you touch his face. Over his shoulder, you see Batman and Spoiler watching with satisfaction and slight worry. “What happened?”

“Scarecrow,” he says grimly. “He gassed the street, but only about twenty people were affected. I was patrolling nearby, and when I saw your purse on the ground—” He grimaces, then fixes you with a hard look. His two hands can span most of your head, and he takes it to press a firm kiss to your forehead. When he pulls back slightly, without looking away, “I want their heart checked.”

“The antitoxin—” Batman starts.

“I don’t care,” Jason snarls.

Your hands loosely hold his forearms, still shaking a little. “How’d you find me?”

“I tracked you,” he says softly.

“But my phone—”

“Honey,” he says gently, “of course that’s not the only one.”

Well. You should have guessed that, honestly.

“I’ll go check on the victims,” Batman says suddenly. “Come on, Spoiler.”

“Glad to see you’re okay,” Spoiler says to you, then dashes after Batman. In a whirl of capes, they’re gone.

“I’m so sorry,” Jason says in a rush.

“Jay—”

“I should have protected you,” he grits out, white lenses turning to slits as he squeezes his eyes shut. “This should never have happened—”

“You couldn’t have known,” you say softly, letting go of his arms and wiggling beneath them to wrap yours around his torso. Your nose wedges against his chest kind of uncomfortably, but now you can smell him, the familiar gunpowder and a little bit of sour sweat, and the faint tremble in his bones that mirrors the one in your hands. He clutches you close, head buried in the crook of your neck.

He croaks, “I’m so sorry, so sorry, so—”

“You saved me,” you mumble into his armor. “I knew you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Jay.” You pull back to look at him seriously. “Even when I couldn’t think straight, I knew you would come. I’ll always know that, no matter what toxin’s messing with my head.”

Judging by the twist of his mouth, he doesn’t quite believe that. He’ll beat himself up internally for days, you know.

But you also know that while Bruce runs his tests in the Cave to make sure there’s no more toxin in your system, he’ll hold your hand the whole time. You know he’ll hold you tight in the bed you share tonight. You know, as long as Jason lives and breathes, he’ll always protect you.

“I love you,” he says thickly. “So much.”

“I love you too.”

“Let’s get you checked out.” He helps you up and holds you close and you know that you’ll be okay.

Jason’s here, so you’ll be okay.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe

Let me know if there's anything you want to see from me. Inspiration strikes at odd intervals, and I get lonely.

#reader insert #jason todd #jason todd fic #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #dc insert

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ebodebo · 9 days ago

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SUPERSTAR!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ PAIR: dick grayson x fem!popstar reader

ˋ°•*⁀➷ WC: 1.9k+

ˋ°•*⁀➷ CONTAINS: fem!reader, angst, some fluff, dick being hurt, jealous dick, mentions of blood & cuts, & purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ AUTHOR'S NOTE: hey... tbh this was the fastest thing i've written in a while, so, go me lmao also, if enough people want, i would totally be down to do a part two. also, also, shoutout to @delusionsofgrandeur13 for chatting with me about this concept and screaming with me hehe hopefully you all enjoy this!

Dick won't give up his crime fighting ways...

The gray clouds hung heavily over Gotham, dark and ominous, as rain poured down and thunder rumbled across the city, leaving behind a haze of humid dew.

In the blink of an eye, the previous sunny day had turned cold and rainy.

You are perched on your couch in your apartment, a soft blanket wrapped around you, providing warmth against the chill outside.

From your sofa, you glance out the window at the people scurrying beneath awnings and huddling in doorways, their jackets pulled tightly against the sudden cold.

The streets, usually alive with the sounds of conversations and city life, felt muted, the typical hustle and bustle subdued by the relentless downpour.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, its piercing sound cutting through the comforting ambiance—a grim reminder that trouble often lurked in the shadows of the city, even on the coziest of days.

You find yourself sinking into the couch, fully immersed in the movie you had popped on. Your eyes threaten to shut close as your head lulls back and forth softly.

Pulling the blanket tighter against you, you inhale a deep breath, leaning against the back of the couch, already lightly snoring before you hear it.

Just as you start to relax, a sudden thud from your fire escape outside jolts you back to full alertness. Your head whips around, your lips pressed together in a tense line as you strain to catch any further sounds.

When none come, you force yourself to settle back on the sofa, trying to push the unsettling noise out of your mind.

You close your eyes yet again, drifting off as soon as you lay your head back down. Your soft snores fill the room until you hear another noise, making you spring awake, your heart pounding in your chest.

You stand, agitated, ready for whatever comes next.

Tap.

The series of taps continues, with only a few seconds separating each one. You walk over to the window, reaching for a knife that you've left on the counter for slicing fruit.

Gripping it tightly, you round the corner of the island and stretch your neck to look outside, only to find your boyfriend lying on the cold, wet metal of the fire escape.

In a rush, you toss the knife into the sink; speed walk to the window, unlock it, and pull it open quickly. "Dick?" you call out, your eyes scanning the fresh cuts on his face, which are smeared with blood.

He lifts his head slightly, a lopsided grin appearing on his face. "Hey, baby," he replies hoarsely before dropping his head back down.

"Shit," you say roughly, quickly gripping him tightly and helping him through the window into the warmth of your apartment. You manage to get him inside and gently set him down on the vinyl floor.

"Did I wake you?" he rasps, wincing as he sits up.

"You always do," you reply, watching him reach for the first aid kit under the sink. "What the hell happened?" Your voice carries a hint of irritation.

"Ah, you know," he prompts, as if the answer were obvious. "Work."

You roll your eyes and let out a deep sigh as you carry the kit over to where he sits hunched over. "What happened this time? A knife fight? A toxin blast?" you ask, sounding tired as you soak some gauze in saline solution.

He gives a dry laugh. "It's nothing you need to worry about."

"Mhm," you respond, swiping the gauze across his cheek and making him wince slightly.

His eyebrows furrow in thought. "I know you're upset," he shrugs.

You nod in agreement while continuing to tend to his cut.

"Bruce needed me. Jason was being a hard-ass, and Tim was in Queens," he continued, his wide eyes focused on you as you tended to him. "I was the only one left."

"Okay," you nodded, applying a band-aid to his clean skin.

He let out a shallow breath, sagging his shoulders. "Gotham… she needed me."

"I need you," you said, your voice louder than intended as you tossed the used gauze on the ground, locking your eyes with Dick's surprised gaze. "And I don't mean Nightwing. I mean Dick Grayson—the real you. The only you I want." You tilted your head back, shaking it slightly.

His mouth hangs open. "I'm here now, sweetheart."

You shake your head, holding back a sniffle. "No. I want you to be here always, at least in the ways you can control. I want you to stay alive, Dick," you say, your love for him evident in every word.

"Baby, I'm okay. You fixed me," his voice begins to fill with desperation.

You huff, biting your tongue. "Gotham always takes you from me and spits you back up at my doorstep, bloodied and bruised," you start, glancing at his cheek. "What if next time you bleed out? What if you get too comfortable and slip up?" you continue, reaching to slide his suit off his shoulders to tend to his side. "What if you don't make it home next time?" Tears well in your eyes as you carefully sanitize the wound.

He doesn't even flinch at the sting, unable to comprehend what he's hearing. "I love you."

