#dc prattles

[hayaku14]

WDYM DCMK TAMAGOTCHI IM GOING INSANE

#detective conan #dcmk #edogawa conan #kaitou kid #kaishin #I WILL GO INSANE I WANT BOTH SO BAD WTF #i literally opened an old wishlist letter to myself when i was a kid saying i wanted a tamagotchi (which i never had) #BRUH I WANT THEM SO BAD WTF 😭 #first the watch then this??????? #oh you fuckers over there in dcmk headquarters know exactly what yall doing i swear when i get my hand sob you 😩😩😩 #dc prattles

[tourettesdog]

DP x DC prompt where John Constantine has a no good, very bad, terrible week.

Constantine gets a little in over his head when he visits Amity Park. He is sent there to investigate strange reports of the paranormal and evaluate the threat the town is dealing with. John always assumed that Amity Park was a tourist trap destination with nothing more than Halloween decorations and perhaps a couple of shades. Unfortunately for him, the ghosts are very real.

To make matters worse, it seems like children are the ones fighting the ghosts (children of the human and ghost variety, oddly enough). Constantine can’t even get in contact with the League to report these findings; his comm has been nothing but static since he stepped foot in Amity Park.

To make matters still worse, the children-- particularly the goth girl-- are very mean. They do not trust John in the slightest and are unwilling to talk about anything pertaining to ghosts with him. The ghost boy, Phantom, won’t even let John get within 50 feet of him before he disappears. Considering John can feel power radiating from the ghost at that range, it might be for the best.

John decides his next best move is to pay a visit to the local ghost hunters, the Drs. Fenton.

The name Fenton is not new to John; he’s familiar with their research. They’re brilliant inventors, but he doesn’t think much of them in the way of “ectobiologists”. There’s entirely too much speculation and bias in their findings.

Jack Fenton is a whirlwind of a man with entirely too much air in his lungs and bravado in his posture. John has to bite his tongue as the man rambles on and on about ghosts to him. The entire time he’s speaking, John is painfully aware of a strange and powerful presence coming from beneath the house.

John thinks he’ll have to finagle answers about it from the Drs. Fenton-- but is surprised when they lead him into their basement laboratory on a whimsical tour.

That surprise quickly turns to horror when he sees the giant hell portal in their basement.

John can hardly keep his composure, looking upon the portal-- feeling the death radiating from it. Jack continues his endless prattle about ghosts, with the occasional interjection from Maddie. To John’s mounting horror, Jack eagerly opens the blast doors of the portal.

He turns his back to the portal and John watches, wide-eyed, as a robotic ghost slips out and phases through the basement ceiling. Even Maddie doesn’t notice, leaving John to just stare, open-mouthed at their negligence. 

John can’t decide if he wants to scream, bellow his lungs out at the Fentons, or just turn around and leave.

Before he can decide between screaming and bailing, however, Constantine feels a familiar presence hurtling towards him. He turns around just in time to see the ceiling cave in as the robotic ghost smashes through it with Phantom clutched in his grip. John has no time to dodge before the pair careen into him, knocking him through the portal.

It's a struggle to find his bearings. One moment John is in the disorganized Fenton lab-- the next he's surrounded by a vast sea of green with far-off floating islands and doors. The ghosts continue to fight in the air beside him, seemingly oblivious to the change in venue.

Constantine can’t move to the portal, he can’t dodge-- he’s a sitting, floating duck as he watches the ghosts dogfight. Phantom’s powerful, but he’s not faring well against a new weapon that the other ghost-- Skulker-- seems to have. Things only worsen when Skulker takes notice of John and aims at him.

In a panic, Constantine tries to teleport-- at the same moment Phantom grabs him. 

Rather than freeing himself from the realm-- the Ghost Zone, Jack Fenton had called it-- the magic reacts badly. It twists, it warps, it hurts. 

For a moment, Constantine thinks the spell did nothing. He’s surrounded by the same expanse of green, floating islands, and doors. Only... the more he looks around, the more John realizes that the islands nearby are much closer and much more oddly shaped.

It’s not until Phantom begins to panic, darting around in circles, clutching his hair, shouting “What did you do? Where are we?” that John realizes they’re in trouble. That, wherever they are in this Ghost Zone, even Phantom doesn’t know how to get home.

#dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #dpxdc #prompt #danny phantom #dogposts #dogprompts

[cosmicgesture]

DP x DC Idea

ok hear me out- Ghost King Jason Todd. Bear with me a tick.

At the end of the first millennium of his rule, Pariah Dark was required and compelled by Zone Law to name an heir should he retire or shatter. (Not that anyone expected him to do either.) Still, it was a law of the zone itself, and it needled at his core worse than the Observants and their constant prattling.\

So, eventually, he grew annoyed enough by it that he declared his heir to be a liminal being. If that wasn’t controversial enough, he picked a random name that had yet to popularize in the mortal world, specified that the death was a violent one, and the death date? The death date was just numbers he happened to glance at in the moment, with the year set thousands of years away from the time the heir was named.

Pariah Dark figured, what are the chances someone with this name, of liminal nature, will die on this random date? Well, he knew of Clockwork (maybe knew him well, even), and knew there was always some slim chance. Still, he figured he could simply find his presumed heir and destroy him before he could try to claim the throne.

He didn’t expect to be locked up in the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.

When he’s freed during Reign Storm and notices the date, it’s one of his priorities to send a lookout for the random kid who would happen to be his heir. Danny and co. lock him up before he receives any information, and that ends up being kind of that.

There’s discussion in the Zone after that, about a potential ruler. Some think right-by-conquest applies, but others argue the technicalities of the matter - Danny did not act alone, did not beat Pariah Dark without help. Thus, it doesn’t count as Conquest (though it does put him in the high recommendations for the next king’s knight). There begins the questioning then: did Pariah Dark ever declare an heir? Few were left who remembered such a thing, but it was confirmed that he had indeed, though the information about said heir was scant and somewhat inconsistent. One story said the heir’s name was Jackson, and that he died tragically; another called him Jensen and claimed he still lived. So the search began, with inconsistent clues. Any place in the mortal realm with enough ectoplasm to sustain a ghost was a potential hiding place for the heir. They started in Amity Park and spread to other towns and cities. Some ghosts sought out newly dead that had died the day Pariah was locked back up again.

But who’d’ve thought to connect that the same day the sarcophagus locked again, a boy named Jason Todd rose from his grave?

#dp x dc #danny phantom #jason todd #pariah dark #ghost king jason todd #i really want to make this dead on main but this is all i've got #listen a throwaway line from danny fenton dead and loving it gave me a small brain worm #and it finally squirmed its way back with Content #HI LET ME CONTRIBUTE TO THE GIANT MASS OF AUS #my condolences to those who are sick of dc crossovers #hi i don't know shit about how jason rose from the grave but i don't care #his death date was the one pariah declared #he never expected the name jason to actually get popularized enough for there to be a greater chance #Clockwork didn't have to do anything #it just Happened on its own #anyway jason ended up the heir to the throne by pure chance and that declaration Guaranteed his ressurection #idk thats all i got im going to bed enjoy #oh actually no- danny does end up jason's knight #that's an important Thing #now i'm done

[leftoverenvy]

Tastes Like Sugar (Chapter 25)

Summary: India Mae, or Indi, is a music major, struggling to pay bills, tuition, work, and make good grades.  Emily Prentiss is a BAU profiler, as well as a DC socialite thanks to her huge family fortune.  The two enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement: Emily will pay for Indi's school if Indi accompanies Emily to her social functions for a few months, posing as her girlfriend.  As weeks go by, the lines between their arrangement and their true feelings start to blur.  But money can't buy love, right?

Pairing: India Mae Banks x Emily Prentiss; OC x Emily Prentiss

Warnings: smut (18+); sugar baby relationships; age gap (16 years - but all over 18)

Word Count: 2.5k

Read on Wattpad | Ao3 | Previous Chapters

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic 🧸; @5raysofsunshine 🌮; @reidselle 🦭; @milfprotector 🐝💚; @gaelic-symphony 🎻 ; @sadgirlml 🌻💌; @hotchs-bitch 🦆 ; @multiverse-mxdness ; @madelineleong ; @scorpsik 🎨

Chapter 25 - The Woman in the Mirror

Emily's POV: I internally groaned as I picked up my ringing phone from the counter only to see Hotch's face.  I had just gotten home from a case.  Surely we weren't already being called back.  As I clicked to accept the call, I mentally dreaded seeing Indi's sad face when I had to tell her I was leaving again.  I didn't know if I could bear seeing her disappointed pout so quickly after arriving home. 

Hotch had horrible timing; Indi and I had plans this evening to go to a gala.  She seemed so excited to go with me, and, admittedly, I was excited to arrive with her on my arm, dressed to the nines.  My imagination had run wild all week wondering how she'd look all dressed up for me.  I imagined it'd be like how she looked at the symphony, but better.  Even if Indi and I didn't have an event tonight, we had just gotten home from a case.  I needed some time with her.  But no, Hotch's timing was rotten.

"Hotch," I answered curtly.

"Prentiss," he cut to the chase, "Where's the Wilkinson file?"

I furrowed my brow.  "Wilkinson, sir?"

"I know it's from a few years ago, but we had to leave the case because we were getting nowhere.  From Kansas, remember?"

"Oh!" I exclaimed in realization.  I grimaced slightly at the memory.  That case had been hard on all of us – any case left unsolved was.  "I have no idea, sir.  Is it not in the file storeroom?"

"No, because the case was never closed."  Odd – I thought we had a cold case filing cabinet.

"Why do you need it now?"

"I'm reviewing files for our next case and this one, though in South Dakota, is pretty similar to that case.  I want to rev-"  I stopped listening to Hotch when I saw Indi enter the kitchen.

I smiled softly as I moved the phone away from my mouth to whisper, "Hi angel."  She wrapped her arms around me and snuggled her face against my chest.  I melted into her embrace, kissing the top of her head.  While rubbing my free hand up and down her back, I waited for Hotch to finish prattling on about this case.  Frankly, now that I had India, I didn't care to think about work while I was home.  Before her, I returned to a quiet, empty house.  I had always been ready to think about the next case.  I lived to work.  But now, with Indi, I worked to live.  I worked to come home to her.

