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nabtime · 10 months

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Our Empty Graves VI

Fandom: Danny Phantom / Batman: Under the Red Hood

Pairings: Danny Fenton/Jason Todd (Dead on Main)

Rating: Mature

Tags: batfamily, hazmat AU, Nobody Knows AU, Mute!Phantom, potential ghost king danny, slow burn?, DC means Disregard Canon, AU means AU nothing is exactly the same, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, more than canon typical violence, danny is a Halfa and also a Fetch, no beta we die like basically everyone

Summary: They say that Red Hood has a loyal mutt. The man rules his territory in Crime Alley with an iron fist and a guard dog at his side. They say that Hood calls him Fetch, sometimes Fetcher. No one's ever heard him speak. Anyone who's ever seen him says he looks like an experiment gone wrong, that Hood picked him up somewhere unspeakable. They say he'll do anything Red Hood asks of him and he'll do it well. That he's strong and fast and probably inhuman. The girls say he's sweet; quiet but charming in his own way. Rival gangs say he's vicious; that he'd sooner rip your throat out than let you go.

Jason just wants to help him.

Chapter 6: i’ll cover the mirror (til it shows me someone i can face)

Chapter Summary: Danny settles into being part of Red Hood's gang. Gets shot and almost bleeds out. Again. Red Hood doesn't let him and also makes grilled cheese.

Chapter Notes: title from I WENT TO HELL AND BACK by AS IT IS Links: AO3 // Chapter 1 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 7 // Spotify

Danny would often just drift about the apartment. Haunting it. He certainly wasn’t living in it. One would have to be living first, in order to do that. No, the safe-house apartment Red Hood insisted he stay in was a place he haunted. Shambling aimlessly unless called upon by Red Hood himself or the screams of someone in need within the Alley.

He’d been in the Alley, working under Red’s command, for three weeks now and he’d say he was getting pretty familiar with his surroundings now. Learning the layout, learning the people, learning the rules both known and unspoken. Learning more about the politics and about Red Hood’s hostile takeover.

He’d been right that Red Hood was a new Gotham Rogue. But he’d been wrong about the man’s character. He was ruthless, true, but only to those that crossed the line. He could be callous, but only to those that deserved it. Sure, the duffel bag of heads was probably a bit much and might even be considered needlessly cruel. But he’d done it with purpose. He’d done it for a good reason.

Red Hood was trying to take over the Alley and make it better. He’d seen the plans. The strategies in motion. Harm reduction. Protection. Housing projects. Assistance programs. All of these funded by his gang, run by the community, and controlled by Red Hood through his lieutenants. He was a Crime Lord in the sense that all crime within his purview was controlled and run through him. His methods were bloody and oftentimes vile, but they worked. Danny had come to really admire him in the few weeks he’d been running errands for the guy.

And he was, honestly, often just running errands.

“Go help this family move in, I know you have super strength. Put it to use.”

“One of the girls isn’t feeling well and Ms. Bajorek made her some soup. Drop it off for me. You don’t have anything better to do anyway.”

“Here’s a list of groceries and a tip for Mr. Nguyen when you get them. I’m making you and the Alley kids lunch today. Don’t argue, I know you haven’t eaten, Glowstick.”

When Danny asked, the man had shrugged and said, “Well, since you won’t tell me more about what a Fetch is I’m gonna take the name seriously. So, you know,” and handed him a list, “go fetch.”

For all that he was a Crime Lord that did Crime Lord things, there was also quite a bit of mundane managerial tasks he had to do to keep everything running. And he was so meticulous about it all. Danny would often watch him in awe, hovering over his shoulder as he ran calculations and mapped out routes. Patrol routes that would cover the most vulnerable areas, delivery routes that would hit the most in need, drug running routes that would ensure the product stayed clean from the source to the buyer and cutting down anyone that messed with it. Red Hood had plans upon plans upon plans. Take out an uprising here, build a clean shelter for the houseless there, plant a communal garden, shoot one of Black Mask’s men in the kneecaps. Everything had a time and a place and was leading towards a safer city. Even if his methods were less than desirable.

Red Hood did bring him on more serious tasks, though. Ones that needed doing quickly and efficiently and viciously. Ones where mercy wasn’t likely and back-up was needed for stragglers. Red Hood never ordered him to take a life, never made him cross that line he was reluctant to cross. It wasn’t that Danny had any compunctions against killing, but he didn’t think he had the stomach for it himself. Didn’t think he could live with a death so directly on his conscious when so many were already piled there. He didn’t want to think about the ghosts that might come back to haunt him. He admired Red’s resolve all the more for it. He was ruthless but he was practical. He didn’t shy away from taking a life that didn’t deserve to keep living, but he spared all those that could reform.

Danny was always there as his shadow, as the menacing monster he kept on a leash. He was starting to earn a reputation in Gotham’s criminal underground. Red Hood’s loyal dog. Get too close and he might bite. (He’d only ever done that once, turning his mask intangible and lunging, his fangs sinking into reprehensible flesh. The woman had been beating a child. She lost her arm for it.)

He was also known, embarrassingly enough, as a sweetheart among the girls and the kids. A mystery and most times scary and off-putting. But the girls still cooed whenever he came to their rescue and the kids insisted on following him around (the braver ones even attempting to climb him like a tree). He didn’t know how to feel about it. Most of the time he popped out of invisibility rather than mingle. He was supposed to be a monster. Just a ghost haunting the city. In Amity the people had fled at the sight of him, screaming even as he saved them. They knew what he was, knew to treat him accordingly. But- the people here- they- It was different. He tried not to think about it too often.

Communication was something he was working on. Red Hood seemed to be the only one really able to puzzle out his game of charades, the others taking ages to guess what he meant or giving up after the first few tries. He rarely went anywhere by himself unless Red Hood specifically sent him out or it was an impromptu rescue, so it wasn’t often a problem if Red could translate. One of the kids had given him a whiteboard and a dry-erase marker at one point, making it so much easier. He kept them phased in his suit whenever he went out. One of the guys that ran with the girls had offered to teach him sign, but the lessons were slow-going and sporadic. He’d only had two in the past three weeks. But maybe someday he’d get there. He didn’t try to ‘speak’ much anyway. These past three weeks had been the first time in years anyone had even tried to talk to him. Most Amity Parkers had seen him and run and the ghosts he fought just tried to kill him.