"You love Gotham more," you murmur, your voice tinged with a hint of hope as you patch up his wound. "I gave you an ultimatum, me or Gotham," you remind him, tears rolling down your cheeks. "And you chose, so I shouldn't be sad. But I had hoped…" Your eyes, brimming with tears, meet his, and his heart feels the weight of your unspoken words. "You would choose me."

His stomach drops at the sight of you, but he can't help feeling a surge of irritation. "Is this about someone else?" he almost spits, confused by this sudden wave of emotion.

Your eyes widen in surprise as you pull away from him. "What are you talking about?"

He licks his lips, his expression flat as he hesitates for a moment. Then he sniffs and reaches for his phone, wincing as he swipes it open. Turning the phone toward you, he shows you a tabloid from Gotham Times with an image of you at one of Gotham's high-end restaurants accompanied by an article that reads:

"Gotham's Elite in the Spotlight: Sources report that the acclaimed pop singer, a prominent figure in Gotham's social scene, has ended her relationship with Gotham's own Dick Grayson.

This news comes after she was spotted enjoying brunch at the upscale Tavern on the Green with up-and-coming actor Luke Fox, the son of Lucius Fox, a close friend of billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne and CEO of Wayne Enterprises."

You had grown accustomed to the constant scrutiny and speculation surrounding you, with keen eyes evaluating your every move, criticizing and amplifying every action.

What caught you off guard was Dick actually taking the tabloids seriously, let alone believing in their hypocrisies.

"Do you really think I would cheat on you?" you asked, looking up at him, your voice cracking with disbelief and hurt.

His narrowed eyes softened as he realized how ridiculous and unfair he was being. "I don't… I don't know why I said that," he admitted, turning his phone to look at its screen. "I…" he started, glancing back at your now tense expression.

"I was never with him, Dick. We had just met for brunch, which his publicist arranged, and the article failed to mention the other three people at the table. His agent thought it would be good for him to expand his horizons. Not that it matters, but we only talked about superficial shit," you sighed, clearly frustrated.

"Superficial shit?" he echoed your words.

"Yes!" you affirmed roughly, your anger simmering beneath the surface. "I thought you didn't give a shit about these tabloids!"

"I don't!" he insists, trying to convince you. "I just��" he trails off, shaking his head as he searches for the right words. "Sometimes they get to me," he admits, looking at you with pure honesty in his eyes. "I hate it, but… it's true." He takes a sharp breath.

You can't help but find his honesty refreshing. "I understand, Dick, but this is my life," you mumble. "There will always be some ridiculous article trying to portray me as some sleaze," you continue, shaking your head. "That's just how it is."

He nods in agreement, his disappointment evident. "Yeah, I guess it is," he says, the tension in the air thick.

You sink onto the cool floor, finding it grounding. Your mind briefly wanders as you stare at it, lost in thought.

"Can we just have one more night?" Dick mumbles, his bright blue eyes now a soft gray.

You look up at him. "Dick…"

"Just… please?" he pleads, his voice sincere. "One more night of normal? Then, I promise I'll let you do your pop-star thing and tour the world," he adds a hint of humor in his tone that makes you laugh.

"I'm not even on a world tour," you correct him, wiping a stray tear from your cheek as you chuckle.

"You will be," he assures you with his signature smile. "And I'll be cheering you on."

You sniffle, biting your lip. "You're a good guy, Dick."

"Would that opinion change if I kissed you?" he teases with a lopsided grin.

You let out a laugh before leaning in closer, pressing a kiss to his lips; the warmth of his touch spreads down your spine, sending shivers down your skin.

You pull away only slightly. "We should get some sleep."

"Not yet," he peers into your eyes, lips brushing against yours. "Let me soak you in."

The next morning, Dick wakes up before dawn breaks. He looks down and sees his arms wrapped around your waist as you snuggle into his chest. He smiles, but beneath that smile, a pang of disappointment lingers.

The night has long since ended, as has the normalcy he had come to rely on.

Thinking it would be easier for you, he decides to leave before you wake up. He gently eases his arms from around your waist and slips out of bed.

He tiptoes across the floor, careful not to wake you, and places a soft kiss on your forehead before putting on a spare white shirt he keeps in his drawer. He leaves the extra shirts behind for you.

He also leaves behind several of his sweatshirts and hoodies in your closet, just in case you get cold.

Stepping out quietly, he walks home through the cold Gotham air, the slight dew hanging heavy over the city, leaving him with a bittersweet feeling in his heart.

When he arrives at the Batcave, he finds Tim and Jason huddled around the Batcomputer. They both turn their heads to look at him as they hear his footsteps approaching.

Tim shakes his head, gesturing toward the computer. "Well, if it isn't Gotham's own charming socialite in the flesh, the Dick Grayson," he teases, nudging Jason, who laughs in response.

Dick lets out an irritated sigh and moves closer to see what's on the screen. There, a news article is blown up, and its headline reads:

"Gotham's hero, Nightwing, was seen sneaking into the pop star's apartment just days after her split with charming socialite and Wayne Enterprises executive Dick Grayson, amidst rumors of a blossoming relationship with actor Luke Fox, son of wealthy Wayne Enterprises CEO Lucius Fox."

Dick snapped his attention to the amused Tim and a serious Jason. "Don't worry about that," Dick muttered. "It won't be an issue anymore."

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: how are we feeling? feigning for more?

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prof-peach · 1 month ago

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Afternoon Professor. I don't suppose you know whether its possible for a bulbasaur's bulb to get - I don't know, too fat or something?

My buddy's been acting like his bulb is hurting his back recently. The local pokemon center won't look at it because they say he's too young to have any problems, which really doesn't even tell me what they think he's too young to have.

Mm. Smaller pokemon centres are occasionally too dismissive.

Yes, in short, a bulbasaurs bulb can become too much for it, can be a genetic trait, can be an environmental factor, but also things like joint issues and spinal disfigurations can also come into play.

A heavy bulb (if it is that) can be fixed with what is basically a dividing process, which will cut away the unreasonable weight and leave a healthy core to heal. Theres also the issue of just how strong your pokemon physically is, bulbasaur have incredibly resilient bodies, that it is struggling under its own bulb is making me wonder if its a more serious underlying issue such as a defect that would effect the spine... I'd have to get a better look if im honest, seeing the colouration of its skin, the bottom of its feet, inside the mouth, what its heart is doing, exploring kidney functions, poison glands, the build up of various toxins in this specias can also yield negative effects on their growth if theres any unchecked imbalance.

There is also a potential that your partner has been exposed to some very potent weed killers, which while distressing, and upsetting, can happen. The solution people use midlessly to destroy plants can effect pokemon too. some of these herbicides sometimes disrupting auxin, which is a type of growth hormone, and its production. This can end up being wildly varying in terms of results when this happens to grass based pokemon. Their genetics are a half way point between a creature and a plant. This can result in excessive growth in one area, and total lack of in others.

Bring up my name to your local when you go back, say the second opinion is a recomendation to explore further and if they need proof, call the Island labs, ill talk to them. If they still refuse to chase this up, bring or send your partner to us at Dotaku. We can and will assess further.

#bulbasaur #prof.peach #peach talks #pokemon

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snudibranchs · 1 year ago

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mojang cancelling fireflies pisses me off for a number of reasons, but it blows my mind that they decided that the solution to the fireflies being poisonous (they're not they have a mild toxin that makes them taste bad so creatures are deterred from eating them) was taking the FROGS to HELL and having them eat literal sentient magma which is apparently entirely safe for frogs to consume??