India tilted her head up and started kissing up my neck.  Her trailing, wet kisses flipped something in the pit of my stomach.  I felt my clit twinge when her tongue dragged along my jaw.  I bit my lip to keep myself in check; I was on the phone after all.  Her libido was so much higher than mine.  I wasn't sure if I just hadn't been interested in someone before meeting her, or if it was her age causing the discrepancy between our sex drives.  But I was enjoying this newly-heightened desire to have sex again.  It had been all but lost with JJ.  Before I could let my thoughts run too far away from me, Hotch interrupted my reverie.  "So any ideas?"

I leaned my head back to try to slow Indi down.  "I may have tucked it in the unclaimed desk in the corner of the bullpen."  Her hands slid under my shirt.  I tried to still them, but she seemed to be on a mission.  "Sometimes we all use that desk to store files we may need in a few months."  Her lips moved up to my ear, and I nearly lost it.  I never understood how her tongue could wrap around my ear lobe so sensually.  My breath hitched before I could continue in my answer.

"Why?"

"It's pretty close to the rest of our desks – way closer than the file room.  And we all have a drawer we can go back to.  Mine's bottom left." 

"And if it's not there?"  With Indi's hands up my shirt and her tongue on my neck, I was rapidly running out of patience talking about serial killers and dusty, old case files.

"Then I don't know."  Deciding that was a bit curt, I tacked on a deferential "Sir."

"Thanks, Prentiss.  Will I see you later tonight?"

"Yes," I affirmed.

"See you then."  He hung up before I could say goodbye.

With a finger under her chin, I tipped Indi's face up to kiss her properly.  She smiled into my kiss and pulled herself closer to me.  Her fingers twisted into the hair at the nape of my neck, tugging deliciously.  Her teeth gently grazed my bottom lip.  I pulled back to say, "Come on, princess.  Don't start something you can't finish."

"There's time…" she whispered against my skin.  She scratched her nails lightly up my back, drawing goosebumps on my arms.  I shivered and lost myself in her lips for a few more seconds.  Her tongue felt so good against mine.  She lapped at my mouth the same way she did my clit, and I was ready to spread her out on the counter.  She almost had me.

I pushed her back, breaking our kiss.  "Oohhh no," I chuckled.  "Come on.  You always take way longer than you think you will to get ready for these things."

Her mouth turned into that adorable pout, eyes falsely sad.  It was her classic face to get what she wanted.  And I was powerless against it.  I pulled her back into my arms and kissed her again.  I walked her back into the counter behind her, trapping her between the island and my own body.  I suckled on her jaw and inched towards her ear.  "You," I whispered between kisses, "Are far too persuasive for your own good."

I pulled back again, my thumb still rubbing against her hip.  She pouted again, much more genuinely this time.  "Don't stop," she whined.  She grabbed my wrist and tugged, trying to draw me forward.  "Come back."

I stepped forward to kiss her on the forehead chastely.  "We need to get ready.  We can't be late for this one, baby."

"What's so special about tonight?"

"Many politicians will be there tonight, including my boss's boss's boss.  And probably his boss too."

Her bottom lip stuck out enticingly, and I couldn't help but to trace it with my thumb.  "Who's going to know?"

"I'll know.  Now come, sweet girl."

She sighed dramatically but started making her way to her room.  I couldn't help but stare at the swing of her hips as she sauntered up the stairs.  Aching to feel her soft skin underneath my fingertips again, I silently berated myself the entire way up the stairs.  Why had I stopped us?

I followed her to the threshold of her room, not that she had been sleeping in there recently.  I was hoping I could steal one more kiss from her sweet lips.  She whipped around, catching me off guard.  "What do you think you're doing?"

"Kissing my girl," I smirked.

"Uh uh!  We're being responsible," she mocked.  "I just take sooooo long to get ready for these things.  I couldn't possibly waste another minute not getting ready."

"Ha ha!" I stated dryly.  I leaned in for my kiss, but she put her fingers up, stopping me in my tracks.  "Indi!" I complained.  I did not appreciate her turning the tables.  Though, admittedly, I deserved this teasing after forcing her to come up and get ready.

She giggled and my chest warmed at the sound.  "See you in a few hours!"  And she shut the door in my face.  My jaw dropped, and I scoffed in disbelief.

"Indi!" I called out, unsure what else to say.  I only heard her fading giggle as she moved into her bathroom to start getting ready.  I shook my head in disbelief that she could reel me in so quickly before I turned to go get ready myself.

______________________________

I was getting antsy about heading out.  I had been ready for about fifteen minutes, waiting on Indi to come out and wow me.  Anxious that we wouldn't make it on time, I knocked on her door.

"Indi?  We're going to be late…"

"I wonder whose fault that could be," she teased.  "Come in!" 

"Well it certainly isn't my fau-"  As soon as I pushed the door open, my breath caught in my throat and I froze in the doorway.  She was beyond my wildest dreams, her hair curled into loose curls falling gently down her back.  Though normally her curls were tight and wild, these were no less sexy.  I wanted to run my fingers through them and ruin them.

"Zip me up?" she asked, sensually turning back to look at me while lifting her hair so I could access her zipper. 

I crossed the room in a trance, hypnotized by her.  I gathered her hair in one of my hands, allowing her to drop her arms.  I dipped my head and pressed a soft kiss to the side of her neck, my other arm wrapping around her waist to pull her closer.  I inhaled subtly, her perfume overtaking my senses.  My eyes closed involuntarily, lost in the moment. 

I grabbed her hip and trailed my lips up to her earlobe and tugged on it slightly, the angle a bit awkward because of her earrings.

"Em," she gasped, her head falling back.  I licked up the shell of her ear, opening my eyes to look at her again.

"You look so beautiful, Indi.  I can't believe you're mine."  I trailed my fingers lightly up her arm and continued kissing down her neck, sucking slightly.  My fingers continued touching her skin, addicted to the feel of her. 

I pulled back and kissed the nape of her neck, ready to – begrudgingly – zip her dress.  I slowly slid her zipper up, already missing her back being exposed.  She twisted a bit, craning her neck so I'd start kissing her again.  But it shifted her dress, and her right leg was exposed from ankle to mid thigh.

I exhaled sharply, the slit in her dress captivating me.  I loved her thighs; I could spend every second of every day between them.  Before I knew what I was doing, my hand fell to the newly-exposed skin, caressing.  She fell back into me, letting me support more of her weight as I teased the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

"You're so soft, baby," I whispered against the shell of her ear.  Goosebumps spread from her shoulder down her arm as I continued to whisper sweet nothings against her neck, interrupted only by my tongue tasting the skin behind her ear.

My fingers inched higher and higher up her thigh, waiting to learn whether she was wearing lace or satin for me tonight.  Instead, my fingers met coarse curls.  I gasped in surprise, then bit gently on her earlobe.  "Where are your panties?"

"I figured this might happen," she gasped.

I traced her slit lightly, teasing.  "And if it didn't?" I questioned.  I dipped my finger between her folds to see how wet she was for me, spreading it up to her clit.

"I-" she gasped when I started circling her clit softly.  "I thought then I'd be able to tease you about it later tonight."

"Is that right?" 

I nipped at her neck, eliciting a sharp hiss from her perfect mouth.  Before she could respond, I slid my fingers inside of her, causing her head to fall back onto my shoulder.  I felt my own core clench at the sight of the underside of her jaw.  I wished I could reach it at this angle; I wished I could suck on it.  She always made the sexiest sound when I licked up her jaw.  But tonight, I wanted her to watch me fuck her.  I wanted her to see the effect I had on her.  I wanted her to see that she belonged to me. 

I smoothed a hand up her stomach and chest, gliding my open palm up her neck to grab her chin.  I jerked her head back down, her eyes opened slowly to stare at me in the mirror.  With one hand holding her jaw in place, I pulled the fingers of my other hand out of her and started circling her clit again.  "Do you see you?" I mused in her ear.  "Do you see how sexy you are?"  She whimpered when I slowed my fingers.  "Watch how beautiful you are when I make you cum," I commanded.

I slammed my fingers back inside her, and she tried to throw her head back, but I kept a solid grip on her jaw.  "Eyes open, beautiful," I cooed.  I stared at her drooping, lustful eyes, framed by thick, false lashes as she stared at the hand between her legs, covered partially by her dress.

As if in a trance, unaware of her actions, she gathered part of her dress in her hand to get a better look at herself.  "See my fingers, baby?  You take me so well," I whispered in her ear.  She shivered at the feel of my breath on her neck.  "I wish we had time to let you see how well you take my cock." 

She moaned wantonly, resisting the hold I had on her jaw.  "Ah ah," I chided, "Look at you, angel.   Look how pretty you are."

"Please," she begged, presumably wanting it harder.  I picked up the pace just slightly.  "Emilyyyy," she moaned, needing more.

I sucked on her neck, scraping my teeth just slightly against her skin.  "Fuck," she panted.  She reached around to dig her fingers into the side of my thigh, hoping to anchor herself as the pleasure intensified.

"That's it, angel.  You've never looked more beautiful."  Her brows furrowed, concentrated on chasing her release.  "Cum for me, Indi." 

She whined, her head tugging on my grip, her eyes starting to close.  I released my hold, letting her bury her face in my neck.  I wrapped my now-free arm around her waist to support her weight as she let the pleasure wash over her.  "Emily," she muttered against my skin, her hot panting warming me pleasantly.  "Emily!" she repeated.  "Yes!!" she nearly shouted as she came.  

She caught her breath as I slowed my fingers, bringing her down.  When I felt her start to support more of her own weight, I slipped my fingers out of her.  Her eyes tracked me bringing my fingers up to my mouth to lick them clean, her breath catching in her throat once she realized what I was doing.

Indi turned, wrapping her arms around my neck to pull me into a deep kiss.  I kissed her until she had to pull back to catch her breath again.  We drank up the moment, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in.

She pulled back, a brilliant smile spreading across her face.  "What happened to leaving on time?"  I chuckled with her, leaning down to steal one more kiss.  I guess we'd be late after all.