Again, he tried not to think about it too much.

There wasn’t much else to do, though. He drifted through the halls of the apartment Red Hood had shoved him into, only occasionally using the couch for naps when gathering ectoplasm wasn’t enough to recharge, and it left his mind free to wander to dark places. Places he didn’t want to visit.

It felt odd. To inhabit a space meant for humans. To have a place to sleep and eat and live again. Red had come by a few times with ingredients and cooked for him in the empty kitchen, saying he didn’t care what Danny was- he needed to eat sometimes. Danny would obediently eat when the man was there, but the leftovers often went to rot. He felt bad about it. That was food that could go to someone else, someone who needed it more. But he could never bring himself to eat without company. It felt wrong. Ghosts didn’t eat. Didn’t need to eat. Often he would open the fridge and just stare. Stare at the food that was made for him, the food that he was allowed and encouraged to eat. It felt like too much and he’d shut the door.

He’d been drifting through the kitchen when the walkie-talkie Red used to talk to him from a distance with crackled to life. They’d tried regular burner phones, but something about Danny’s whole- being, didn’t agree with good signal. So after pouring a little bit of his own ectoplasm into the radio, the walkie-talkie seemed to be the only thing to work.

“You there, Fetcher?” Hood’s voice was extra staticky through his mask and the radio, but at least he didn’t seem hurried or in pain. Starting a mission or patrol instead of in the middle of one, then. Danny really didn’t like it when Hood called on him because he was injured, hated seeing the man in pain like that even as he felt honored to be trusted.

Three taps against the speaker. Yes.

Danny couldn’t exactly talk into the radio and without working burner phones he couldn’t text. So they had a system of taps that Hood could hear instead. Three for yes, four for no. Two taps for help, and five for false alarm.

“Good. We got some fuckers trying to take back territory for Black Mask. Need you to help me scare ‘em shitless.”

Three taps. Pause. Three more. Hell yes.

“Good boy,” and damn if that didn’t give him a highly inappropriate shiver. “Meet me on the roof and we’ll plan our ambush from there.”

Well, here’s hoping for a fun night of bashing heads and shooting out kneecaps.

═════ ◈ ═════

Danny stumbled into the tiny bathroom of his apartment, clutching his stomach in a bid to stem the flow of toxic green blood, gloved fingers slick with the substance.

His free hand slammed down onto the sink counter for balance as he wobbled and he made the mistake of looking up. Looking up into the mirror.

He never looked at his reflection. Hated the sight of it. The reminder that he was no longer human. Would never be human again. The thing that gazed back at him from the surface of the mirror was a monster. With the lights off in the bathroom it was extra eerie. Black hooded figure blending into the shadows, nothing standing out except for the pinpricks of glowing green eyes- reflecting like tapeta lucidum from under his tinted visor. The outline of his breathing apparatus just barely there, like the maw of a beast just barely in view. The only other source of light was the glow of the blood dripping through his white gloved hand.

He turned from his reflection with disgust and tumbled into the bathtub, hoping to rest and soak in whatever ectoplasm he lost. Here he could just- lay down and also not make a mess. He’d hate to have Red Hood flambe another couch because of him.

He hadn’t meant to get shot. Honest. He’d gone intangible, he knew he did. The bullet should have never hit his abdomen. It should never have caused as much damage as it was currently doing. He was bleeding so much… Man he really hoped Hood didn’t show up while he was trying to heal in the bathtub. He didn’t need to face the man while delirious with blood loss again. The first time was embarrassing enough, he didn’t want a second.

The wound was healing so slowly… There was something about that bullet. About that gun. Something wasn’t adding up here.

It was like he’d been hit with one of his parent’s inventions all over again.

Black Mask wouldn’t deal in ectoplasm, would he? What use would he have for it? He’d heard something about a kryptonite shipment that Hood was planning to ambush, so maybe the rarity? It was from another dimension after all. Didn’t matter that the place where Amity used to be was still crawling with it and so was Gotham. It wasn’t easily harvestable for humans. The GIW or his parents might be the only ones with a good supply, and even then they couldn’t control what type it was. For weapons it might be useful, if it was combative ecto. Some people had adverse reactions; tingling, numbing, temporary paralysis. If you were a ghost or ghost adjacent it was worse. So much worse.

In the beginning, most Amity Parkers were fine if they got hit by a blaster, just annoyed and covered in goo. But as time went on and more and more people were exposed, more and more of them started becoming susceptible to the many uses ectoplasm could have. Good to use for healing with the regenerative ecto but also more likely to be hit by a stray blast of combative ecto and not come back up. His high school classmates had been particularly vulnerable, having been infected multiple times directly. The combative type would take them down and then the healing type would bring them right back up. It could take time, though, if you were human- time some of his classmates hadn’t had enough of.

They’d lost a lot of people before they realized they had to be more careful with their shots. Before they realized that the thing that was killing them could also bring them back. Stupid. It’d all been so stupid. It had taken so, so many times of him trying to frantically heal everyone hit before his parents arrived to shoot him indiscriminately, before anyone realized he was trying to help them. And even then they hadn’t trusted him. It was one of the last things he did before giving up on being human. The last time he’d pretended to be alive, just to sneak into his parent’s lab and leave them a sample of regenerative ectoplasm and a theory written in his dad’s handwriting.

It didn’t matter how careful his parents pretended to be with it- the suits, the breathing apparatuses, the heavy gloves and protective eye-wear- they still slung it around in the name of taking down evil ghosts. Shots firing every which way- hitting people and poisoning the land around them. Whatever got the ghost. Whatever “saved the day”. It’s not like it actually hurt anyone, right?

Ectoplasm was a funny thing. It’s what ghosts were made of. What they fought with. What they ate and used to heal. What the lairs they inhabited were made of. Goo but with feelings. Multipurpose soul juice. The thing that he was losing a lot of…

Man, he was starting to feel a bit dizzy. He sure hoped the wound would start to heal itself soon, before he fainted and couldn’t do anything about it… Would be a silly way to fully go out. Bleeding out in a bathtub.

Oh, his vision was going black.