#shitpost #nudi babbles #mineblr #minecraft

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greenglowinspooks · 2 years ago

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(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (Pt. 4)

—

Tw: descriptions of body horror, Dr. Crane has PTSD and Does Not Realize, Crane has an actual panic attack and just doesn’t care, the Riddler makes one (1) sex joke about Batman

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) (Prev here) - (Pt. 5 here)

(Masterlist here)

—

Dr. Jonathan Crane is in his lab, the acrid scent of chemicals filling the air, and his hands are shaking.

Danny’s health, for the first week that he had him, had been steadily improving at an extremely quick rate. However, his healing had begun to stagnate. Danny said that it was because his body had run out of ectoplasm, and that while there was a lot of ambient ectoplasm in Gotham, he needed a stronger type in order to heal.

And so, that led Dr. Crane here.

He had stolen the research notes from the Penguin years ago regarding his experimentation on him.

(He quite vividly remembers the sound of bone creaking and groaning as it twisted, lengthened. The squelching of shifting tendons and muscles, the strange fabric-like tightening of skin. The feeling of going from man to monster, of losing all claim to his humanity.)

Danny had called him Liminal, part ghost. He had said that he was transformed by, among other things, a kind of synthetic ectoplasm.

Danny needed ectoplasm.

Crane had the research notes. He had every ingredient necessary. And yet, attempt after attempt failed.

The chemical smell burns his nose. His hands tremble.

Dr. Crane is not afraid.

He doesn’t feel fear anymore. He’s tried to, many, many times, but nothing has worked. And yet, his hands are shaking still.

(The horrifying sensation of vertebrae pop-pop-popping along his spine, growing and lengthening. The unbearable itching beneath his skin as toxin glands begin to form. The feeling of his teeth sharpening and elongating, of his skull growing, of his vision changing and brightening. The awful stench of chemicals. The awful stench of ectoplasm.)

Jonathan takes careful note of his shaking hands, his blurring vision, his accelerated heart-rate and shallow breathing.

(Human hands. Human vision. Human heart and lungs and organs.)

He takes note of them, but he does not let that distract him from the task at hand. Danny is not a chemist, but Jonathan is.

The boy knows enough about chemistry in theory, but he won’t go anywhere near Crane’s equipment. He seems to have some sort of intense fear of laboratory settings, probably developed during his stay with the GiW, and Crane is willing to respect that, if only because he cannot afford to lose him.

As such, Crane is the only one qualified to do this. And, unfortunately, if he isn’t successful the boy may very well die.

He heats the chemicals to precisely the right temperatures, adding each one to its correct container.

Dr. Crane thinks of the Scarebeast, that creature born of cruelty and greed and a sense of superiority. That creature which he tries to ignore is a part of him, that can never be removed. A damage which cannot be undone.

He pours the contents of a small beaker into a larger flask, watching the liquids swirl together. The stench in the air is becoming closer and closer to the one burned into his memory.

Crane’s whole body is wracked with unpleasant sensations. It’s truly unfortunate, he thinks, that despite his mind’s lack of fear, his body still reacts so harshly.

Jonathan’s eyes wander, eventually settling on a purple and green card sitting innocently on the corner of the table.

Right.

Even if they wiped out the GiW tomorrow, and even if Danny could survive without ectoplasm, he would still be in danger.

Crane has to get him back to good health. It’s the only way he can be sure that the boy can defend himself properly.

The solution in the flask begins to foam, and Jonathan does not hesitate as he adds the final ingredient. He pours the mixture into a new container, capping it and placing it into a freezer set to -40 degrees.

Hopefully this time he got the timing right.

Jonathan tries to relax, the ventilation in the room slowly but surely clearing the familiar smell from the air.

He thinks of the letter.

Surely, he thinks, that man can come up with some better material for his jokes. Or, at least something new.

Same old threats, same old attempted poisoning.

Aiming his threats at Danny, though, that was new. New and utterly unacceptable.

Scarecrow did what he had to.

He doubted that his solution would last forever, of course, as with that man it never did. As such, he would prepare both himself and Danny for the inevitable moment that his choices came back to bite them.

However, for the moment, they were safe. Danny could rest and recover, and Jonathan could figure out a plan to minimize possible damages.

Jonathan is no longer shaking.

He’s exhausted. This is his fifth attempt today, and each one leaves an unfortunate strain on his mind and body.

With a sigh, he settles himself into his seat at a nearby desk, opening up his computer and logging his most recent attempt. He still has to wait for it to chill to know if it was successful, but he can always update the logs later.

Once he’s done, he stretches, joints popping loudly as he walks to the freezer.

When he sees the results of his tireless work, the ghost of a smile flits across his face.

Success.

Jonathan picks up the jug of ectoplasm and leaves the lab, which is in all actuality the basement of the new apartment that he moved himself and Danny into after receiving the note. The scrappy old woman who was his landlord had told him that as long as he paid her five hundred dollars up front, she would let him set up in the basement without any questions or cop calls.

And so, the most expensive apartment in the Narrows was his.

At least, he thought, the distance between the basement and the apartment was short enough that Danny didn’t have to sit in while he was doing his labwork.

Jonathan knew that he didn’t exactly have a strong grasp on the concept of ‘lab safety,’ proven by his built-up immunity to almost every toxic chemical he’d ever encountered, and he doubted that Danny should be around such an environment.

He was back to the apartment quickly, not bothering to hide the self-satisfied smile on his face. Danny is sitting in his armchair, trying to read one of his books. Danny looks up, ready to greet him, when he sees the jug in his hands and pauses.

“Is that..?”

“Synthetic ectoplasm,” Jonathan says proudly, “I found the Penguin’s research notes and decided to recreate it, since you said that you needed it to heal properly. I’m not sure if it’ll work the same as what you usually have, but I hope it’s helpful all the same.”

Danny is standing, now, and looking at Jonathan with a strange look in his eyes. He looks, Jon thinks, like he’s about to cry.

Then Danny is rushing forward and wrapping his arms around Jonathan, his scrawny form shaking.

Jonathan is, for a moment, horrified. Did he do something wrong somehow? Why is this child, who’s so afraid of touch, hugging him?

And then he hears Danny’s voice, and he knows that it was all worth it.

“Thank you,” he’s mumbling, over and over, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Jonathan says softly, because what else can he say?

The boy cries in his arms for a while, and Jonathan briefly wonders what his life must have been like before, if a person like him can be seen as a comforting figure.

Then, Danny pours himself a small glass of the synthetic ectoplasm, putting the rest into the small fridge which had come with the apartment, and he settles back down, sitting in the armchair once again.

Jonathan sits opposite of him, and they chat with one another as Danny drinks.

Danny talks to him about the stars and tells him about different spaceships, and Jonathan makes sure to pay attention and ask the boy questions.

He doesn’t miss the way that Danny lights up every time he asks him something about his interests. He’s so passionate, so smart, a trait that he seldom sees outside of his fellow rogues, and Jonathan wants to encourage that.

It’s…nice. Peaceful, almost.

And then the front door flies open, because Jonathan isn’t allowed to have nice things.

“Jon,” a familiar voice rings out, “what the hell?!”

Danny is frozen in place, clearly terrified.

Jonathan heaves a sigh, turning to face the nuisance who’s entered his apartment.

“Eddie,” he drawls, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Edward’s face is red with anger as he invades Jonathan’s apartment.