_ _ _

Continue to next chapter

#🌬 fics #tastes like sugar #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x oc #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds au #wlw writing

[ratkingszarr]

❛  i'm not the same helpless little boy i used to be. now i can finally defend myself against you.  ❜ (Astarion)

@never-surrender from hostile sentences

He had returned. The prodigal son who Cazador searched long and hard for. He listened to the little pup prattle and bark like he still didn't have a leash. The Lord Szarr's hand lovingly caressed the handle of Woe. Manipulated just a touch of Weave into it. "Can you?" He brought the staff as terrible and awful as it was to strike at the ground. A shockwave of magic resonated from it.

A shockwave that commanded all spawn bound to it from the ritual scars to kneel. < DC 18 constitution saving throw required>. "You are not merely bound to me as creator and creation. Sweet idiot."

#ask: nothing but rats #verse: lord of the gate #never-surrender

[evilhorse]

Oh, prattle less, simian!

#justice league #justice league dark #the demon #etrigan #simian #prattle less #magic #ram v #sumit kumar #dc comics #comics

[huilian]

Nightwing (1996), #0.5

#dc #oracle has no time for your prattle dick #the line's always open for former boy wonders #can you two be any more cute? #dick grayson #barbara gordon #basically comic bookmarks

[fadewalking]

asdfghjkl

#drug cw #don't do drugs kids #lest u end up like me #bobo the FUCCIN G FOOL #who last night #in front of a bunch of very young children #decided to take my ambien #(i thought i would be leaving their presence before it kicked it in my defense. #i certainly didn't INTEND for them to be around me when that happened but #unfortunately i couldn't get out fast enough) #so i was balls to the walls high #and said some pretty inappropriate things to them in my friend's dc chat #and by inappropriate let me just immediately clarify #it was inappropriate in the sense of me talking about the effects of drug use #i was NOT saying any thing harmful #i was just .. like being drunk in front of kids basically #and the server admin (my friend) pulled me out to continue my prattling on DM #which was a godsend for the chat #but not for him i imagine #because then he experieced #my undivided high attention #which #some of you have experienced yourself #it's a... trip aint it? #i have 0 inhibition #absolutely none #so whatever the fuck's been going on in my mind #u about to hear it #good or bad

[anghraine]

Picking something that isn't the usual fandom, so... MCU: Black Widow, Gamora, Okoye, Steve Rodgers, and eh, umm.... Loki. Can answer one or all.

Heh, okay!

Nat:

Not My Type | Alright | Cute | Adorable | Pretty | Gorgeous | LORD MERCY

This varies by the whims of the costuming department, lol. Avengers!Nat was A++ would swoon again, IW!Nat was a travesty.

Gamora:

Not My Type | Alright | Cute | Adorable | Pretty | Gorgeous | LORD MERCY

It’s odd, because her actress is def my type, but something about Gamora doesn’t quite appeal to me. At the same time, I really love looking at her face. She’s pretty, just ... idk, some odd combo of “too alien” and “not alien enough.” I like Nebula’s design a lot better.

Okoye:

Not My Type | Alright | Cute | Adorable | Pretty | Gorgeous | LORD MERCY

“Pretty” isn’t the word, but a;kdfjkafdkjzjddfjhdapfhj

Loki:

Not My Type | Alright | Cute | Adorable | Pretty | Gorgeous | LORD MERCY

Also hugely dependent on costuming—sometimes he just looks sort of oily, other times concentrated swag.

Steve:

Not My Type | Alright | Cute | Adorable | Pretty | Gorgeous | LORD MERCY

I’m gay, not blind.

#squirrelwrangler #respuestas #meme prattle #marvel and dc #/ #// #/// #//// #///// #natasha romanova #gamora #okoye #loki #steve rogers

[jedipoodoo]

Hi! Could you do headcanons for the Bad Batch with a gender neutral reader that has selective mutism? If you don’t know what it is, it’s basically a condition where a person can technically physically speak but sometimes their brain just doesn’t let them get the words out and they go mute, especially when anxious. If it’s too complicated then I completely understand. I hope you have a lovely day! :) /g

Hey anon! Thank you for the request! I've heard of Selective Mutism from Cassandra Cain fans in the DC Fandom, but I've never written about it myself before, so I'd love to try it! And you have a lovely day too, Anon!

(echo bby im so sorry i couldn't find a group gif with you. next time i promise)

The Bad Batch x Selective Mute Reader (GN)

Hunter can relate to not talking when you're anxious or overwhelmed, but not on the same level that you deal with.

Tech is the first one to suggest using Sign language so you can communicate back to them. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Crosshair is the best with prolonged silences. He hates filling the air with mindless prattle and even when you do feel like talking you usually end up sitting in silence with him, either napping or working on some menial task together.

Wrecker is always there to reassure you that you don't need to worry too hard about talking. He talks enough for the both of you!

If you do need some noise because the silence is driving you crazy, you can always go to Echo. When you sit down next to him while it's all quiet he'll automatically start reading to you from whatever manual he's reading. Echo can't stand silence, he's always had brothers screaming around him and when it's silent that means something's wrong.

You, Hunter, and Crosshair are all experts at reading each other's body language. You'll notice when Hunter's holding his knife a certain way that means he's unfocused on the task at hand, or when Crosshair's eye twitches that says he's really trying not to make a scene but he just might if Wrecker doesn't shut up.

When you can't speak, you end up dancing around the ship or drawing to express yourself. You enjoy listening to music, and can usually pull the others into an impromptu dance party with as few words as possible.

Kaminoans would consider you defective, but Tech and the Batch are of the firm opinion that all of you are deviant from the norm, not defective.

You have all of Hunter's hand signs memorized. Wrecker is jealous.

It's reassuring to have a support system that can really understand you like them

The batch has protocols in place for of you get anxiety attacks in the field, in a meeting, on the ship. They've dealt with it enough that none of them panic anymore.

The first couple of times, most if not all of them freaked out (Read: Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo. Crosshair and Tech can keep a level head unless your anxiety attack puts you in physical danger)

If you have an anxiety attack and you can't speak you send out an SOS, tapping it out on the table, the floor, or over comms.

The first step is to get you away from the action. Crosshair takes you up on a lookout, Hunter tracks you down if you're separated from them, Echo takes you out in the hall, etc.

Depending on if you want to be touched or not, they'll start a cuddle pile or make sure you have the space you need.

Hunter will go over breathing exercises with you, and Echo will help you center yourself in your body (like the 5-4-3-2-1 method and such)

Crosshair isn't good with affection, but he tries to stay where you can see him so that you can know he's nearby.

Regardless of your mutism, you're a valued member of the team and they treat you as such. Tech translates your sign language for you in meetings and Crosshair glares down the same natborns who give them crap for being clones before they can comment.

#lizart writes #the bad batch #the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #sergeant hunter x reader #tech x reader #tbb hunter x reader #tbb tech x reader #wrecker x reader #tbb wrecker x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair x reader #tbb echo x reader #arc trooper echo x reader #selective mutism

[collectivefandomstuff]

Title: Night at the (National History) Museum Status: Complete. Chapter: 1/1. Fandom: DC/Batman Rating: T Warnings: Crude language (cursewords, including the c word). Beta: No beta we die like Jason Todd Pairings: None. Word Count: 7k+ Genre: Humour/Comedy Characters: Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne. Summary: Tim finds himself having, once again, been dragged into the social event of the season. As he slowly dies of boredom and the physical exertion of not rolling his eyes, he bumps into his fellow prisoners brothers and they decide to do something about Bruce’s tendency to trick them into going to these things. Excerpt:

“We could call in a bomb threat?” “That’s imaginative.” “Ok, then we get paintball guns and go to town.” “Also unhelpful.” “No, wait! That’s actually a good idea!” “Really Dick? You don’t think people are going to ask questions if the Waynes start literally hunting socialites for sport?”

 ------

Tim could think of 677 places he would rather be right now, and those were just the ones he had thought of in the last twenty minutes.

He forced a smile as Mrs Schrijnemaker prattled on about her husband’s recent business success and wondered how on earth he managed to get fooled into this every damn year. Gotham Natural History Museum’s annual fundraising shindig was the social event of the fall season and last year Tim spent all of November and December thinking up excuses not to go again this year and yet here he was, one year later and stuck in the same unbearable mixture of polite nonsense and badly hidden insults. The only difference was that this year you got to experience 5 hours of excruciating boredom in a mask. Tim would love to meet whatever ditzy trophy wife who had gotten onto the board through the generous contribution of her aging husband had come up with that idea. A masquerade. In Gotham. The only saving grace was that the idea was so stupid that it nearly guaranteed that a villain would show up, and then they could cut the night short.

“You know,” Mrs Schrijnemaker cooed, eyes sharp with the shrewdness of the truly wealthy, “your family should really consider changing your supplier. If a box or container breaks all the merchandise inside could be damaged or lost. Good packaging cannot be overestimated.”

Tim made a polite noise of agreement. He would rather be in the dumpster behind Al’s 24 hour diner than here. 678. He would rather be at a frat party at Gotham U than here right now, and he would rather be fighting a horde of Ra’s annoying subordinates than be at a frat party. 679. 680.

“Tim!” he blinked and refocused his gaze on-

“Richard,” Tim greeted smoothly. Thank god. The old Robin code of conduct still held true. Rule #4: A robin shall never leave another Robin to their fate at a social event.

“I’m terribly sorry Miss,” Dick said to Mrs Schrijnemaker. His smile was charming enough that she didn’t notice that he probably called her Miss because he had forgotten who she was. “I’m afraid that I must steal my brother away from you.”

“Oh, certainly,” Mrs Schrijnemaker had quite lost the glint of steel in her gaze, growing flustered as Dick gave a jointy little bow and a wink while he gripped Tim’s arm in a steely grip.

“Great,” Dick chirped, “come along Timothy.”

Tim let himself get half-steered, half-dragged across the ballroom, stealing another glass of champagne from a waiter along the way. They headed to the nook over by the southeast corner, a tried and true hiding spot, where Dick rounded on him. His big brother had a look in his eyes that usually meant he’d seen something truly traumatic -like that time Bruce taught them the Charleston -but was commonplace during nights like these.

“Thanks for that,” Tim said, “I think I might’ve perished from intellectual starvation if I was left there much longer.”

“I can’t believe I got tricked into this again,” Dick whispered, “every damn year.” He slipped around Tim and skilfully nabbed a tray of mini sandwiches from a passing waiter.