Well, it was no worse than the first time he died…

═════ ◈ ═════

He could remember the initial disappointment the most. How his parents had deflated so completely when the culmination of decades of work had failed them at the most pivotal point. He remembered the uncertainty- they could live off the patents, yes, but they weren’t exactly bought all that often and they mostly got by on the grant money. And if the grant money was gone because none of their inventions or theories or anything ever worked- then how would they survive? He remembered the despair. He remembered the relief he felt when the portal didn’t work at first. Maybe without the portal in the way his parents would pay more attention to him, spend more time with him. And then the guilt because his parents just looked so sad. He remembered the discomfort, the whole family dressed in their restrictive HazMat suits. He remembered how suffocating the SCBA felt to breathe in and how hard it was to move in. How hot it’d been. He remembered his parents ushering them all back to the entrance to dress down in heavy silence.

He remembered his parents going back to the drawing board, however dejectedly, and learning to resent the portal all the more for it.

And then Sam had presented him with a challenge. A dare. Goading him into exploring the portal on his own. To look into the maw of the monster and place himself inside its jaw. This was a mystery in need of exploring and Danny was the only one that could do it.

They’d huddled together, the three of them, at the entrance to the lab. Sam eager, Tucker reluctant, and Danny… Danny had been scared. They’d snuck in after his parents had left, and they’d been alone in the lab when they really, really shouldn’t have.

Uneasy, he had donned the HazMat suit once again. Piece by piece. White with black trim. Specifically designed by his parents to deal with non-vapor ectoplasm. Not that they’d seemed to ever encounter it. He had prepped all his pieces, made sure his tank was full of oxygen. Checked for cracks and tears. His hands had shaken the entire time. He had pulled the mask over his face, pulled the overalls over his jeans and clipped them into place. He had snapped the nitrile gloves on, tearing one in the process and having to get another. He had then stopped to watch his hands flex under the gray material, trying to put off the inevitable. The hooded coverall had come next, slipping his socked feet into the strange material of the white suit. His socks had been mismatched- one red and one blue. Then the black boots with steel toes and shanks. Then the outer gloves. Then the tape to seal it all in. To seal him in his tomb. And lastly he had shrugged on the tank and connected it to his mask and turned the oxygen on. And with heavy, heavy feet, he’d made his way into the lab proper. To the dreaded portal.

He could remember the chill he’d felt, before he’d even stepped near. Remembered the sense of impending doom. He’d taken one last look back at his friends, taking in the hesitant thumbs up from Tucker and the happy shooing motion from Sam. She’d thought it all so cool. Thought that trying to study ghosts, trying to punch a hole in their dimension to do it, was all just fascinating. After though… After she couldn’t even think about ghosts without paling, without running. Running from him.

He’d seen the pale imitation of a reflection in the glass that sectioned off the entrance from the lab proper, face unrecognizable behind his mask and gaping hole of darkness set behind him. Translucent like he was already a ghost. He’d pulled the small flashlight his suit had within its pockets and had shone it into the abyss. Small glow piercing the sticky shadows. He’d felt the livewire energy beneath his feet when he’d stepped inside, but did not heed the warning. It was just wires and metal plating. Nothing more and nothing less. It was another of his parent’s failed inventions. He’d thought nothing more of it before diving further in.

The cables. The cables that his parents- his mother more- had been adamant about keeping tied away and neatly stored within the machine itself had been strewn about. A result of his father’s frustrated tinkering in the aftermath. And what had it mattered to him that he hadn’t placed them back where they should have gone? His prized invention was moot, anyway. There was no harm in leaving a mess when the mess was inert. When nothing was likely to happen anyway.

But Danny hadn’t seen them. His pen light had been facing above, checking the upper pallet of the monster he had climbed inside. Checking for teeth. And then he’d tripped. And he’d felt fear like he’d never felt before. Heart-stopping. He’d faintly heard the grumbling roar of a hungry beast, felt the eagerness like it’d been palpable around him. And his hand had landed on a button that shouldn’t have been there. The secondary on switch that had been forgotten about. Until that moment.

And after that it was nothing but pain. Burning, scorching, tearing. Fire and shock and blinding white pain like he’d never experienced in his life before. Like he was melting and being ripped to shreds at the same time.

And all he remembered was screaming and screaming and screaming. And there had been nothing but green and green and green until it all. Went. Black.

Anything that had immediately happened after his half-death was a blur. Stumbling out of the portal feeling wrong. Not even noticing that he was completely alone in the lab. That Sam and Tucker had fled with the flash and the screaming. He barely remembered doffing his gear, completely haphazardly and with no regard to the burnt and melting pieces. Collapsing on the bench and blacking out until he was being shaken awake by his sister. Jazz had been crying, taking in the lichtenburg scar that was less lighting through his veins as more burns across his skin in the same pattern. She’d been desperately shaking him awake. He remembered looking over and seeing his parents watching the swirling green of the functioning portal with gleeful awe. His mother turning with a question on her lips before it all morphed into concern. He remembered his mother and father being so worried about him as they had loaded him up into an ambulance. But he’d also remembered that the portal had come first. That the portal had always come first.

Scratchy sheets and thin blankets. Bland jello and plain broth as his vocal chords healed from being shredded by his screaming. Burn cream and bandages. Stress tests and neurological checks. Can you squeeze my hands? Breath deep for me. Look into this light. Can you raise your arms? Twitching nerves and bradycardia. Hands that would shake under stress and a temperature permanently low- no matter how many times they placed him under the heated air blanket- the bair-hugger. All he’d ever felt was suffocated. Overheated. Drowning.

Low, low, low. Everything had been low. Dangerously. Blood pressure check. Low. Alarmed Nurses and Doctors, checking and rechecking. Adjusting the cuff, moving the cuff, using a manual cuff. Low, lower, lowest. Heart rate check. Too low. Too, too low. Stand up. Sit down. Walk. Move. Please, please move. And it would get higher, just a little bit. Acceptable. But not for having just been forced to jog. Respiration check. Slow, slower, slowest. Breathing any faster had made him feel like he was going to panic. Temperature check. Freezing. Frigid. Too low, again and again. He’d never felt so cold in his life. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

But his heart was still beating, however slow. His lungs were still expanding, however infrequent. He was still alive. Mostly. Probably. Right?

Sam and Tuck never visited.

And then the changes began.

It didn’t happen until he’d been released from the hospital. Cleared only after meeting with every specialist under the sun and getting hesitant approval for outpatient care. Talks of pacemakers, burn treatments, and invasive surgeries in his future. And then he fell through his bed.