“Oh, I don’t know! Maybe it’s the fact that you sent a bunch of rogues a cryptic message and then dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks! I was worried, Jon!”

Jonathan hums in acknowledgement.

“I didn’t think it was that cryptic,” he says, picking up a book in order to pointedly ignore the Riddler.

“Oh, of course you didn’t, you straw-stuffed hickory dickory dickhead. I swear, you’re always—” he pauses, finally having noticed Danny sitting opposite of Jonathan, “—who is this?”

“My apprentice,” Jonathan replies, dreading the upcoming headache he was no doubt going to develop from Edward’s company, “he’s helping me hunt down the GiW. His name is Danny.”

Edward gasps dramatically.

“You—an apprentice?! And you’re letting him sit in the old man chair?! You don’t even let me sit in the old man chair,” he wails, draping himself over the headrest of the couch with a flourish, “Jonathan, I thought I knew you!”

“Edward,” Jonathan says, “get out of my apartment.”

“Oh my goodness, this is incredible. You’re becoming the bat!”

“I am not becoming the bat, Eddie, now get out.”

Edward has a shit-eating grin on his face as he waltzes over to Danny. Danny, who seemed terrified when he first appeared, is now looking at him with obvious amusement written all over his face.

“I mean, look at him! The hair, the eyes, the scrappy build. If you put him in one of those traffic light vigilante costumes, he could easily pass as a Robin!”

“I’m not doing this with you today, Eddie.”

“Riddle me this, Jon: I am a treasure hidden inside of a chest. You can break me, or steal me, or give me a rest. I can flutter, or pound, or attack, or drop, but if you don’t have me, you’re certainly fucked. What am I?”

Jonathan pauses for a moment before he groans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Eddie.”

Danny sits still, a confused look on his face as he repeats the riddle silently. Then, his face lights up in delight.

“A heart!”

“Jon, I like this one,” Edward says with a smile, ruffling Danny’s hair, “you are correct! A heart, something that I wasn’t aware that our dear Jonathan had!”

“Eddie, stop.”

“No, no,” Edward says, “I was worried about you, you deserve this. I mean, you even missed girls night! You never miss girls night!”

“Girls night?” Danny asks, absolutely delighted.

“Oh, of course,” Edward says, sprawling over on the couch, dangerously close to just laying in Jonathan’s lap, “we have it once a week. I’m invited because of Selina and Jon’s invited because Harley likes him.”

“And what does girls night entail, exactly?”

“Eddie,” Jonathan groans, “please.”

“Well,” Edward hums, “we usually paint our nails, or watch a movie, or gossip about the other rogues, and occasionally, we tell each other about any ‘encounters’ we have with Batman,” he says, raising his eyebrows up and down.

Danny’s jaw drops.

“Edward, shut up,” Jonathan says, an irritated tone in his voice that wasn’t there before.

“No way,” Danny says, “I thought that Batman, like, hated you guys or something. You mean he actually..?”

“Oh, the Bat is much like a bottle of liquor or a cheap cigarette, in that he was made to be passed around.”

Danny chokes on air.

“Edward Nygma,” Jonathan hisses, getting out of his seat and looming over the man, “get the hell out.”

Edward pales.

“Leaving, leaving!” Edward says, dashing away from Jonathan. He pauses, turning to flash Danny a quick smile.

“Remember Danny, I’m your favorite uncle! Not any of the other rogues, me!”

With that, he leaves, the room falling completely silent.

And, as per usual, that silence does not last.

“You full-named him?” Danny asks gleefully, “and it worked?”

Jonathan just sighs, sitting down on the couch and rubbing at his temples.

“Please, don’t take anything Eddie says seriously. He’s a moron.”

“Dr. Crane, please let me come to girls night with you,” Danny pleads, his eyes sparkling, “I promise I won’t embarrass you.”

Jonathan groans.

“Of course you won’t, Eddie will do it for you.”

“Come on, please?”

“I think we’re a bit busy with the GiW at the moment,” Jonathan snaps. He pauses as he notices the crestfallen expression on Danny’s face.

This boy is going to be the death of him.

“Perhaps, though, when all that is taken care of…”

Danny cheers, grinning wildly, and Jonathan is not at all relieved to see him happy again. Certainly not.

The rest of the day is relatively normal.

Danny works on trying to get information from the GiW database while Crane refines his his fear toxin, both preparing for a raid on the GiW base they located in Gotham.

It was only a temporary base, nothing of note, but there was a chance of discovering more bases through it, and that wasn’t something either of them were willing to give up.

Still, something like this would take time. Rushing would only lead to failure.

…

Late in the night, long after Danny is fast asleep in his room, Jonathan pauses.

The GiW are not the only threat out there. They aren’t the only threat to him or to Danny. Perhaps it could be helpful to reach out to someone with greater resources than himself.

He sends a quick message to Red Hood.

Hopefully, he thinks, everything will go smoothly.

—

#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fic #liminal scarecrow #Jon’s PTSD is triggered by the smell of ectoplasm because his life is a nightmare #HDJFNDNDNFKDJF #I am the master of emotional whiplash #rip Jon just trying to have some peace in this fucking house #never gonna happen king 🫡#oh also Eddie is not lying that bat can manwhore #and like half the rogues in Gotham know this from experience #and also most of the JL #and some of JL dark #btw Eddie and Jon are besties #they’re both awful but they make it work #when Jon full-names Eddie that just means that if he doesn’t stop whatever he’s doing he’s gonna get a dose of fear toxin #Eddie isn’t intimidating enough to full-name anyone so if he gets mad he just bashes whoever in the head with his cane #Jon is the living embodiment of ‘me and my girl don’t argue she bash me in the head with a rock and I walk it off like a man’#also side note I’m not doing any ships in this #because I don’t want to #they are just Like That #if you wanna read it that way though it’s completely fine #also shoutout 2 that one scriddler fic on ao3 that helped inspire that riddle LMAO

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hellothisisangle · 1 month ago

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This idea came from someone asking me about V’s internal organs and gastro/intestinal workings. I delved into a bit of bio/mechanical research that might make sense in the Cyberpunk world. Follow the jump below!

↓

SomaTek specializes in manufacturing synthetic organs designed to transcend our organic limitations.

SomaTek GastroPro™ In a world ravaged by toxic food chains, tainted water supplies, and unreliable agriculture, the GastroPro™ synthetic stomach- amply nicknamed “the iron gut”- is a feat of mechanical organ replacement. Capable of digesting virtually any hazardous or non-nutritive substance without harm, while mimicking and surpassing the core functions of a natural biological system.

The GastroPro™ environment utilizes a stabilized industrial-grade acidic solution (SomaTek’s trademarked confidential blend of fluorinated superacids exceeds the hydrochloric acid and pepsin present in an organic stomach) that is non-corrosive to internal components due to reactive smart hydrogel linings. This acid bath breaks down everything: from your home cooked dinner, to food past its expiration, to actual garbage- designed to adapt to a full range of ingested toxicity. After processing, the liquified matter proceeds to a secondary chamber which is programmed with enzymatic nano filters to separate and neutralize indigestible items versus actual processable materials. *Note that the GastroPro™ is incapable of operating in isolation. The following organic systems are required to be enhanced or replaced:

Esophagus (GastroLine™) is equipped with reinforced smart hydrogel lining to withstand both caustic substances and abrasive matter. Peristaltic actuators move matter regardless of shape or size, while micro-blade emulsifiers begin compacting particularly dense or fibrous materials. Anti-reflux valves prevent acid from backing up.