“How did you get roped into it?” Tim asked.

“He schaid,” Dick began, speaking through a sandwich. He swallowed. “He said that Khloe Kardashian would be here.”

“Again?”

“Look, I know ok? I don’t need you to shame me for falling for the same lie twice.”

“Three times, Dick. You’re forgetting Aspen.”

Dick’s expression soured.

“Oh my god I had forgotten about Aspen. I am so putting fish in Bruce’s bed-”

“I’ll help,” Tim said drily, glaring out at the sea of masked people. He could almost taste the fake laughter and supressed dislike on the air.

“How did he make you go anyway?” Dick asked, picking through the tray.

“I’m not even sure.”

They stood in companionable silence for a glorious moment, content to hide even though both of them were experienced enough to know that too soon they would be found by some glitzy socialite with more plastic under their skin than personality.

Tim glanced around the room, trying to scope out which vulture might be swooping down to feast on their flesh. As far as he could tell, there were no villains in attendance yet. Maybe they wouldn’t show up at all. And wouldn’t that be ironic? The one time he would welcome a Poison Ivy appearance with glee, and she stays home to water her plants. He studied a group of sweaty middle-aged men in various stages of corpulence, all dressed in nearly identical tuxedos and black masks. Looks like they had invited the Historical Construction Society; this was shaping up to be an extraordinarily dull night. His eyes slid to the left.

Or maybe not.

“Is that Jason?”

“What?” Dick’s head snapped up and followed his gaze. “Where?”

“By the Historical Contruction Society.”

“The what?”

“They’re called something long and pretentious, but they always talk about things like which nails were most commonly used for building houses in the 17th century”

“Oh, the Screw Screwing Club.”

Tim filed that name away for further use. Dick always was good at coming up with a good pun.

“To the left,” Tim instructed, “moving towards the bar.”

“That is Jason. What is he doing here?”

“Maybe he’s going to rob us?”

“Oh please let that be it,” Dick said, munching down another sandwich without taking his eyes off their brother, who was weaving through the throng without issue. That wasn’t unexpected, since no one knew who he was even without having half his face covered.

“I’m texting him to come over here,” Tim said, already tapping away on his phone.

“Ask if he brought his guns”

“Contemplating suicide?”

“Mrs Sanderson has groped me five times already. She deserves to be robbed.”

“Ladies and gentlemen: Batman.”

“’m not Batman anymore.” Dick groused, poking at a sad little sandwich with tuna filling.

“He’s on his way.”

They retreated further into the nook to where they were partially hidden behind a curtain in an effort to stay unnoticed a bit longer.

“Who is here tonight anyway?” Tim asked, eyeing a lonely olive that was rolling around on the tray.

“Hell if I know,” Dick replied, “I was shanghaied into this last minute. Through deceit and lies.”

“Damian?”

“If he couldn’t get out of it. I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s probably hiding,” Tim said, “he’s still small enough to fit in the vents.” Lucky bastard.

“I wish I was still small enough to fit in the vents,” Dick sighed longingly.

“I’m sure Zatanna can resize your body to fit your intellect,” said Jason’s gravelly voice from the other side of the curtain. Dick made an indignant noise.

“Get in here.” There was a brief struggle between Dick, Jason, and the Curtain and then they were all snugly shoehorned into the small alcove.

“Hey.” Tim said conversationally, giving in and picking up the lonely olive.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Jason deadpanned.

“Why are you here, Jason?” Tim asked, popping the olive into his mouth.

“I’m supporting natural history.”

“Please tell me you’re up to something,” Dick said, shifting to peek out from behind the curtain. “I think Mrs Sanderson is actively looking for me now.”

“’fraid not,” Jason said, “I was blackmailed.”

Tim thought this over as he slowly chewed the olive. If Bruce had enlisted Jason, he must be really worried about a villainous attack. Fantastic. Maybe they would get out of here before Dick had to resort to jumping out a fifteenth-floor window to avoid Mrs Sanderson, like he did two years ago. That one had been hard to explain to the press.

“I thought you didn’t like olives,” Jason said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I don’t,” Tim replied, “and I don’t have a napkin to spit it out in.”

“So...?”

“So.” Tim replied and kept chewing.

“Jeez Tim, you look like a real boy, but then…” Jason shook his head.

“Enough about the olives,” Dick hissed, “Jason, you have to help us run interference.”

Jason snorted.

“Nah. Sucks to be you but that’s not my problem.”

Maybe Tim could get away with spitting the olive out into the curtain?

“Well, something has to happen,” Dick said urgently, “did Bruce think there would be an attack?”

Jason shrugged.

“Dunno.”

“Someone needs to do something,” Dick said lowly, “I can’t take a one-hour lecture about 15th century door frames right now.”

“The Ancient Architecture Assholes are here?” Jason asked with distaste.

Tim finally gave in and swallowed the olive, grimacing as it went down.

“And the Palatetologists,” he told them, trying to drown out the taste of olive with champagne. It did not work.

“Who?” Dick frowned.

“You mean Palaeontologists?” Jason questioned.

“That’s what I call those guys who keep talking about the mouth feel of caviar.”

“The smack-talkers,” Dick said knowingly.

“The culinary cunts,” Jason supplied.

“Yeah. Those. They’re here too, and at least one of them recently tried pitahaya.”

Dick shuddered.

“Well, sounds like you both have a lot of people to chat with, and I woudn’t want to keep you,” Jason said, grinning maliciously.

“If you leave us to our fate, I’ll-” Dick started.

“We could do something.” Tim interrupted, suddenly inspired. Of course! With Jason here, it would be a piece of cake.

“What?” Dick turned to him.

“We could do something to make the night more bearable. Jason will help.”

“No I won’t,” Jason protested, crossing his arms.

“You’d get to fuck with rich people,” Tim told him.

Jason’s eye twitched, like his mind was at war with itself. In the end, his hatred of rich people won out over his need to be contrary.

“Fine. What’re you thinking?”

Tim considered their options.

“We can’t do something dangerous, or anything that can be traced back to us, because Bruce would have our heads. But if we cause enough trouble, he might decide that we’re more of a liability than an asset and then-” Tim smiled sharply “he won’t invite us next year.”

Dick made a noise that Tim had only ever heard him make when eating s’mores. Utter delight.

“So what are we doing exactly?” Jason asked, leaning in.

“Ok,” Tim said in a low voice, “hear me out…”

-

Phase One: Triple Threat.

“Our first step,” Tim said, “should be to cause as much disruption as possible without alerting Bruce. That means social guerrilla warfare. This room is a minefield. All we need to do is purposefully take a wrong step.”

Tim watched from the corner of his eye as Dick sidled up to a gaggle of middle-aged business wives. The group turned towards the oldest Wayne heir like a flower towards the sun. Good. Now, for his part. He took a deep breath and stepped forward into the direct line of sight of one of the Screw Screwers. The man, a portly fellow in his fifties, honed in on Tim like a heatseeking missile. Excellent.

“Is that you, mister Wayne?”

“I’m afraid so,” Tim said, switching on the polite facial expression his mother had chiselled into him as a child, “though I fear the mask is hindering me from identifying you, mister…?”

“Dennis,” Mr Screw- uh Dennis filled in for him. Figures this guy would have a first name for a surname.

“Mr Dennis, of course!” Tim said good-naturedly. “How are you?”

“Oh quite well, young man, quite well,” Dennis replied and Tim had a feeling he was itching to get through the polite greetings so he could start talking about buildings. He also had a sneaking suspicion that this was that one club member who said everything twice. “And you?”

“I am doing very well, thank you.”

“Good to hear, good to hear. Say, have you heard about the reconstruction of the old windmill?”

Windmills. God rest Tim’s fragile psyche.

“Why I did hear about that. One of your colleagues mentioned it. Fascinating project.”

“Oh, did they now, did they now?” Dennis said absently. “Yes it is fascinating, they’re using blueprints from the original-”

Tim forced himself to look interested as Dennis Two-Times droned on about the original wood and ironworks.

He’d rather be dealing with Bart when he hadn’t eaten for four hours. 681.

“-and of course they’re using wooden bolts, as was the custom during the 1760’s-”

“Wooden?” Tim interrupted. Dennis looked a bit shocked, maybe he wasn’t used to people showing signs of intelligent life during his monologues. “Your good friend said they would be using steel.”

“What?” Dennis squawked. “No, you must have misheard. That would be completely inaccurate for that time period.”

“No, no,” Tim said, taking secret pleasure in mimicking Dennis’ speaking pattern, “I’m quite sure. Steel bolts and maple wood. That’s what he said.”

“Maple wood?!” Dennis exclaimed indignantly. “Maple?!”

“Yes, yes,” Tim said, “Maple.”

“That cannot be correct! It cannot! Who did you speak to?!”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you,” Tim said apologetically, “we got caught up in discussing the mill before we had exchanged any pleasantries. He did say he was personally involved in the project, if that helps?”

“What?” Dennis couldn’t have looked more insulted if Tim had told him that he thought hinges in the 16th century were made of cheese. “He said he was personally involved? Personally?”

“Yes, yes, personally.”

Tim could almost see Dennis’ widened eyes over the mask.

“I shudder to think that someone involved in the reconstruction would operate under such misconception! Shudder!” Dennis said.

“It is a worrying thought,” Tim said agreeably, “a worrying thought.”

“I must investigate this at once. At once! I apologize, young mister Wayne, but I must leave right away. I apologize, but I must!”

“I understand completely,” Tim told him, “completely. Historical accuracy is so very very important. Very, very important.”

“Yes, quite right! Quite right! Very, very important! I bid you goodnight, mister Wayne.”

“Goodnight, goodnight, Mr Dennis, Dennis,” Tim said, since he was pretty certain that Dennis wasn’t listening anymore. Instead, the older man was hurrying away, a sheen of sweat on his forehead from the mere anticipation of a confrontation about the maple.

Tim glanced around the room for his co-conspirators. Dick were over by the windows now, talking to a few high society ladies, all of whom looked completely captivated.

Splendid. Operation scandal was a go. Tim estimated that they would have at least one massive marital argument within ten minutes. He also made a mental note not to piss Dick off too much; his knowledge of the dirty secrets of Gotham’s upper crust was terrifying when weaponized.