Not out of. Not on top of. Through.

He’d woken up in a panic underneath his bed- and holy shit had it been rank under there, he really needed to clean more- in the dark and in the dust, not knowing what had happened. He’d crawled out from under it and flopped back onto his bedspread, heedless of whatever grossness he’d dragged with him. He’d been too tired to think about why he’d woken up under the bed, but in the morning- bed sheets covered in dust- it had been harder to forget. But there had been no answers, not then. Nothing to even guess at, nothing at all to tell him that he hadn’t just died in that accident, but had become the monster under his own bed. Inhuman.

He’d woken up a different day, feeling heavy and like it was hard to breathe. He’d felt disoriented and out of sorts. Then he’d seen his hands. Covered in gloves. White, rubbery, chemical-resistant gloves. And with dawning horror he’d looked down and seen those heavy white steel-toed boots. And the bunched black material of a hazmat suit. The colors were wrong- he was wrong. But it was the same suit. The same one he’d almost died in. And suddenly he’d realized that maybe that almost wasn’t as almost as he’d first thought. That there hadn’t been an almost at all, just death. Just. Death.

And then he’d spiraled. Had he been pretending this whole time? Convinced himself and everyone else he was alive when he’d really been a wolf in sheep’s clothing? A monster just waiting to tear off the thin veneer of life he’d disguised himself with?

And then there had been a knock on his door and the surprise of the sound had shocked him into reverting back to human form. And from there the process had been slow and painful, but he’d learned. Learned of the word Halfa, the term Fetch, and what it meant for him. Learned how to fight, quick and dirty, in order to prevent himself and the rest of his town from becoming full ghosts. Learned that despite his heroics, deep down, he was still a monster. Other. He’d never been exactly normal, not with parents like his, but now it felt impossible to be comfortable in his own skin. Unsettling. Disturbing. Nightmarish. A creepy little boy with creepy little powers. It was all he’d become and all he’d ever be. Didn’t matter how cool the powers were on the surface, how much he distracted himself from the truth by playing with them. He’d still had to deal with the fact that he was no longer human. Not fully. And no one knew. Nobody would ever know. He’d seen to that.

Not that it mattered now. Not with everybody gone. Long gone. And it was all his fault.

═════ ◈ ═════

“Son of a bitch,” came the familiar static of Rad Hood’s voice, rousing Danny from his dazed state. “Don’t you fucking die on me you limp noodle!”

Danny wanted to groan. He could feel bandages tightening around his midsection, hands- shaking hands?- winding the fabric around a tender bullet hole, parts of his suit cut off and leaving his skin vulnerable to the air when it so rarely was.

No. Danny clumsily signed. It was one of the few things he could sign, along with- Good.

“No,” Red said angrily, “you are not good. I had to fish a bullet out of you, Fetcher!”

He sounded distressed. Or maybe that was just Danny still delirious from blood loss. Again. He really needed to stop doing that. He let out a calming trill, hoping that would get the man to relax and stop yelling. It did not.

“Don’t you make stupid noises at me, Jellyfish,” he reprimanded, voice terse. He was close, so very close, hands still busy wrapping up Danny’s abdomen. Red’s body loomed over his, crammed into the tiny space of the tub. He could see the tweezers and saline and suspiciously green bullet still sitting on the lid of the toilet next to them. “You’re a fucking dumbass coming back here and just laying in your stupid toxic blood. What were you planning to do? Marinate? Idiot.”

He wanted to protest. He signed another No. And even tapped out four taps for a No he would use for the walkie-talkie for good measure. He hadn’t exactly planned to keep bleeding into the bathtub, alright? How was he supposed to know the bullet would stay lodged in there? I mean, sure, he could have made an educated guess before passing out, but still.

“What kind of guy that can density-shift gets shot in the first place, anyway?”

Danny rolled his eyes and smacked Hood’s shoulder for that. Not his fault the bullets were phase-proof when they shouldn’t have been.

“Don’t you smack me when I’m trying to save your life,” he grumbled, tying off the wrapping and sitting up. “Asshole.”

Red crossed his arms and glared down at Danny, his bulk almost blocking out the light above them. His knees caged in Danny’s hips and they were awfully, awfully close. Damned blood loss again.

He sighed without making sound, his shoulders rising even as he felt a twinge from his would pulling. With the bullet out he’d start healing in no time. Not that Red knew that. He patted Hood’s thigh in reassurance and immediately regretted it. What the hell kind of juicy-ass thighs did this man have? What the fuck. He needed to focus, dammit.

He motioned with the other hand for something to write with, scribbling in the air.

“Don’t you carry a whiteboard?” Red asked flatly.

Danny pointed to the wrappings around his wound. He kept the whiteboard and marker in his chest. He couldn’t phase that out right now if he tried. He couldn’t phase anything right now. He was surprised to find that he was even still in his phantom form, probably thanks to Hood’s interference, otherwise his core would have retreated into itself and used all other available ectoplasm to heal while in “human” form.

Red shook his head and climbed out of the tub. “Alright, alright, jellyfish. H-up we go.”

How many times was Danny just going to be casually scooped up by this guy and carried like a princess? Twice was already too many to keep his dignity intact. Once again he was plopped onto the couch and left as Red rooted around for something to write with. Deja vu, much?

He came back with a legal pad and a purple crayon. Why crayons? Always crayons?

“Explain,” he demanded, handing off the utensils.

Danny grabbed a cushion and used it as a makeshift table of sorts to balance the legal pad on and began writing. At least this time he could use his hands properly. Even if they were shaky from the anemia.

Bullets didn’t pass through like they should have. Something is wrong. They shouldn’t be like that. Coated in something Black Mask shouldn’t have access to.

He flipped the pad around, Red grabbing the edge to keep it steady as he read.

“Well, kid,” he said, slowly. “Looks like you’re fucked.”

Danny flipped him off. Not helpful, Red.

“Any idea what this substance is that our number one enemy shouldn’t have is?” he asked, settling down to sit on the flimsy coffee table right beside the couch. Danny was surprised it could hold his weight.

The question made him pause, though. Did he tell Red Hood about ectoplasm? Risk the man finding out more about what, exactly, kind of monster he insisted on harboring in his territory? Risk his only ally ratting him out to the GIW?