Liver, Pancreas, Gall Bladder (GastroTox™ Subsystem) further supports the GastroPro™ by processing even rarer or complex toxins, capable of converting them into an array of energy for the body dependent on specific inputs. For example: chemical, electrical, first and second generation biofuel, etc. (Optional but highly recommended)

Intestines & Appendix (GastroTract™) serves as the primary absorption and release unit. Lined with nutrient-binding nanites to extract usable calories, vitamins, minerals, or chemicals. Absorption channels direct these throughout the body via embedded villi structures to the bloodstream and lymphatic system. In users with further modifications, waste may be redirected to a bypass port location of their choosing. The most popular choice being via a urinary tract.

Oral Cavity (OraPro™ Subsystem) is a customizable sum of parts that further supports the GastroPro™ with an artificial tongue embedded with gustatory receptors, reinforced cheek/gum lining, and teeth strong as chrome. (Optional but highly recommended)

Brain Chemistry (CraveShard™) the neural implant designed to be installed into the cyberdeck to simulate, regulate, or even suppress cravings. (Optional but highly recommended) The user may override urges based on their schedule and preferences, as well as control serotonin and dopamine feedback. The implant works harmoniously with receptors built into the GastroPro™ to recognize the identity of consumed materials. It can even reproduce the effects caused by ingested alcohol, hallucinogenics, opioids, narcotics, etc.

Advantages over natural digestion include immunity to internal poisoning, pathogens, parasites, and contaminants. Zero indigestion, zero allergic reaction. Accelerated enzyme breakdown. And multi-source nutrition: users can derive sustenance from otherwise indigestible materials.

Please be aware the GastroPro™ is not without its complications. Over-reliance can result in malabsorption issues if the user abuses the capabilities of the GastroPro™. Care should be taken to continuously ingest products with beneficial properties. In the event of nutrient deficits, the user’s deck will receive periodic warnings regarding nutritional supplementation to prevent systemic decline. Psychosomatic disorders may also emerge as a result of losing sensory pleasure of consumption (“digestion dissonance'”- disconnect with satiety) if the recommended OraPro™ Subsystem and CraveShard™ are not installed.

Regular care encompasses monthly detox flushes, filter replacements, nanite reseeding, and pH rebalancing treatments. All of which can be accomplished via a doctor licensed to administer Somatek devices.

#my art #cyberpunk 2077 #vignette #concept art #scifi

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pokemonshelterstories · 4 months ago

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I'm scared of fairy type pokemon.... Is there anything I can do to keep them away without hurting them? Lots are coming out now it's spring and I know it's not a rational fear but they just freak me out! I don't want to hurt them

repels are always a good way of discouraging pokemon from approaching an area. of course, general repels are most affective alongside the presence of your own pokemon to dissuade wild pokemon from approaching. but if it's just one type of pokemon you want to keep away from you, then you can get a more effective specialized solution!

with fairy types, your best bet is to go to a gardening center and look for repels with dilute weezing gas added to them. this is something that gardeners use to keep grass types out of their plants, because grass types stay away from the smell of poison. fairy types also dislike this scent, so it can be effective in keeping them away from you! it's pricier than a regular repel, but it's more likely to work, and it doesn't actually harm the pokemon because the toxins are so dilute. plus, the dilution process makes the weezing gas smell kinda nice to us!

#charlietalks #pkmn irl #pokemon irl #the world of pokemon

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clumsydolly · 13 days ago

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Hello, can you do OM!Brothers (and maybe the dateables if you want) x Maomao!reader? (From Apothecary Diaries)?

Obey me x Maomao!Reader! Part 1!

Warnings!⚠️: none but if you catch anything tell me!

Thank you for the ask! 🩷 Please send more I love these!

Lucifer

You were a curiosity to Lucifer from the moment you stepped into the Devildom.

Not because you were human—he had encountered countless humans before—but because you were unlike any he had met. Reserved, observant, and possessing an unsettling calmness, you navigated the chaos of the House of Lamentation with a detached grace that piqued his interest.

While others were quick to react to the peculiarities of the Devildom, you remained composed, often more intrigued than alarmed. Your eyes, sharp and discerning, missed nothing. You analyzed your surroundings with the precision of a seasoned scholar, noting the subtle shifts in magic, the hidden tensions among the brothers, and the unspoken rules that governed this realm.

Lucifer found himself both impressed and slightly unsettled by your demeanor. He was accustomed to being the one in control, the one who observed and assessed. Yet here you were, a human, matching his scrutiny with your own.

One evening, he found you in the library, surrounded by ancient tomes on demonic flora and fauna. You were engrossed in a text detailing the properties of a rare Devildom herb, your fingers tracing the intricate illustrations with reverence.

"Studying late, are we?" he inquired, his voice smooth and commanding.

You looked up, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "The Devildom's flora is fascinating. So many plants with unique properties. Some could be quite useful... or dangerous."

A hint of a smile played on his lips. "Dangerous, indeed. One human such as yourself, must be cautious when handling such things."

You tilted your head, a glint of amusement in your eyes. "Caution is important, but understanding is paramount. Fear stems from ignorance."

Lucifer chuckled softly. "Spoken like a true scholar."

Over time, your interactions with Lucifer became more frequent. He would find you in the greenhouse, tending to exotic plants with meticulous care, or in the kitchen, experimenting with ingredients to create concoctions that were both medicinal and, occasionally, explosive.

Your knowledge of poisons and antidotes was unparalleled, and Lucifer couldn't help but be impressed by your expertise. He began to consult you on matters involving rare toxins or magical ailments, valuing your insights and analytical mind.

Despite his initial reservations, Lucifer found himself drawn to your quiet strength and unwavering determination. You challenged him, not with defiance, but with intellect and composure. It was a refreshing change from the chaos that often surrounded him.

One day, during a particularly tense family meeting, a minor dispute escalated into a full-blown argument among the brothers. Voices were raised, tempers flared, and chaos ensued.

Amidst the turmoil, you stood up, your voice calm but firm. "Enough."

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to you.

"This bickering is unproductive," you continued. "If we focus on the issue at hand rather than personal grievances, we might find a solution."

Lucifer watched as his brothers, chastised by your words, settled down. He felt a surge of admiration for you. In that moment, you had managed to do what few could command the attention and respect of the seven demon brothers.

After the meeting, he approached you. "You handled that well."

You shrugged modestly. "Sometimes, a different perspective is all that's needed."

Lucifer nodded. "Indeed. Your presence here has been... enlightening."

You smiled softly. "I'm glad to be of assistance."

As the days turned into weeks, Lucifer found himself seeking your company more often. Whether it was discussing ancient texts, sharing a quiet meal, or simply enjoying each other's presence in comfortable silence, he cherished the moments spent with you.

You had become an integral part of his world, a steadying force amidst the chaos. And though he rarely expressed his feelings openly, Lucifer knew that you had captured his heart in a way no one else ever had.

Mammon

You confused the hell outta Mammon.

Not in the “you’re from the human world” way he was used to that. Not even in the “you’re smart” way there were plenty of nerds in the Devildom (Satan alone accounted for 80% of them). No, you confused him because you weren’t scared of anything.

Not demons. Not curses. Not Lucifer. Not the borderline-lethal concoction you found bubbling in a forgotten hallway that you sniffed before saying, “Huh. Shouldn’t be reacting like that. Someone’s messed up the ratios.”