A man slipped by behind him. Jason, he concluded from the “mission complete” that was whispered in his ear. Tim ambled away towards the dancefloor so he could get a better view of the buffet. At the end of it stood a cluster of men -the palatetologists, easily identified by their wispy moustaches and corduroy suits. Ah corduroy, the fabric of hipsters and men who think their careers never reached past middle management due to “an oversight”. Based on the tenseness in their shoulders and the thin lines of their mouths beneath the wispy moustaches, the smack talkers were having a pretty intense argument. Excellent. Jason’s pick-pocketing skills were still as sharp as ever. Later, he’d have to ask his predecessor what he put in the one with a red bowtie’s dinner that made the man turn puce in disgust as he argued with the one who was wearing pants that were too short. He was pretty sure short-pants were one of the ones who’s food hadn’t been tampered with since his plate was considerably more empty than red bowtie’s.

A collective gasp drew his attention away from the culinary cunts and over to the other side of the ballroom, where Ennis Ryan was dripping onto the floor from the drink his new trophy wife just threw in his face. Someone behind Tim let out a breathy “oh my lord”. He thought it might’ve been Mrs Kraus.

“You pig!” Mrs Trophy-Wife Ryan screeched. She obviously hadn’t seduced him with her creativity. Ennis looked like he couldn’t pick between being surprised or enraged. Mrs Trophy-Wife turned on her unseemly high heels and marched out before he could reach a decision. Ennis glanced around, probably concluded that staying wouldn’t make the situation any less damaging to his reputation, and promptly followed her.

The hall exploded with scandalised whispers before they had even made it out of the door.

Tim’s innate sixth sense twinged with the feeling of being watched. He turned and met Bruce’s gaze head on. Their magnanimous patriarch looked suspicious, but not yet angry. Tim gave him a smile and a shrug and let himself get dragged into a conversation about Mrs Friedman’s grand nephew. A boy of endless potential, apparently. One could marvel that such a genius hadn’t managed to get into a decent college. Over Mrs Friedman’s shoulder he saw Dick shoot him a wink from over by a gathering of W.E. employees.

Phase one: complete.

-

Phase two: Escalation through Reinforcements

“For the next phase, Dick and I need alibis or else Bruce will make us immediately. So, you and I have to go hang out with whatever ignorami he’s entertaining at the time.”

“I hate being near B at these things. He always deflects everything on me.”

“Which is why we have to end up there ‘accidentally’ and ‘against our will’ or he’ll get suspicious.”

“What about me? I’m guessing I’m doing the deed?”

“Yes. But you won’t be able to do it alone; we need another sibling.”

“Damian.”

“Yep. Someone needs to go on a vent safari.”

“What about Cass?”

“She pulled patrol duty.”

“You mean she cheated.”

“Well yeah obviously.”

Tim saw Dick slip back into the ballroom through a side door, which meant that Damian had been located and lovingly coerced into joining the mission. Now, they just had to wait for Dick to purposefully interact with someone who would drag him over to join the cluster of people around Bruce. They called them B-traps; a small subset of Gotham high society who worked as an immediate shortcut to Bruce. Ten minutes ago, Tim had accidentally on purpose ended up near Mrs Zhuk, a woman who lived in a delusional world wherein time talking to Bruce immediately correlated with societal standing. A few years ago she had noticed that bringing one of the Wayne children over to Bruce gifted her with a substantially longer amount of time in his presence, and ever since she had become a high ranking player in the B-trap club. Hence, Tim had now spent roughly nine and half minutes watching Bruce nod along as Mr Fitz, a man who was so determined to keep the presidency of the board of the Natural History Museum away from Mrs Giannotti that he straight up refused to die, prattled on about the new exhibit. It might have been more bearable if he was talking about the actual history, rather than the shipping costs. Or if he actually remembered what the exhibition was about.

Less than two minutes after Dick had re-entered the hall, he appeared at Bruce’s elbow along with Mr Gauthier, who was the target of an ongoing bet among the Wayne kids regarding when he would give in and declare his unfortunate crush on Bruce out loud. Tim took a moment to appreciate Dick’s choice of trap, since Gauthier was a genuine distraction to Bruce, who was already eyeing the balding trader with well-concealed alarm. Tim gave Dick a suffering look for B’s benefit, trying to look as miserable as possible while keeping up a polite façade.

All players were officially in position. Perfect. Tim glanced around the room, feigning disinterest in a way that would make Bruce think he was trying to find an escape route. He couldn’t spot either Jason or Damian, which meant that they were out of Bruce’s line of sight as well. Good. Seeing one of them interacting with someone would raise immediate red flags.

-

“So what exactly is it that the Demon child and I are supposed to be doing?”

“Well, by this point we should already have caused mayhem on the social level; in the next phase we target the big bads: business and tradition.”

-

As Mr Fitz stumbled his way through another complaint about tallies in a monotone voice, Damian should be making his way to the back rooms. At this time of night, the true sharks of Gotham’s business world would have emigrated out of the public eye in order to fully embrace their stereotype by talking shop over whisky and Cuban cigars. Jason wouldn’t have been allowed to set foot inside that room, but there were few things more enticing to the self-appointed “Mad Men of Gotham” (Tim would rather get shot in Tanzania. 682.)  than trying to get company secrets out of the supposedly naïve son of their monetary overlord.

Damian’s mission was to act the unexperienced son playing at being knowledgeable in company affairs, trying to keep up with the real deal. In the process, he would be dropping a comment about the Dynamo merger; an incredibly secret business deal currently taking place among some of the top companies in the city. Damian, the poor child, would have accidentally outed a multi-million dollar secret to a room full of people who either knew and did not want anyone else to, or didn’t know and were getting screwed over by their friends and business partners.

Jason, meanwhile, was to head over to the east wing.

“You want me to go for the court ladies?!”

“I did say we were going for tradition.”

“I’m pretty sure those women are vampires.”

“Only in a truly emotional sense. Are you saying you won’t do it?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I’ll do it!”

Going for the court would mean making a splash in the deepest pond of the society set. These ladies were neither trophy wives nor women whose husbands got lucky in a business venture. They were old blood Gothamites, wrought from iron and the blood of the unworthy and led by the second most terrifying woman Tim had ever met: Mrs Eleanor Payne. Mrs Payne, who had been widowed longer than most of the Gotham society set had been alive, had a personal vendetta against the Wayne family. In part this was due to Bruce’s unsightly “Brucie” persona, who was an offense to everything Mrs Payne stood for. The rest of it, though, was entirely centred around the fact that when she introduced herself as “Mrs Payne from Gotham”, people always asked “Mrs Wayne, was it?”

As such, no known Wayne child could have exacted this part of the plan. Thank you benevolent Alien gods for the unknown one.

Tim wasn’t sure exactly how Jason planned to offend the old ladies, but he wasn’t worried. The most important part was that he insinuate that he had been invited to this event due to a new outreach program that intended to diversify the invitees to events such as this, spearheaded by the Upper Gotham Women’s Society. UGWS was, in fact, a rival organisation to Mrs Payne’s Gotham’s Women for the Upholding of Traditional Values, previously the Daughters and Wives of Gotham Society. The UGWS had been founded by a crafty business wife who had been denied membership in the GWUTV, the DWGS at the time, and their ranks were filled with all the women that Mrs Eleonor Payne thought were a blight on high society. She once referred to them as “an organisation of ignoble characters, inhabited by women of undesirable nature” completely unprompted during a speech to a children’s charity. The mere idea that they would start shipping in actual low lives to these events, never mind the implication that they would have the clout to succeed, would be enough to set her on the warpath.

Tim really hoped Jason would dust off his dormant Crime Alley dialect. He also made a mental note to hack into the surveillance cameras and get it on tape.

Mr Fitz had now talked himself into a circular argument about… Tim wasn’t actually sure what it was about but it sure was mind-numbingly boring. Mrs Zhuk was making very obvious attempts at catching Bruce’s attention, all of which failed because Bruce was involved in a sort of very slow dance with Mr Gauthier, wherein the later would creep closer while Bruce subtly stepped away. They were well on their way to clear a complete circle around the group. Dick was smiling into his champagne and nodding along to Mr Fitz and Tim was casually pretending to be so involved in the circular monologue that he couldn’t hear Francis Klein trying to get his attention to his left. No plan in the world would be worth listening to Klein talk about stocks for the next thirty minutes.

Bruce had just shuffled past Tim under the pretence of grabbing another flute of champagne from a side table when there was an almighty crash from over by dance floor. The crowd turned as one to see two men, one obviously having just punched the other. Tim would have been tempted to think it was another victim of Dick’s gossip campaign if it wasn’t for the sheer mass of corduroy surrounding the pair.

Apparently, mouth-feel discussions could get pretty violent. Who would’ve thought.

Tim used the distraction to look over at the Screw Screwing Group. They had not yet reached fisticuffs level of ire, but they sure looked angry. He had heard raised voices from that area every now and then for the last 40 minutes.

A frazzled looking woman who Tim thought might be an event coordinator rushed forward to handle the situation. Tim watched as she helped the man off the floor and tried to herd the company of thin moustaches away from the rest of the guests. Suddenly, there was a quiet voice right by his ear:

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it.”

Bruce.

Tim kept outwardly calm, replying in an equally soft tone:

“Not me. Strange things have been happening all evening. I think there might be an outside threat.”

This caught B’s attention. Tim wasn’t stupid enough to think that Bruce bought it entirely, but his suspicion towards his children tended to lose out to his loyalty towards JUSTICE. Before Bruce could demand more information, Dick appeared by them, speaking in a low, hurried voice.

“Jason just clocked someone shifty going into the kitchen. He’s investigating, requests back-up.”

Tim could almost hear Bruce grinding his teeth.

“Fine,” Bruce said, “both of you go. But if you’re up to something I will bench you indefinitely.”

That might work if any of the obedient ones actually lived at home, but there was only Damian in the manor these days and whenever Bruce tried to bench him, he ran away to Blüdhaven. Tough break, B.

Tim and Dick excused themselves and hurried away towards the kitchen. If Jason had texted Dick, that meant that phase two was officially handled and it was time to bring out the big guns.

Swell.

-

Phase three: Go out with a Bang!