He kept silent, hesitant. He trusted Red. He did. But not that much, not yet. If it became a bigger problem, became a problem that was going to hurt others, then he’d confess. But for now he shook his head, hoping Red would take his silence as contemplative instead of edgy.

(The incident with the knife that had left Red Hood himself paralyzed with a dangerously growing weakness, was far from his mind. He hadn’t seen the green sheen to the knife that cut the man. Had no reason to know that combative ectoplasm would have such harsh repercussions for him. The consequences of this were yet unknown.)

Hood hummed and Danny couldn’t tell if it was because he believed him or not but mercifully the man moved on. Unmercifully, Danny did not like the change in subject.

“You need more hand-to-hand if your powers are going to be useless. You rely on them too much as it is.”

Danny ripped a page from the legal pad and threw it at him. He knew how to fight just fine, thanks! Sure he’d learned it all on the fly, but still! He could brawl!

Red snickered as he caught the paper and threw it back. “Non-negotiable, jellyfish. I’m kicking your ass for almost dying on me tonight.”

Danny threw his hands up, exasperated. He hadn’t almost died! He’d have been fine! Probably. Maybe not. But still! No ass kicking required! He crossed his arms and tried to project the feeling of a pout. Maybe he could puppy-dog eye his way out of this. Red Hood was built like a tank and if he was the one that was going to teach Danny how to properly fight, then no thank you. He may be okay with the thought of dying by those thighs, but he’d rather not be bruised all to hell first. He also didn’t want to loose any more dignity and he was sure that sparring with Red would take all he had left.

“Nope,” Hood said cheerfully, ignoring Danny’s silent protests as he moved toward the kitchen and rummaged around Danny’s fridge. “No amount of sparkly-eyed looks will get you out of this, glowstick. I’m talking to Sandra in the morning and setting up a time in the dojo for us and that’s final.”

Danny waved his hand in a flopping motion, resigned. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. Woe be unto him and all that. Death by Hood punches it was.

“Why do you not have anything in this fucking fridge ever,” he heard Hood mutter, along with clinks and bangs as he moved about. “I swear to Batman’s furry ass if you haven’t eaten since Friday you’ll be wishing I killed you earlier tomorrow.”

Batman’s furry ass?! Tomorrow?!

“Don’t act surprised,” he rebuffed, voice still distracted as he dug through cabinets and gathered any and all cookware that was only there because Red brought it in the first place. “If you insist you’re fine I’m gonna treat you that way. I know you have accelerated healing.”

Danny slapped the couch cushions so Red Hood would properly hear his protests. Ancients, he really was going to die. Hood was going to kill him. Kill him good and dead. He was not long for this world. Goodbye, all, there wasn’t anything good keeping him here anyhow.

“Well, shit, at least you got cheese and bread. Somehow. How have neither of these gone bad already?”

Ooh, does that mean grilled cheese is on the menu? Suddenly he found his will to live.

He popped up from behind the couch like a meerkat looking towards the kitchen, excited at the possibility of cheesy-bready goodness. The only thing missing was tomato soup, but he knew he didn’t have that in his cabinets.

Hood leveled a threatening spatula at him as he turned to face the living room. “You. Get back down. Losers who bleed out because they agitated wounds don’t get the good stuff.”

Danny huffed and fell back into the couch. Spoilsport. It’s not like it even hurt anymore. He was fine. Would be fine. Probably.

Oh man, he was really gonna hate tomorrow. But tonight- grilled cheese and witty banter would heal his heart and soul. And probably also the ectoplasm. But, the power of Red Hood’s grilled cheese was not to be underestimated.

#naps fics #dp x dc #Our Empty Graves #dpxdc

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tectonicduck · 3 years

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Soooooo now that the show is over, does anyone have any fic rec lists?

#when I first started watching again in the fall I read a few written by people who clearly did not like Ian lol #and I don’t have time for that #also why write a pairing if you don’t like one of the characters I will never understand 😭#also don’t come at me saying mickey doesn’t have any viable options as if any of the Gallagher love interests had good alternatives #would you have wanted mickey having a Kenyatta or a Jody no I don’t think so 🙃#anyway now that I’m done being needlessly hostile let me know if there’s anything I should read! 😊

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wrienne · 3 years

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My Cheating, Amnesic Fiancé

Chapter 10: His Ring

Namjoon and Seokjin’s eyes widened, though you got no reaction from Yoongi. He was like an ominous presence, sitting at an angle you could only watch him through your peripheral view as you stared down at your hands.

“How?” asked Namjoon. “And how do you know that?”

“Yes, isn’t amnesia both incurable and irreversible?” wondered Hoseok. "That's what the doctor told us."

“Starting with that...”

While explaining what you and Kim Sejin had spoken about that morning and the battle plan you had organized all day during school, all six of them were quiet. You finished with, “...I figured I could grab some of his clothes as well as hear your ideas about my plan.”

“It sounds like some kind of movie plot,” said Seokjin dubiously.

“Exactly what I told your manager,” you said and smiled half-heartedly. “But this is the only option we have. I, for one, refuse to let Jungkook lose all that he’s fought for. What all of you have fought for.”

“Even if it’s a slight chance, there’s still a possibility,” said Namjoon in agreement.

“What would you have us do, then?” asked Jimin.

“If you could write down a list, just as I have,” you said as you showed them your scribbles, “I’d have something more recent to go on from. I have never been very close to him, especially since his debut, so your input would help tremendously.”

“Why help him then?” Taehyung regarded you warily. His hard expression had gradually morphed into one of focus and attentiveness, but now you saw it teetering. Would he flare up again? “What do you have to gain?”

“Would you stop it?” Hoseok gave Taehyung a harsh glare, which made Namjoon and Seokjin look curiously at him. Hoseok pointed at Taehyung. “This one almost lost it downstairs, blaming Jungkook’s accident on (Y/N). Taehyung, you coming at her doesn’t exactly help the situation.”

“Hyung,” said Taehyung coolly. “Everyone with half a brain understands that she and Jungkook parted on unfriendly terms. Have you ever heard him curse like that - especially to a girl who is supposed to be a ‘family friend’? And he wouldn’t speak to anyone at all until Sejin-manager had taken us to the bar. She made him drink and run out on the street.”