Mammon had watched you from behind a pillar like you were the terrifying one.

You didn’t talk much unless you had something to say, and when you did talk, you’d say the most unhinged, hyper-specific things with complete calm like suggesting that Asmodeus might want to stop using a certain brand of bath oil because it would probably cause mild hallucinations in lower-tier demons.

“H-How do ya even know that?” Mammon asked once, after watching you neutralize a potentially lethal jellyfish with two herbs and a death glare.

You blinked at him. “I used to be a poison tester in the imperial court.”

“...You what?”

He started following you around after that.

He claimed it was because you were “just a weak lil’ human who’d totally get kidnapped without The Great Mammon lookin’ out for ya,” but he was clearly more afraid of you than for you. He trailed after you like a confused stray cat, half-tempted to steal your weird apothecary satchel but too scared of what might happen if he touched anything in it.

“You got like—death flowers or somethin’ in there?”

“No. Those are in the other pouch.”

You didn’t smile much, but when you did tight-lipped, sardonic, often after diagnosing someone with you absolute idiot poison yourself again? Mammon’s brain short-circuited.

And yet, he still tried to flirt.

“You ever think about ditchin’ all this poison stuff and goin’ into business with me? We could open a potion shop. Or like… a crime-solving duo thing. You know, brains and beauty.”

“Which one are you supposed to be?”

“I—I’M BOTH, OBVIOUSLY—!”

But your sarcasm never felt cruel. Just… dry. Focused. You were like one of those super rare stones he saw in cursed auctions: plain on the outside, but the longer you looked, the more intricate you realized it was. The mystery only made him want to dig deeper.

You never gushed over him like other humans did. You didn’t even blink when he name-dropped himself as The Great Mammon. Which hurt his pride a little, but also made him spiral into wondering why he wanted your attention so badly.

And then came the day he nearly died.

It was a dumb bet with Levi, something about who could handle a cursed snack from a shady Devildom vending machine. Mammon took two bites, collapsed, and was foaming at the mouth by the time you got there.

You didn’t panic.

You crouched beside him, sniffed the half-eaten snack, and muttered, “Dumbass,” before jabbing him in the neck with a silver needle from your pouch and muttering an incantation under your breath.

He woke up ten minutes later, drooling and half-conscious, with your jacket rolled up under his head and you quietly cataloging the cursed ingredients.

“You—you saved me,” he croaked.

You looked up, unamused. “You’re not allowed to die until you pay me back for that mess you caused in the potions lab last week.”

Mammon turned beet red. “T-That’s your way of sayin’ you care, right?! I knew it! You do like me!”

You stared at him. “You’ve been poisoned for less than fifteen minutes and you’re already back to being an idiot. I should’ve waited longer.”

Mammon called it flirting. You called it honesty.

But after that, he followed you with a different kind of urgency. Less of the showy bravado and more quiet awe. He brought you snacks (after making you test them first), asked you endless questions about apothecaries, and even tried to memorize your antidote recipes, though he forgot them the second you stopped talking.

He never stopped calling himself your bodyguard, but now it came with an odd mix of reverence and pride like being near you made him smarter, braver, better.

And though you rolled your eyes every time he got in your personal space, you stopped pushing him away.

Some poisons, you realized, didn’t need an antidote.

Leviathan

Leviathan knew you were dangerous the moment you corrected a potion label in front of Satan.

He didn’t even know it was wrong and that was Satan, the walking library. But you just stood there, arms folded, expression flat as you looked down at the bottle and said, “That’s not mandrake root. That’s detura. If you drink it, you’ll hallucinate a five-day fever dream and probably confess a decade of unresolved guilt to a wall."

Leviathan had never seen Satan go speechless. You just turned and walked out after that. Didn’t even gloat. Just dropped the bomb and vanished like a cutscene NPC who leaves the party after revealing tragic backstory.

Levi's respect for you skyrocketed instantly.

He didn’t talk to you for three days. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know how. You were like one of those elite SSR gacha characters with maxed-out poison resistance and triple damage intelligence stat. A mysterious loner with a morally questionable skill tree. And worst of all, you were calm.

Like, actually calm. Not shy, not awkward just… quiet. No wasted words. Unbothered. The kind of person who could say something absolutely horrifying, like "This mushroom could make a man think he's married to a table leg," in a voice so deadpan Levi would spiral about it for an hour.

He started inventing reasons to hover near you.

“Oh wow, is this the hallway that leads to the cursed greenhouse? Whoops, guess I took a wrong turn for the sixth time today.”

You didn’t even look up from your mortars. “Stop breathing like you're trying to do a boss battle. I can hear you."

Levi yelped and almost dropped his D.D.D.

You never mocked him, though. Never teased or pushed or prodded. You just… observed. Like he was some weird little amphibian in a tank. One day he asked if you even liked people and you just stared at him, blinked slowly, and said, “They’re loud. But not entirely useless.”

It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him that week.

You two bonded slowly, in the weirdest possible ways. You’d hand him a potion without speaking, and he’d take it like you’d just passed him an ancient relic. He’d offer to show you his favorite magical girl anime and you’d shrug and say, “Fine. As long as there are poison scenes I can fact-check.”

You had notes. You always had notes.

“That’s not how belladonna works. If she really drank that much she’d be blind and speaking Latin."

Levi was enchanted.

He started compiling a “Y/n Factbook” on his D.D.D. — a private entry log of everything you said, from trivia about demon flora to mildly threatening advice like “never trust someone whose hands smell like vanilla and rust.”

He didn’t know if he liked you romantically or if he wanted to be the sidekick in your morally ambiguous spin-off series. Either way, you were already living rent-free in his head.

One day, you caught him muttering to himself in the corner of the library, panic-sweating over a failed alchemy assignment.

“Why are you whispering the instructions like a confession to your diary?”

Levi jumped. “I—I wasn’t! I mean I was, but like—respectfully! I just—can’t get this transmutation to stabilize and I don’t want to fail again and let everyone down and—”

You interrupted his spiral with a precise flick of your wrist and calmly adjusted his ratios.

“Your catalyst is too wet. Dry it with wyvern salt before the reaction.”

He blinked. You weren't judging him. You were helping. Quietly. Effectively. Like you were just… used to people falling apart around you.

“...Thanks,” he said, after a beat. “Why’d you help?”

You tilted your head at him. “Because you looked like you were about to cry, and if someone cries in the library again, Lucifer said I have to clean it up.”

He laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you were. In that unintentionally deadpan, wildly competent, emotionally unavailable kind of way.

From then on, you two became a strange little unit. You’d make dry comments, Levi would overreact, you’d roll your eyes, and somehow it worked. He’d bring you obscure potion-themed anime, you’d roast their scientific inaccuracies, and he’d listen, nodding like you were revealing forbidden lore.

You weren’t touchy or affectionate you were factual and deeply suspicious of affection. But Levi? Levi was patient. He liked puzzle boxes. And you, Y/N, were the most interesting one he’d ever found.

Satan

It starts with an argument in the library.

No raised voices, no drama just a quiet but intensely sharp back-and-forth over an old Devildom pharmacology text. Satan insists that the listed dosage of wolfsbane in ancient hex cures is symbolic. You, Y/N, tilt your head at him and calmly say, “No, it’s just incorrect. That amount would liquefy someone’s liver in under ten minutes. Symbolism doesn't cause renal failure.”