“So we play puppet-masters with the cliques. Then what?”

“I’m glad you asked, Dick. After phase two all we have to do is make a big enough fuss to get them to close early.”

“Why don’t we just do that immediately?”

“Because we want to show B that we can cause a lot of damage without being noticed just by being at these things.”

“Yeah, but if we do it right away we can go home.”

“Jason, do you not want to fuck with rich people?”

“…no, yeah, okay we’re doing this.”

“So what kind of fuss are we causing?”

“I don’t know. Jason, this is your area of expertise. Well, yours and Damian’s but he’s not here right now.”

“We could call in a bomb threat?”

“That’s imaginative.”

“Ok, then we get paintball guns and go to town.”

“Also unhelpful.”

“No, wait! That’s actually a good idea!”

“Really Dick? You don’t think people are going to ask questions if the Waynes start literally hunting socialites for sport?”

“No, not that. The paint thing. We can put it in the sprinkler system, pull the alarm, and then make it all out to be an anti-fur animal rights protest.”

“Re-inventing the old pulling the fire-alarm strategy, huh? You know, I’m actually impressed Dickie.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Well, Timberly, I don’t care for it.”

“Thought so.”

“You guys are the worst. I wish Damian were here.”

“Whatever. We’re going with Dick’s sprinkler idea. It’ll help get Damian on board too, since we’ll raise awareness for animal rights.”

“So who finds the brat?”

“We don’t have time for stupid questions, Jason. Campbell is heading this way and I cannot take another conversation about his golf handicap.”

-

Tim and Dick managed to slip away through a combination of vigilante techniques and blatant lies and snuck into an unused corridor near the kitchens. Jason was already there when they arrived and Tim thought he looked a little pit-mad, but that might just be left over adrenaline from fulfilling his childhood dream of insulting Mrs Payne.

“Where are we at?” Tim asked, while he pulled out his phone to check the time. 21:47. Good.

“The court ladies are enraged,” Jason reported gleefully, “they’re filing a police report. Oh, and one of them suggested calling the national guard and no one in the group actually said no.”

Huh. Looked like Tim would be able to enjoy the fallout from tonight for a full week, at least. The Sunday paper would be one for the scrapbook.

“What about Damian?” Dick queried. Jason leaned back against the wall.

“He set off the business drones a while ago. The fallout should hit the stock market by tomorrow.”

Hm. Maybe two weeks.

“He outed the Dynamo deal?” Tim asked.

“And something about the new FDA guidelines that hasn’t been made public yet.” Jason added.

“Oh that,” Tim said, “that was a good move. That should hit the ones who weren’t affected by Dynamo.”

“Apparently.” Jason shrugged. “Anyway, the little brat is accessing the sprinkler system as we speak. We just need to get the paint over there.”

“Well, that’s our job.” Dick turned to Tim. “Do we have the paint?”

“Yeah,” Tim replied, “The Titans got it to Gotham and Steph left it be the west entrance a few minutes ago.” Dick gave him a dubious look.

“You called the Teen Titans for this?”

“No. I texted them. We needed a lot of paint.”

“So,” Jason said impatiently, “Dick and I get the paint to the lil’ demon.”

“Yes. The way there should be cleared out, especially with all the drama going on. Make sure to send Dick ahead to scout, though.”

“Ok,” Dick said, looking at his watch, “we get everything ready by 22:30. Then it’s your turn.”

“Great. I’ll hack into their system and schedule a message to be shown on all screens at 22:30. Their fire alarm is old-school though so someone has to pull it.”

“I’ll do it,” Jason said, grinning.

Tim felt like they were probably working their way through Jason’s childhood bucket list right now, and he was weirdly okay with that.

“Good,” Dick said absently. He gave Tim a pointed look. “So what about Bruce?”

Tim pursed his lips. That was the most unstable part of this plan.

“I’ll handle Bruce.”

Jason and Dick exchanged a dubious look. Which, rude.

“You sure you can handle B on your own?” Jason asked.

“Or go down trying,” Tim replied.

The three of them contemplated that for a moment.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Dick said finally, “let’s get going.”

-

There was only one way that Bruce, already suspicious, wouldn’t notice that three of his sons were missing. Jason and Damian maybe, but not Dick. He was too noticeable to be lost in the crowd.

So, the only real strategy would be to distract Bruce to the point where he didn’t look for them. Tim had already texted their noble patriarch to tell him that the suspicious activity was handled and it wasn’t a major threat. Now all he had to do was live up to his reputation as the boy who can lie to Batman.

Actually, Dick had done him a favour in this regard. There were a total number of 14 people in Gotham society who could throw Bruce off his game, and one of them was already doing the personal space tango with B over by the buffet. In Tim’s experience, Bruce needed at least four of these people to keep him occupied, so Tim was going for five. Mr Gauthier was already in place, which left Tim with the unenviable position of getting another four to go bother Bruce.

He entered the ballroom, quickly scanning the crowd for one of the legendary 14, and was immediately accosted by Mrs Sanderson who he did not have time for right now. As she talked at length about how big he’d gotten (he saw her last week), he spotted Mr Tobias Engel, who was definitely living up to his name today.

Tim excused himself, pretending that he needed to use the bathroom, and quickly swerved around some guests to get to Engel.

“Mister Engel!” He greeted.

“Yes?” Engel was an older man, gangly and white of hair, and sported a rather impressive moustache. He was also unusually sharp and interesting for someone who was part of this crowd, which is why all the Waynes took any chance to talk to him during these parties. An interesting conversation was hard currency in here, to the point where Dick had once physically swept Tim’s legs out from under him to get to Engel first.

“Timothy Wayne.” Tim introduced himself.

“Yes, I’m quite aware.” Engel told him with a hint of amusement.

“Ah, you never know with these masks,” said Tim, “I am glad to have caught you before you left. I actually had a favour to ask.” Normally Tim would spend some more time on pleasantries, but time was of the essence here.

“Yes?”

“Last time we spoke you told me about the suggested reform for the Gotham school system. I was intrigued, so I mentioned it to my father.” Tim said. This was actually true. “He was interested, but I’m afraid I couldn’t do the proposal justice.” This wasn’t true. “And I was wondering if you could speak to him? I would love for him to back the project, but…” he trailed off, making a face to convey that certain parents take the words of other adults much more seriously than that of their children. Engel made a thoughtful noise.

“Well, I can certainly have a word with Mister Wayne. Is he around?” Engel glanced around.

Tim helpfully pointed Bruce out and sent Engel on his way, safe in the knowledge that Engel wouldn’t tell B that Tim had sent him; the man was smart enough to read the subtext of Tim’s query. Not smart enough to know the cause for it though.

One down.

Tim swiftly made his way through the throng, rebuffing various attempt to pull him into a conversation, until he spotted-

Bingo.

Miss Leila Auclair. Auclair was one of those daughters of powerful men who had somehow held onto the vapidness and incredible confidence their teenage years well into their twenties. She had decided that Bruce Wayne was the grand knight of her fairy tale at 21 and pursued him with enough fervour to warrant a restraining order, though none had been filed, which Tim was thankful for currently. She was surrounded, as per usual, by a gaggle of women her age who were essentially interchangeable with one another.

“Ladies,” Tim said smoothly as he stepped up to them. The gaggle turned to him like a single being, smiling and greeting him with over-the-top enthusiasm. A Wayne tended to have that effect.

“Are you having a nice evening, Mister Wayne?” One of them asked. Tim thought she might be the daughter of Ernest Lewis, a business partner of Wayne Enterprises.

“I am now,” he said cheekily, practicing everything Dick had thought him over the years, “though I must say you are all being very greedy, keeping your lovely company to yourselves. Lord knows my father could use some of it. He hasn’t as much as seen a charming young lady all night. I think he might consider dating Mister Fitz if he is left alone much longer.”

And that’s all it took for Leila to immediately leave the group. She really wasn’t all that bright.

Two down.

Tim extracted himself from the girl-gaggle as quickly as possible, under heavy protests. He promised to return, a bald-faced lie, and walked away very quickly.

So, only two more to go. So far, Bruce seemed too occupied juggling Gauthier and Engel to notice something was amiss, and Tim had already planned who to use as number four. Stepping quietly between the backs of two men who both smelled like sweaty shrimp he spotted a golden opportunity if ever there was one.

Francis Klein and George Campbell. It was as two for one combo.

Tim felt almost elated as he approached them, a feeling he was certain none of them had ever elicited in another human being before.

“Mister Klein, Mister Campbell,” he greeted, smiling politely.

“Mister Wayne,” they chorused back.

“We were just discussing how the golf club’s finances have taken a hit recently, due to the new parking restrictions.”

Oh. Economics and golf combined. So that’s what they were talking about. Tim had assumed they were both just monologuing at each other about numbers and golf respectively in a sort of awkward facsimile of an actual conversation.

“Fascinating,” he lied with gusto, “actually, Mister Klein, I came to find you because my father was asking about the quarterly reports. Would you mind speaking to him about it?”

Klein straightened, as if the sudden sense of importance had given him a purpose that his life had previously lacked. Which, maybe it had.

“Well, then I must go speak to him at once!” Klein exclaimed, already peering around for any sign of Bruce.

“That would be splendid,” Tim said, “he is over by the bar… probably talking about his golf game.”

And that’s four. Tim watched as Klein and Campbell hurried away, both almost buzzing at the prospect of discussing their favourite subject. He was pretty certain that neither of them would stop to explain who sent them; they really weren’t those kinds of people.

Strictly speaking he had already succeeded with his mission, but Tim had already had number four planned and, frankly, he didn’t want to give it up. So he went hunting. A quick look at his phone told him that the time was 22:21, and he had nine long minutes to set another dog loose on B.

Was he enjoying this a bit too much?

He swerved right when old Nancy Simmons, renowned bigot, tried to physically catch his arm and drag him into her group. Tim would rather be alone in space eating those disgusting dried army food packs Bruce bought for long missions than talk to her. 683.

No, he was enjoying this the appropriate amount.

He finally spotted his target at 22:24, holding court in the way that only Mrs Payne could. She was surrounded by a crowd of scandalised women and a few incensed men. All of whom probably owned a monocle. For tax purposes, or something.

Tim stepped straight into the lion’s den and sent his best thousand watt smile at Mrs Payne.