“He’s halfway right,” said Seokjin as he scrutinized you. “I’ve never seen our Jungkook that mad.”

“Exactly,” said Taehyung triumphantly. “So you better tell us the truth: what do you have to gain from Jungkook?”

“Nothing,” you said earnestly, then fumbled as you tried to structure the rest of your reply. Technically, you had absolutely nothing to gain from Jeon Jungkook’s potential recovery and reascent to the music industry’s top. Meanwhile, it would take you more than three months of hard work and utter, genuine dedication to even have a shot at getting him to Japan. It could all just prove to be a waste of time. Minutes, hours, days, weeks better spent on you and yourself. Not to mention, that bastard had been unfaithful to you for who knows how long, in addition to having treated you sometimes like air, sometimes like dirt and sometimes like you were his worst enemy in the world.

But still. Still. You couldn’t abandon Jeon Jungkook in his time of need.

“It doesn’t make sense,” said Taehyung and crossed his arms over his chest. “Jungkook told me you disliked each other, and that you couldn’t stand him. So why?”

“I just…”

You grasped after the right words. Your mind was muddled, however, so you had no choice but to simply follow the second voice-in-command: your heart.

“If you were me,” you began carefully, “would you have allowed the son of your parents’ best friend to forget his childhood dream? I’ve known Jungkook all of my life - we’ve grown up together, spent every holiday with one another and celebrated everything from birth, life and death side by side. He was horrible most of the time, I’ll say that, but he was there for me when others weren’t. You might believe my family fortunes and good name generated friends wherever I went, but no. It didn’t. I’ve been on my own pretty much all my life.”

You hadn’t meant for the conversation to suddenly turn so personal, but there you sat, pouring your heart out to six strangers. Perhaps that’s what made therapy so popular. People listening to other people’s problems.

You took a deep breath. “When my grandparents died, Jungkook was the first one to each of their funerals. When I was about ten or so and fell down a cliff during a hike with our parents and broke my collarbone, Jungkook was the one who found me and dragged me back to camp. He practically saved my life. Now, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have been able to look myself in the mirror if I just left him the way he is now, especially when I have a chance to help.”

No matter his betrayal.

“I have no clue what Jungkook told you about me, but I would never premeditate hurting or upsetting or exploiting him in any way.” You cleared your throat, grimacing as your windpipe had tightened with every word you said. “Now yesterday was the first time I saw you guys on stage. And though I possess no particular experience in show business or even an ounce of musical talent, I saw--no, felt that he belonged up there. Still - and I haven't told you all - would you have left him if you were me? Abandoned him for old grudges?”

You hadn’t noticed how hard you were clutching your hands together. Not until you felt the odd, ticklish sensation signifying a lack of blood and circulation did you realize that your knuckles and fingers had whitened. You loosened up and caught Taehyung’s eyes.

“No,” he said, immediately casting down his focus. “I guess not.”

“What we spoke of is private,” you said quietly, feeling your chest constrict in pain at the memory. “It is something I can never disclose. But the conversation wasn’t of a threatening or hostile nature, and if I knew he would run out drunkenly on a street because of my decision, I would have never made it. I would never, ever wish Jungkook harmed.”

No one spoke. Taehyung didn’t raise his gaze.

You sniffled. Hoseok quickly came back from the hallway with some tissues and handed you them. You wiped your eyes and were relieved to find the tissue only slightly damp. You weren’t bawling, at least, though the mere presence of tears made you frown - you didn’t exactly have something to cry for. You weren’t somber or filled with grief at the memory of your grandparents' funerals. However, you were extremely tired and weary after last night’s escapade to the hospital. And your conversation with your parents hadn’t exactly done much to brighten up your mood.

You almost chuckled. You were used to calling Jungkook stupid, but who was the bigger fool, really?

Considering how the next three months would progress, it was ironic, it truly was.

“What should we do?” asked Hoseok finally, breaking the silence.

“Let’s split up into groups,” said Namjoon after said someone’s stomach grumbled. “Jin-hyung and I will get to cooking since it’s our turn anyway. The rest of you can start with a list each.”

“What are we even supposed to write?” Jimin scratched the back of his head.

“It might be a bit personal,” you told him, “but it probably has to be in order for it to be memorable. Just write down anything you might have done with Jungkook that you feel affected your relationship in any major way.”

“Write down anything that you imagine Jungkook might have remembered up until the accident,” added Namjoon and slowly stood. “Like the time we went bungee jumping or traveled to Northern Europe.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” you said.

“And you’re going to do what with this information?” wondered Seokjin, standing also. “Isn’t it better if we just meet up with him and tell him all of this? Try to remind him while face-to-face?”

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t say he’s scared of you. But he doesn’t trust anyone and might straight-up refuse to listen to any of you. And even if some of you manage to convince him to hear you out, what if it turns out he doesn’t remember? That might make you frustrated at him or just left feeling needlessly hurt. Furthermore, I don’t want to stress him out any more than he already is. Imagine, it must be like waking up from a five or so year long dreamless sleep for him and suddenly he’s overwhelmed with the eager input from six or so people telling him he knows them the way he did.”

“Okay,” said Jimin with a nod. “Who has some pen and paper?”

“I do,” said Hoseok, then disappeared into one of the rooms. He came out with a notebook and tore out a page for everyone except you, Seokjin and Namjoon, then returned with an equal number of pens.

Namjoon and Seokjin headed into the kitchen while Taehyung, Jimin and Hoseok eventually started discussing what would count as a “memorable memory”. Yoongi quietly pondered his sheet of paper, his dark gaze fixed upon the clean slate while he tapped his pen against the table surface.

He briefly found your eyes but said nothing.

Swallowing hard, you carefully unzipped your jacket and hung it over your chair as well as placed your duffel bag underneath your chair. Feeling uncomfortable just sitting there, you rose while putting up your hair with a hair tie and poked your head into the kitchen.

“Is there something I can do to help?” you asked.

Seokjin was instructing Namjoon when he stopped and looked at you over the latter’s shoulder. “No, we’ll be alright. You can just sit with the others.”

You wouldn’t have minded just sitting and watching them if not for Yoongi’s watchful eyes. But since you couldn’t exactly say that, you smiled sheepishly. “I’m sort of not used being around so many guys.”

“No male cousins or siblings?”