He blinks.

You blink back, unbothered.

That’s when he knows he’s doomed.

Satan spends most of his time surrounded by people who are loud, arrogant, or too busy trying to impress him. You? You stroll into his favorite reading space, sniff a sample herb someone left on a desk, and casually go, “Hm. Trace arsenic. Someone here’s got clumsy enemies.”

And then just sit down like it’s not the most suspicious sentence he’s ever heard.

Satan doesn’t even know your full background yet all he knows is that you showed up at RAD one day, ignored everyone’s nonsense, and only spoke when something was wrong. Terribly, poisonously, scientifically wrong.

You didn’t flirt. You didn’t grovel. You just existed like a quiet, exhausted cat who wandered into hell and decided it was mildly tolerable.

And that? That was fascinating.

He tried to test you. Not in a mean way, more like an academic curiosity. He’d “accidentally” misquote a potion theory in front of you to see if you’d catch it. You always did.

“You’re using a 4th-era stabilizing method. That formula was disproven in the 6th century after it exploded in a royal alchemist’s face.”

You didn’t gloat. Just corrected and moved on. Like facts were facts and anything else was a waste of time.

Satan was obsessed.

He started inviting you to the library more, and was always just “coincidentally” around when you were there. At first, you didn’t seem to care. You had the emotional range of a highly judgmental squirrel one eyebrow permanently raised, zero small talk. If you had feelings, you buried them beneath seventeen layers of medical analysis and herbal notes.

But he started catching little things.

The way your fingers tapped when someone else said something incorrect. The tiny lift in your lip when a rare text surprised you. The sharpness that dulled slightly when he asked your opinion instead of assuming it.

One day, after a long silence, you looked at him and said, “You’re smarter than I expected. For someone who collects cats and grudges.”

Satan grinned like he’d just been handed the demon equivalent of a marriage proposal.

You two formed a rhythm not quite friendship, not quite rivalry, but something crackling and intelligent. You didn’t fill space with meaningless conversation, and he stopped trying to impress you with big gestures. You’d both just read, share knowledge, occasionally argue, and sometimes exchange sharp little observations like daggers dipped in honey.

“You know,” he murmured once, closing a book, “I’ve read hundreds of texts on poison. But I’ve never met anyone who could explain them in such... coldly vivid detail.”

You glanced up. “Most authors don’t work in death wards or test antidotes by taste.”

He paused. “You’ve tasted poisons?”

“I mean, not on purpose. Mostly.Mainly.Somewhat."

That was it. He was in love. Or in awe. Or both. It was hard to tell, and honestly, he didn’t care. Your mind was like a maze of sharp corners and unexpected traps, and he wanted to run through it until he either solved it or got bitten.

You weren’t openly affectionate you didn’t have the time or energy for that. But you started leaving rare medical texts at his desk. You made offhand comments about his bad sleep habits. Once, you handed him a cup of tea without looking and muttered, “Don’t drink the others. Mammon’s has a mild sedative.”

He didn’t even ask how you knew. He just drank yours.

Satan, who usually hated being underestimated, didn’t mind how you always looked at him like you were calculating how many ways he could die in a locked room. He liked it. It meant you took him seriously. And in a world where everyone either tiptoed or exploded, your steady apathy was oddly comforting.

One day, during a walk through the gardens, he said, “You know, most people are intimidated by me.”

You replied, without looking up from your sketch of a poisonous toadstool, “That’s because they don’t know what you’re really capable of. I do.”

He stared. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“No,” you said. “But it’s honest.”

Satan smiled, heart pounding far too hard for someone who just got lightly threatened in a whisper.

He decided then and there: honesty with you was better than flattery from anyone else.

Asmodeus

Asmodeus never expected to be caught off guard by someone like you.

He’s the Avatar of Lust, after all, the center of attention, the king of charm and flirtation. But then you appeared, Y/N, with your quiet confidence and a kind of cold, clinical brilliance that made him rethink everything he thought he knew about attention.

It started when you arrived at RAD. Unlike the usual adoring fans or awkward admirers who blushed and fawned, you barely spared anyone a glance. You moved with purpose, eyes scanning everything but rarely meeting anyone’s directly. Your hands were always busy jotting notes, examining herbs, or carefully handling little bottles filled with suspiciously lethal substances.

Asmodeus was instantly intrigued. Here was someone who didn’t care about appearances or popularity, and that was a new challenge entirely.

He tried to get your attention the way he always did—grand entrances, teasing smiles, and compliments dripping with double meaning.

“You know, darling,” he said one day, lounging on a velvet chaise near the potion table, “most people would be dazzled by a prince’s charisma. But you? You look like you’d rather be dissecting a snake than talking to me.”

You barely looked up from your vial, calmly replying, “I’m not here for entertainment. I’m here to test poisons. They’re far more interesting.”

That was the moment Asmodeus realized this wasn’t going to be a typical game. You weren’t like the others who chased his light, you were perfectly content in the shadows of deadly substances and hidden dangers.

He started lingering around you, under the pretense of curiosity about your poison tests. He’d watch you carefully, noting how your face changed when you identified a new toxin or discovered a hidden antidote. There was a strange kind of beauty in your precise, almost surgical movements, how you handled things too dangerous for most demons with an ease born of experience.

One afternoon, you caught him staring and said with a dry smile, “Do you want to learn something, or are you just here to look pretty?”

Asmodeus blinked, then laughed. “I’m always here to learn. And to look pretty, of course.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Pretty doesn’t survive long around poison.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Maybe that’s why I need someone like you—someone who knows how to handle danger.”

The banter between you was sharp and constant, like a duel of wits with no clear victor. You’d correct him when he mispronounced the names of rare herbs, and he’d tease you about your serious demeanor, calling you his “deadly little enigma.” There was an electricity in every exchange a tension built on mutual respect and something more teasing, more intimate.

Despite yourself, you found his confidence infectious. He never pushed too hard, never asked for more than you were willing to give, but he had a way of making even poison-testing sessions feel like an adventure. You started to look forward to his visits, to the sound of his voice cutting through the sterile air of your workspace.

One evening, Asmodeus showed up with a bouquet of strangely fragrant flowers. You raised an eyebrow.

“For you,” he said with a wink, “because even poison testers deserve a little softness now and then.”

You took the flowers carefully, studying them like you would a new specimen. “These are... safe?”

“Absolutely. Unless you want me to test them for you.”

You smirked, the corners of your mouth twitching with amusement. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Over time, you found yourselves sharing more than just the chemistry of toxins and antidotes. You talked about your pasts, his life of endless parties and masks, yours filled with hidden dangers and silent battles. You found in him a rare vulnerability beneath the layers of vanity, and he found in you a strength that didn’t need to shout to be noticed.

Your relationship was unconventional neither loud declarations nor grand displays. It was a quiet understanding, a dance around danger and desire, a blend of sharp intellect and softer moments stolen in between.

When Asmodeus teased you about your serious face, you’d reply with a sly grin, “Don’t mistake professionalism for coldness.”

He’d just smile back, eyes gleaming. “I like it when you’re cold. It makes the moments when you thaw all the more special.”

You might not have been the typical admirer, and he wasn’t the usual partner, but somehow, your worlds collided perfectly. Poison and perfume. Danger and desire. Science and sensuality.

And in that clash, you both found something worth holding onto.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub never imagined meeting someone like you would change the way he saw the world.