“Mrs Payne!” He kept smiling as Mrs Payne fixed him with a withering, hateful stare. “I heard there had been some issues with an invitee from the Upper Gotham Women’s Society.” Mrs Payne opened her mouth, doubtless to lecture him for his rude behaviour, but Tim was on a deadline and he did not have the time. “I just wanted to offer my condolences. I know that my adoptive father backed the project, and I am appalled to hear that it caused any sort of offence.”

Mrs Payne froze. Her eyes were doing some sort of mad dance as she processed the reality of her two greatest enemies joining forces to let riff raff into her high society events. After a moment that lasted an eternity she spoke, in a measured voice:

“Thank you, Mister Drake.”

She had always liked the Drakes. Their name was entirely dissimilar from Payne. As such, she tended to refer to Tim as one or the other depending on her current opinion of him. She was unnaturally calm as she turned to the group, asked them all to please excuse her, and stalked off in Bruce’s direction.

Tim snuck out of the group, grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and ambled towards the exit, set on finding a good vantage point to watch Bruce get Splatooned.

He spotted a familiar group on the way, who were huddled together and having a very heated debate. He distinctly heard Dennis exclaim “completely unacceptable!” from within the herd.

“Completely!” Tim echoed merrily as he passed them.

He spotted his brothers sidling in through a side door across the room and raised his glass at them. They waved cheerily. Well, Dick and Jason did. He was pretty sure Damian rolled his eyes beneath the mask.

They spent the countdown watching Bruce try to get away from his admirers while getting completely eviscerated by Mrs Payne. At 22:28, B finally pieced it together and looked over at his brood with the icy eyes he usually reserved for when he wore the cowl.

Still, that was too little too late. At 22:30 on the dot, Jason pulled the fire alarm and every sprinkler in the room went off, dousing the finely dressed guests in neon paint, as the message “fur is murder!” flashed from every screen. There would probably be a few guests who wouldn’t get caught in the mayhem, since they had limited the colour spectacle to the main hall ballroom, but in all almost every member of the Gotham Society Set would be washing neon pink, purple, and yellow out of their hair for a week.

As a spray of neon rained down them, Tim, Dick, Jason, and Damian watched Mrs Payne lose her shit for the first time and It. Was. Glorious.

“Do you think he’ll still make us come next year?!” Dick yelled over the blaring alarm while Jason was catching colour in his hands and rubbing it on Damian’s head. Tim laughed.

“And give us one year to plan?!” He replied, jumping out of the way when Damian tackled Jason to the floor. “No way!”

“Uh, guys?!” Jason said from where he had Damian pinned to the floor. “Incoming!”

They looked up to see Bruce marching their way. Tim could almost see the cloak billowing around him.

“I have a safe house in Brazil!” Jason shouted over the cacophony of noise. It was an unusual show of empathy on his part, and really, who were they to argue? After all, when Batman comes for you there’s really only one thing to do.

They ran.

#Fanfiction #fanfic #batfam #batfam fic #tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #i do not know how to tag this at all #rating: t #tw language #batfamily fic #7k+ #5-10k #humor #oneshot #I gave a language warning b/c microsoft word straight up told me my language was offensive #also all obscure facts about windmill construction are made up #I am not invested enough to look them up

[hayaku14]

IDK WTF THIS CARD GAME IS ABOUT BUT I NEED IT IMMEDIATELY

#kaishin #kuroba kaito #kudou shinichi #detective conan #dcmk #kaitou kid #edogawa conan #kidco #kidshin #kaico #LOOK AT THEMMMMMN #MY BEAUTIFUL BOYSSSSSS #ALSO LOOK AT KAITO???? #WHY HE EATING UP KAITOU KID LIKE THAT OMG????? GODDAMN PRETTY MOTHERFUCKER I WILL PAT HIS HEAD AND TUCK HIM UNTO BED UGHHHH #AND OOOOH SHINICHI MY BOY YOU'RE AS BEAUTIFUL AS THE DAY WE LOST YOU BBY COME HOMEEEEE 😭😭😭😭 #i love kidco so much like theyre so iconic look at themmmmm THEY'RE SO COOL AND LARGER THAN LIFE UGGHHHHH #i love them all your honor even though technically theres like only 2 people there but whatever #I LOVE THE OG LOVESQUARE BABEEEEYYY #need more stuff in the 'kuroba kaito doesnt know edogawa conan is kudou shinichi' tag just for the lovesquare shenanigans amirite 👉😏👉 #dc prattles #btw sorry im so kaishin brainrd but if you look at the art for hakuba aoko and ran???? DAMN DCMK I AINT FORGIVING YALL WITH THAT M27 REVEAL #BUT YALL REALLY COOKED WITH THR ART IN THIS CARD GAME IMMA GIVE YOU THAT

[heliotropehotch]

Wasteland, Baby - Hotch x fem!Reader

A/N: This is my first criminal minds fic I’m putting out! Im not really sure what this is but I was in need of more hotch fics i’m not gonna lie. tagging @writefasttalkevenfaster​ cause she let me ask her for ideas - also happy birthday Sabina!! This fic is kinda based on a mixture of wasteland, baby by hozier and separate ways by journey. Italics are flashbacks

Warnings: mentions of passed abusive relationship, kidnapping, torture, chained up, arguments, pining, cussing, mentions of sex

Words: 4134

Genre: Angst with fluffy ending

The bullpen of the BAU was quiet but bustling with the soft shuffling of papers and dull thuds of various coffee mugs meeting the hardwood desks. Aaron Hotchner slowly shuffled up the stairs to his office, sighing with the deeper aches of his body. His door shut behind him softly, feeling the weight of the long week catching up with him as his shoulders dropped. He looked over towards the clock on his desk before he trudged to his chair and sat down. 

Strauss had sent over details of a new team member coming to join the BAU for the indefinite future, but Hotch had yet to look over the information before now. Whoever they were, they were expected to arrive at any minute now. He sighed once again, running a calloused palm over his face, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. A knock echoed through the room. “Come in,” his voice called out. 

“Uh,” Dave began. “The new one’s here. Garcia’s smothering her with questions.” He chuckled. 

Hotch gave a small smile. “Of course she is.” 

He grabbed the file off of his desk as he made his way to the door of his office. I should at least know their name, he thought, opening the manila folder as he stepped out of the door. 

- - New addition to Behavioral Analysis Unit: Y/N Y/L/N - -

His eyebrows furrowed before his eyes shot up to find the face he hadn’t seen in over a decade. In the flesh, there you were, smiling sweetly at Spencer as he prattled off facts about pathogens of hand shaking. Hotch felt the folder slide from his loose grip and land on the floor with scattered papers and the sharp sound of it hitting the floor. 

Your ears caught the sound, causing you to look around just as his eyes had. Hotch was staring at you, his eyebrows still furrowed with what looked like concern, his mouth slightly agape. 

You met his eyes, and gave a nervous and small grin, raising your hand up in a tentative wave. 

“Aaron, I have to go,” you mumbled, stuffing your clothes into a suitcase. “Y/N, what are you talking about?” Hotch’s panicked voice rang out. He reached for your wrist. “Will you please just tell me what’s going on?” You yanked your hand away from his grasp, taking a hesitant step away. 

“When were you going to tell me about Haley?” you asked softly, staring at your hands. His veins run cold. “Y/N-”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” You looked up at him with angry eyes. “Aaron, I know who she is to you. I know she’s all you’ve wanted since highschool. Was I even given a chance?”

“Y/N, I love you,” his shaky voice rang out as he took a step forward. 

“Don’t do that,” you shook your head, taking another step back, tears well past the point of being held back. “Don’t say it back to me now. You love her more. You always will. I just wish you could’ve told me instead of-”

Your voice choked, “Instead of sleeping with her. That would’ve hurt a lot less.”

“Y/N, please don’t go.” His own face wet with tears. She continues packing her things, with more intention. 

“And why shouldn’t I?” 

He stared at her silently, thinking of words, any words that would make you stay. He knew what they were, but his mouth couldn’t get them out. You had stopped to look at him now, heart hurting as the room fell silent. 

“Right,” you sighed, pulling the suitcase to your feet. “Go get her back Aaron, don’t lose her like you did me.” 

The door to his apartment clicked closed behind you. His hands wiped away his stray tears. 

“God, Hotchner. You’re such a fucking idiot,” as he picks up the photo of the both of you and throws it against the wall. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the space. 

Hotch looked down at his now empty hands and moved to pick up the folder before heading down the steps. He tried to shake the initial shock of seeing you again off but his mind couldn’t help but think, this is gonna hurt like a goddamn bitch. 

“Y/N,” his voice sounded more confident than he was. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” you spoke out, voice somewhat cold and disconnected. “I look forward to working with you.”

Garcia spoke up, eyeing the tension between the two of you. “Well, Hotch, I was about to come get you with a new case. It’s local.”

“Okay, just head to the briefing room. Agent Y/L/N and I will be there in a second.” Garcia mock saluted as the rest of the team headed up the stairs. 

“Y/N-” Hotch began, but you didn’t give him a chance. 

“Sir,” your bitter voice spoke. “Working under your command will not be an issue for me. If it is an issue for you, I understand.”

“Of course, it’s not,” his voice is soft. “I just think we should eventually have a conversation. I haven’t had a chance to look over your file-”

“You haven’t?” you looked at him with fear. “Sir, there are some things you will read, but it will in no way affect the way I work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe we have a briefing.”

Hotch sighed, looking at the file in his hands. His brows scrunched up in confusion, before his natural frown took over his features. Whatever was in there could wait. 

He straightened his back, pushing his shoulders back before quickly walking into the briefing room. “Garcia, what have we got?”

She clicks the remote, herself going a bit rigid at the images on screen. “Starting two weeks ago, six women have gone missing from the DC area. Local police have recovered at least 4 of the bodies in local bodies of water. The victims have large bruises and impressions around their wrists and ankles.”

“Like chains?” You spoke up. “How long between the time the first victim was kidnapped and her estimated time of death?”

“Five days,” Garcia’s sad voice answered. “And it’s been the same with the other bodies. The last victims reported missing were both taken 3 days ago.”