“None.” Your smile fell a bit. “It’s a small family.”

“How long are you staying?” asked Namjoon. He had begun washing vegetables in the sink.

“Oh, not very long,” you said quickly. “I wouldn’t want to intrude for any longer than dinner. And I told Jungkook I’d be back at six.”

Seokjin and Namjoon looked at each other hesitantly. The latter shrugged, and Seokjin found your gaze again.

“Would you mind setting the table, then?” he asked.

About half an hour later, all seven of you were busy eating homemade tteokbokki and bought gimbap. They asked you about you and Jungkook, how long you had known each other, what school you went to, and so on. The lists had been compiled into one master list, courtesy of Namjoon, who had wanted to organize all of their ideas into relevant categories, like years, members and places. You hadn’t even been aware of how hungry you had been until then and ate quicker than everyone else. Or well, almost.

“It’s almost six o’clock,” said Min Yoongi as he stood. “Come, (Y/N). Someone’s got to show her to Jungkook’s things and Namjoon is still eating,” he explained at everyone’s confused frown.

“Oh, I had almost forgotten.”

You rose and began carrying your dishes to the kitchen when Jimin stopped you. “Let it be,” he said. “I’ll take care of it. You better get back to Jungkook.”

“Thank you,” you said, then looked at everyone seated at the table. For once, Taehyung didn’t look at you with poorly disguised fury. “Thank you for the food, and for your help. I really appreciate it, and I know Jungkook would as well.”

“We’ll finish the last of the master list meanwhile,” said Hoseok as you bent to pick up your duffel bag. “Try to steal some of Namjoon’s stuff. He has way too many clothes that fall underneath the ‘hobo’ category.”

“It’s ‘boho’ I tell you,” mumbled Namjoon as he covered his mouth with his hand. “It’s a popular fashion style overseas.”

“That might be, but you make it ‘hobo’.”

Namjoon sighed as the others laughed.

You smiled at Hoseok, who returned the gesture, then turned anxiously toward Yoongi. He gestured for you to come and you followed him into the same room Namjoon and Seokjin had exited from. The bedroom was small, with only barely enough space for two single beds, a wardrobe, a tall mirror and a desk with a lamp, but surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the apartment.

Yoongi closed the door shut after you, then led you to the swelling wardrobe, which almost reached from the floor to the ceiling. He opened the wardrobe doors and pointed in a general area of blacks, jeans and whites. There was a surplus of beanies, mouth masks and brand underwear as well.

“That half is Jungkook’s,” said Yoongi as he opened the wardrobe doors and pointed in a general area. “Though some of his clothes might be in the washing machine or drying.”

“I think he can manage with this,” you said as you began placing one item after another into your duffel bag.

You didn’t know exactly how much you needed to grab, but when you considered the bleak possibility that Jungkook might not ever return to the apartment again, you decided to take everything of his at least in the wardrobe. While initially conscientious - you knew how prim Jungkook could be with his things - you took it slow, placing clothes like Tetris. Then, realizing it would take hours, you just shoveled as much as you could into the bag.

You tried to ignore the pair of slim dark eyes silently watching your every move.

“Is there anything else of his in here?” you asked Yoongi when you were finished. The duffel bag actually looked like a body bag now, but would still have some room left over for a phone charger or a headset or so.

“He has a laptop and some gadgets he carries in a small bag.”

It didn’t take you long to find the computer and you carefully placed it inside a computer bag marked “JK”. You found chargers, a mouse and a headset inside the bag first, though, which you poured into the duffel bag instead. When you were finished, however, and started toward the door, Yoongi stopped you.

You frowned and tried not to sound frightened, but felt your heartbeats surge into a gallop. “Hey, what--”

And you stopped so abruptly you almost choked on your words. You had wondered where Jungkook’s engagement band was, ever since you saw its obviously vacant place on his finger the evening before. But now you knew.

Held between his index finger and thumb, Min Yoongi raised the promise ring your parents had given Jungkook, its circular, golden shape familiar to you. His expression didn't change, nor did his voice.

“At which point of the dinner were you going to tell us about your and Jungkook’s engagement?”

#MCAF #wrienne #ao3 #bts fanfiction #bts x reader

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katsidhe · 3 years

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Hello as a long time silent lurker with post notifications on, and someone who has been very into the minecraft roleplay for about 9 months, I am oh so incredibly intrigued on your thoughts! I hope you don't mind if I ramble a little. Sam (both minecraft and spn, but in this context the minecraft one) is one of my favourite characters because he's so incredibly complex. The prison story has sparked so much discussion and conflict in this fandom, so I would love to hear your thoughts if you want to share!

oh noooooooooooo don’t enable me. (Jk <3)

I’m putting this under a read more for those of you who don’t want to be inflicted with my minecraft roleplay brain worms. I would apologize but I think we’re well past that.

So, like, full disclosure that I am pretty new to dsmp and am surely missing out on big ol swathes of Essential Character Content, etc etc. But I do know the basics, and I’ve (naturally) watched all the Torture Box Content, because I mean come on, that’s my brand.

k so First of all, THE most essential part of any media: x-coded y girl. Dream is a textbook Cas-coded Sam girl. Sam (Minecraft) is a Cas-coded Dean girl. Quackity is a Dean-coded Sam girl. I’d say Tommy is Dean-Dean. Techno is, hmm, Cas-Cas. Okay, important part done.

Minecraft Sam is very fun! I find it absolutely delightful that he clings to moral high ground while torturing and starving a prisoner. And at least from what I’ve seen, there’s a lot of room for interpretation as to the level of guilt and involvement he actually feels about what’s being done to Dream. He goes back and forth between justifying the treatment as something Dream categorically deserves, and justifying it as a means to an end. Whether that end is the book itself, or whether it’s Quackity’s cooperation/satisfaction, or whether it’s some twisted and bloody sense of justice and duty, seems to vary wildly. On top of that, of course, is the irony that Dream was the one to give him this commission and this job in the first place: in every respect, it’s a duty to Dream (to punish him; to secure him; to uphold his rules) that Sam’s fulfilling. Dream isn’t the only one to suffer from Sam’s inflexibility surrounding the entire concept of Dream: Tommy and Ponk do too.