The Lord of Gluttony is known for his big appetite and easygoing nature. He loves food, comfort, and laughter, always making sure everyone around him feels cared for. But when you arrived at RAD, carrying your notebooks and vials of poisons with calm precision, he was curious in a way that went deeper than his usual playful interest.

You moved with an unshakable focus, eyes flicking between herbs and formulas, your hands steady as you tested substances that could kill if handled incorrectly. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation, just a determined calm that seemed to contrast with Beel’s warm, carefree energy.

At first, Beel watched from a distance, unsure how to approach someone so serious. You didn’t seem interested in parties or sweets, the things he loved. But then one day, he found you hunched over a tray of plants, carefully grinding leaves into powder.

“Hey,” he said gently, trying not to startle you. “What’re you making?”

You glanced up, expression cool but not unkind. “A new antidote. Someone might need it soon.”

Beel’s eyes lit up. “Whoa. That sounds important. You’re like a real-life hero, huh?”

You paused, then allowed a small, almost amused smile. “I prefer ‘poison tester.’ It’s less dramatic, but far more accurate.”

That honesty, paired with your quiet competence, drew Beel in. He started spending more time near your workspace, often bringing snacks and sweets to share, hoping to see that rare smile again. He’d joke about how you needed to eat more, but you’d just roll your eyes and remind him that poison didn’t mix well with sugar highs.

The contrast between you was striking, his easy warmth to your focused seriousness, but it was what made your friendship grow. Beel learned about your meticulous work testing every sample, your patience when experiments failed, and the weight of responsibility you carried to keep others safe.

One afternoon, he caught you examining a strange-looking mushroom with a magnifying glass. “Careful with that,” he warned softly. “Could be dangerous.”

You looked up, meeting his worried gaze, and said simply, “That’s why I’m here.”

Beel admired your bravery. You handled lethal substances without blinking, balancing risk with knowledge, and he felt a protective urge swell inside him, not because you needed saving, but because you deserved to be cared for.

He started sharing stories of his own struggles, moments when he felt overwhelmed by expectations or loneliness beneath his jovial exterior. You listened without judgment, offering thoughtful observations and practical advice in return. Your sharp mind and calm demeanor were a balm to his restless spirit.

“Sometimes,” you told him one evening as you both sat in the garden, “knowing what can kill you is the first step to knowing what’s worth living for.”

Beel nodded slowly, touched by the weight behind your words. “I get that. You’ve got a strength I never knew I needed.”

Your bond grew beyond simple friendship. Beel began to see you not just as the serious poison tester but as someone who could laugh, dream, and share quiet moments away from the chaos of RAD.

He’d bring you favorite fruits and gently tease you to take breaks. You, in turn, let your guard down enough to accept his warmth, sometimes even letting him hold your hand when the stress of your work weighed too heavy.

Their connection was natural, a balance between his big-hearted kindness and your sharp intellect. You challenged each other in the best ways he encouraged you to enjoy life’s sweetness despite its dangers, and you reminded him that strength came in many forms.

One day, Beel surprised you with a picnic under the stars, a quiet celebration of friendship and trust. As you sipped herbal tea, safe and carefully brewed by you, he smiled and said, “You’re my favorite mystery, you know. Complex and dangerous, but worth every moment.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you’re flirting.”

Beel laughed, that warm sound that filled the night. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just glad to have you here.”

There was no need for grand declarations, just a steady presence, a shared understanding, and the unspoken promise that whatever dangers came, you’d face them together.

In a world where poison lurked in every corner, Beelzebub and Maomao found a rare kind of sweetness: a friendship that nourished the soul and a bond that could survive even the deadliest of tests.

Belphegor

Belphegor didn’t trust you at first.

You were far too quiet, far too observant — eyes always narrowed in calculation, mouth set in a line that said “I’m tired of your nonsense before you’ve even opened your mouth.” It was a bit too familiar. You reminded him of Lucifer, if Lucifer were tiny, female-coded, and came with a tray of deadly mushrooms and a habit of muttering chemical formulas in the corner of the room like a gremlin.

So naturally, Belphie’s first instinct was to poke.

He’d lean over the back of the couch where you were scribbling notes about herb interactions, yawning loudly and asking, “So, if I wanted to poison Lucifer, how long would it take him to die if I mixed this with his coffee?”

You didn’t even glance up. “Depends. Is he drinking it on an empty stomach?”

That was the exact moment Belphie fell in like.

He wasn’t used to humans who could match his energy or, more accurately, laziness-disguised-as-malicious-compliance energy. You, with your unimpressed stare and unshakeable calm, were different from the other exchange students. Where others panicked, you planned. Where others fumbled through Devildom chaos, you studied it like a patient scientist poking a venomous snake.

He once watched you calmly explain to Mammon that the “weird buzzing” in his ears was not, in fact, a hex, but likely dehydration and stress. And then you made him a bitter tonic that tasted like despair and herbal resentment. Mammon cried. You didn’t blink.

Belphie was obsessed.

At first, his affection came in the form of mild torment. He’d sneak into your apothecary workshop and move your vials two inches to the left. He’d rearrange your note pages just enough to ruin your filing system. He even let a small gremlin demon loose in your lab once.

You countered by placing a slow-acting itch powder in his hoodie. He didn’t figure it out for two days. He was impressed.

Your war of casual menace slowly gave way to something more companionable. Belphie would crash in your workroom, curled on the floor like a lazy cat while you crushed dried petals or scribbled toxicology charts. He didn’t talk much, and neither did you, but the quiet was never awkward. It was the kind of silence you could rest in, the kind where no one demanded anything of you.

“Why do you care so much about poison, anyway?” he asked once, eyes barely open.

You stared into your steaming beaker. “Because poison doesn’t lie. It either works or it doesn’t.”

Belphie cracked one eye open. “That’s... surprisingly dark. I like it.”

He didn’t say it, but he understood your obsession with control, with knowing outcomes in a world that constantly shifted. It reminded him of what it felt like in the attic, alone, uncertain, relying only on himself. You were the same: guarded, meticulous, always keeping a wall between you and everyone else.

So Belphie stopped trying to knock it down.

Instead, he leaned against it. Teased you gently. Sat close without crowding. Asked questions without expecting answers. He became a quiet, sleepy presence at your side, someone who didn’t demand vulnerability but made space for it anyway.

And you, in your own slow-burning way, began to let him in. You brewed tea for him when his insomnia got bad. You mumbled out dry compliments when he helped you move crates. You even admitted once, in a whisper so fast he almost missed it, that you didn’t hate his company.

“I’m honored,” he said, grinning, and you smacked him with a notebook.

One night, after a long day of chaotic demon politics and poisoned pastries (long story), you both lay sprawled on the floor of the observatory, staring at the ceiling.

“You know,” he murmured, “if I died from one of your potions, I’d probably forgive you.”

You snorted. “You’d haunt me and rearrange all my ingredients.”

“I’d spell insults in dried rosemary.”

You let the silence stretch between you for a while before quietly replying, “You’d probably be the only ghost I wouldn’t mind.”

Belphie blinked. Smiled.

No grand gestures. No big confessions.

Just two tired minds tangled together in quiet companionship, finding comfort in the certainty that neither would ever be forced to explain themselves too much.

And for once, that was enough.

Thank you so much for reading! 🩷 I hope you all enjoyed! Please send more asks! As usually Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!😋

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