And yet it’s not the inflexibility that ends up hurting Dream the worst: it’s the gaps in that rigidity. If Sam had kept the prison operating as apparently originally commissioned, it would be inhumane but just about bearable: hardly the level of absurd, over-the-top war crime that it’s reached by now. His choice to begin starving Dream in earnest seems to have been mostly an emotional reaction, after Tommy’s death. (Ironic, too, that Tommy also suffered the result of this choice.) And this is fine, because it’s not active: it’s passive, something that’s happening by inaction. Same with giving Quackity specially made weapons and total carte blanche.

The level of trust that Dream has in Sam’s sense of duty is also fascinating. Even as late as the most recent stream, after the guy’s been permitting him to be tortured for months, Dream appeals to Sam’s need to keep Dream static, in one place as his prisoner, in order to save his life. Incidentally, I do think that convincing Sam to keep Quackity from straight-up murdering him is the only concession Dream was actually hoping to win with that conversation. because like, food and a courtyard visit? after a jail break? Like hell is Sam going to grant that, even before the stunt he and Techno pulled, and Dream knows it. I think that the rest of that conversation was just to deflect, and keep Sam from questioning Dream more sharply about whatever he and Techno have planned. Bringing up Tommy and letting Sam go off on his predictable diatribe about morality and just desserts seemed similarly strategic: Dream knows what Sam thinks about what kind of treatment he deserves. He’s had months to figure it out, and it wasn’t exactly rocket science to begin with.

Anyway, that trust is the same reason Dream appealed (unsuccessfully) to Sam when Quackity first showed up: it devastated him to realize that he’d miscalculated the degree of Sam’s willingness to set aside his duty in this one particular way. Quackity in general represents a HUGE blind spot in Sam’s otherwise completely rigid inflexibility: so huge it’s almost baffling, given what Sam was ready to do to Tommy and Ponk and Ghostbur. But Quackity represents a loophole Sam badly wants. He badly, badly wants some good old-fashioned vengeance, without dressing it up with any pretensions of procedure or justice, but he can’t allow himself to actively act on those impulses—or else he would be Bad, and he can’t have that. He has to believe himself to be Good, and he wants to indulge himself with Dream’s suffering anyway. So he explains that, actually, Dream’s treatment is Dream’s own fault. It’s hilariously deluded.

Which brings me to Quackity, because what makes Quackity fun is that he’s actually NOT hilariously deluded—not about this, at least. Unlike Sam, he’s not laboring under the insane mental acrobatics necessary to convince himself that torture is Good Actually. He knows that what he’s doing is terrible, but he owns it: he’s fine admitting that he enjoys it, that he’s doing this for personal gain and personal vengeance and not for reasons of high-minded civic duty. He’s justifying the torture with brutal simplicity: Dream has hurt him and Dream has something he needs, done and done. He seems to be a firm believer in vengeful and disproportionate retribution, just as with his whole Butcher Army thing. To which I say, neat and fun! I also really really enjoy the power dynamic between him and Dream. Dream is someone who commands respect and fear and power, who could murder Quackity with one hand tied behind his back if they were on equal footing, and who probably barely spared him a thought as a threat. Quackity lives in terror of the thought of Dream escaping and wreaking his vengeance. And Quackity is trying his very best to wrestle that power away from him.

He seems to be pretty unpracticed and ineffective at torture, too—like, yeah, I get this is Minecraft and props are limited, but torturing someone long-term with an ax and a sword is going to be more than a bit unwieldy. and did he even bring in health potions his first day? It’s pretty telling and hilarious that Sam is the one who offers the shears, a far more practical choice of tool. Not to mention that the entire premise of his interrogation gives Dream massive, massive incentive to never give Quackity anything. Quackity straight up admits to Dream that the information he wants is the only reason he’s letting Dream live, which is utterly counterproductive if he wants the book sometime this year. Functionally, he needs to torture Dream not merely into admission, but into suicide. And as the days and weeks and months pass, he’s still got nothing to show for it but growing vindictiveness, paranoia, and frustration. By the time of the latest stream, he’s completely lost the plot—his threats don’t even make sense, his violence is ineffective and unhinged and indiscriminate. He’s lost all leverage and he’s needlessly (re)made a powerful enemy in Technoblade.

So, like, characters like Lucifer are fun because they’re good at torture. Characters like Quackity are fun because they’re bad at torture. But that doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t need to be particularly talented, or strong, or skilled to make Dream’s existence hell: the bare facts of the situation are more than enough for that. What does he learn, over the course of these visits—what skills does he hone, what kinds of violence does he discover that he can stomach? What depths of ruthlessness and creativity and hatred does he discover within himself? What threats does he make that he finds himself following through on before he’s even thought through the implications? It’s a learning curve, for him and Dream both. They’re learning each other, they’re learning the corners of this little hell together. Dream wasn’t expecting him to be capable of this degree of hostility or violence. Quackity is sick of being underestimated.

Which brings me finally to Dream. My general and hastily-gleaned impression of the fandom gives me the distinct impression that there is somehow a school of thought convinced Dream’s earned this treatment? Which baffles me. not only in how its absurd extremity (daily torture in a tiny box for literal months, jesus fucking christ) isn’t something even the most terrible villain could earn, but also in how Dream himself strikes me more as a morally gray fallen/falling antihero type than anything else. I was honestly completely prepared to find him to be a straightforward Bad Guy pre-prison, but that’s not at all my impression. He’s clearly got people and things he cares about and wants to protect, and big picture goals he’ll ruthlessly sacrifice anything to advance (ahem Cas-coded Sam girl). Really, it’s more that roleplays don’t tend to lend themselves easily to those types of narrative classification: nearly every character is a POV character; consuming the content from every perspective is nearly impossible. There aren’t super neat ways to sort antagonists and protagonists in essential terms, only in their relationships to one another. In terms of manipulation, war crimes, power-grabbing, and general destruction, practically everyone on the server is guilty to some degree or another. Dream’s treated Tommy pretty damn terribly, but that hardly makes him unique. What does make Dream unique is that he’s been singled out for near-universally-agreed-upon confinement (which oh so conveniently aligns with him being held as a tool, for information). And that’s neat!

…Look, tldr I just like it when people are in torture boxes. more media should have torture boxes, they are good and fun.

#not spn #anyway nonny I would LOVE to chat more about this tbh #suicide mention #torture #dsmp for ts

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