“So we have two days to work with local police before we can expect there to be two more bodies,” Hotch said, sighing at the time limit. “Everyone grab your stuff and we’ll head to the precinct.” 

~~~~

The next day, all of their information gathering, all of their leads, all of their information came to a screeching halt when a woman, with bruises around her ankles and wrists stumbled into the precinct. Her dirt covered clothes and disheveled hair screamed for help as her weak knees fell to the ground. 

Derek ran over to her and kneeled. “Someone get a medic over here!” he shouted. 

Anna Sawyer, 32, a bartender at a local pub had freed herself from chains of the unsub. After walking for hours, she finally got the precinct where she could find someone, anyone to help her. 

“Morgan and Reid are on their way to the hospital to get information about her captor and where she escaped from,” Hotch clicked his cellphone off. 

“What about the other girl? Do we think she’s kept in a separate space?” Prentiss asked. 

“Possibly,” you sighed, making notes on a notepad. “We can’t rule out anything until the boys get answers back.”

“In the meantime,” Hotch huffed out. “Everyone go get some food and meet back in an hour.”

“Y/N,” Emily grabbed your attention. “Wanna go grab a bite with me and JJ? I know a local place with good coffee and sandwiches.” She smiled

“Yeah sure that sounds good!” Grabbing her notepad and cellphone before giving Hotch a brief glance and a curt nod and following them out the door.

Hotch continued to stare, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and thinking back to the unread personnel file he had on his temporary desk. Dave moved into his line of sight, with a knowing smirk gracing his face. 

“So you gonna tell me what that’s about?” Aaron huffed, moving towards the desk. 

“I knew her in college,” he said, short and sweet. Dave rolled his eyes. 

“And just how well did you know her in college?”

“We were together,” he sighed, gaining a shocked looked on Rossi’s face. “For about a year when Haley and I were on a break.”

“Aaron,” he called for eye contact. “You left her for Haley didn’t you?”

“It’s not like I was given a choice. She found out that I-” he cut himself off, clearing his throat as guilt flooded his veins. “She found out. And she left.” 

“You didn’t go after her?” 

“I couldn’t, Dave,” he sighed, shaking his head. “It was Haley. Everyone just expected me to marry her and I had to become someone I wasn’t.” He looked at the file on his desk. 

“Y/N wasn’t like anyone else. She was good for me, I loved her with so much, but when I saw Haley after so long, I just fell back into the routine.”

Dave sighed, patting his shoulder. “Haley loved you, but you can love more than one person. It’s been almost 3 years since-”

“I know, Dave,” his fingers pressed into the bridge of his nose. “But I don’t know if I can handle losing her too. Although, it feels like I already have. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you should start by seeing what she’s been up to for the last decade,” Dave pointed to the file. “And then you should talk to her.” Then he walked to the coffee machine.

Hotch let out a sharp exhale of air, sitting down. He stared at the file a few seconds more, before thumbing the folder open. 

~~~~

At the cafe with Emily and JJ, you felt yourself relaxing into the friendships that were to come. You laughed at a joke Emily made about some of the more intense cops you were working with. 

“Thank you guys,” you sighed, taking a sip of your coffee. “You’ve been so nice to me.”

“Of course, Y/N,” JJ smiled. “You’re a part of this team now.”

“Exactly,” Emily agreed. “I do have a question though.”

“Working with a bunch of profilers, I should’ve expected that,” you chuckled. “What do you wanna know?”

JJ and Emily shared a look. “How do you know Hotch?”

You cleared your throat. “We, uh, kinda dated in college,” you admitted with a scrunch of your face. 

“Really? I thought he was only with Haley,” JJ commented, softly with bitter and sad tones. You cringed slightly, knowing of her passing. 

“They were on a break for a while when we were still studying. But we didn’t last longer than maybe a year,” you smiled sadly. “Haley came back and I just didn’t want to compete with his highschool sweetheart. It would’ve been a lost battle.”

Emily smiled sadly. “You still love him don’t you.”

A cold chuckle escaped your mouth. “It’s impossible for me not to. I thought that I’d be fine, ya know working with him. But then he had to go at look at me with those stupid eyes.”

“Aaron!” Your voice laughed out, as his fingers dug into your sides. “Aar- stop!” you giggled out between breaths. Finally his relentless torture stopped, him chuckling at your wild hair and flushed cheeks. 

He leaned down to kiss you, pulling his weight on you and pressing you into the couch. His face cradled your cheeks. He leaned back with a sweet grin, you still pinned underneath him. Your fingers reached up to brush some of his hair out of his face. 

“I love you,” you smiled. His breath hitched, a brief amount of panic flickering in his chocolate eyes. Cradling his face, you continue, “You don’t have to say it back, I know you’re still-”

You sigh, searching his eyes. “I just had to let you know.” 

You try to break eye contact, but his hand brings your eyes back. Without saying a word, he leans down to kiss you again, with more fire, and hands drifting down to your waist to pull you closer to him. 

“You should talk to him,” JJ said, reaching for your hand and interrupting your recollection. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Haley included.”

“You’re sweet JJ,” patting her hand. “I just don’t know if I can do that again. We’ve both been through so much in the last ten years.” 

A sad silence fell over the small table you had been seated at. “Sorry to be such a downer girls,” you chuckled, trying to alleviate the tension. “I’m gonna get another coffee.”

Standing in line you twiddled with your fingers, thinking about the words JJ had said. Aaron had been through so much, it wasn’t fair to want him again. But if he had been looking at you like that- 

“Excuse me,” a gravelly voice spoke up from behind you. “Don’t turn around.” You felt the barrel of a gun pressed into the slope of your lower back. 

“You’re going to come with me and get in my car,” he huffed into your ear. 

“And if I don’t?” you questioned. 

“Then I’m going to shoot the two women you came in with right here and right now between their pretty little eyes. 

“Okay,” your voice shook. “Just don’t hurt them.”

~~~

Aaron leaned back against the desk chair he was seated at, hands covering his face. The guilt that trembled through his body now had new reasons. He would give anything to not be around these people right now. His skin crawled with remorse.

“Aaron?” Rossi called out in question. “What’s in that file?” 

He quickly stood up and pressed the file to Dave’s chest, storming into the nearest room with a door. Rossi followed him, folder open, closing the door behind him. “He fucking hit her, Dave. Her choked her, he slapped her, he-”

Aaron was shaking now. “Hotch, you can’t blame yourself for this.”

“It was her ex!” he shouted. “The one before me! She went back to him because I couldn’t be who she needed and I couldn’t get past expectations well enough to tell her I loved her.”

“Aaron,” Dave spoke calmly. “This was years ago. He’s locked up, and she is as strong as ever. Have you seen the way she’s worked this case? It’s only been two days and she has the fire of any of us. She’s okay now.”

“If it wasn’t for me,” he breathed out, his hands trembling. “Then she wouldn’t have had to go through it in the first place.”

“There is absolutely nothing we can do about that now, Hotch,” his voice tried to sooth, but was interrupted by a phone call. 

“Yeah Prentiss,” he said. Aaron watched as his back straightened, shoulders tensing. “For how long?”

“Right,” his eyes, full of sorrow, reached Aaron’s. “I’ll tell him. Get back to the precinct as soon as you can.” Then he ended the phone call.

“Dave?” Aaron’s worried voice rang out. “Tell me what Dave?” 

“Aaron,” he sighed, looking down at his hands. “She’s gone, Aaron.” 

Hotch stumbled back, all air leaving his body. “He took Y/N.”

~~~~

“Alright what do we know?” Hotch asked sternly, walking into the conference room with the rest of the team. “How did he take her?”

“We were just talking about-” JJ coughed, interrupting Emily. “Things…. And she said she was going to get another cup of coffee. We didn’t see her for a while, so JJ and I started looking around the cafe when we saw her outside being forced into a dark van. By the time we got outside she was gone. I’m sorry, Hotch-” 

“Reid, what did you get from Anna?” Hotch moved on, voice angry. Worried looks darted across the room. 

“It was a similar case, Anna was talking to her friends about trying to get over a guy who liked someone else, on her break and went to get a round of drinks,” he said. “When about 30 minutes went by and she hadn’t come back, her friends assumed she just went home. They didn’t realize she was missing until the next day. Anna said she remembers him holding a gun to her back and saying he would kill her friends if she didn’t go with him.”

“Wait,” JJ stopped. “I think I know how he’s choosing his victims. We need to contact all of the victim’s friends again and find out what they were talking about the night they went missing.”

She looked at the group with a sad, but nervous look. “They were all talking about men they were in love with but couldn’t have.” Hotch coughed as he choked on air. 

“Did Anna remember anything about where she was kept?” Hotch rushed out, urgency taking over. 

“She remembers that she was underground for the most part,” Morgan answered. “When we tried to get her to remember details, she remembers hearing the sounds of cars going over a bridge over water.” 

Emily called Garcia, putting her on speaker. “Garcia, we need you to cross-reference any receipts from the places the victims were last seen. Run any names you find against property with basements near water bridges. Get back to us when you have something.”

“You got it, my goddess divine,” She ended the call. 

“Hotch-” JJ started, but he was already sauntering out of the room. The team looked at each other. “What are we gonna do if we can’t-”

“Then we just have to figure out how to,” Rossi said. 

In the file room down the hall, Hotch was having trouble breathing. He clutched at his tie, ripping it off his neck. Fuck.

~~~~~

“Pet, I don’t know why you’re fighting me so much,” the man taunted as you struggled against the chain and shackles. 

“Maybe because you fucking kidnapped me,” you huffed. He clicked his tongue. 

“Wouldn’t you much rather be with me than a man who doesn’t love you?” He said, hand wrapping around your throat. “Isn’t this better than nothing?”

“Isn’t this better than nothing?” Lucas, your ex said, handing you an ice pack for the bruise blooming across your face. “At least, I love you. I picked you off the floor of your house after he broke your heart.” He wrapped his hand around your throat, your heart rate pulsing. “You could at least say thank you.” 

“Thank you, Lucas,” your voice shook. 

“You’re welcome, babydoll,” he said smugly. “Now go to our room, I need to get off.”

“Nothing is better than being with you,” you spit into his face. He chuckled darkly, wiping his face.

“Little bitch,” he muttered, before punching you in the stomach. “I’ll make you wish you had nothing.”

He walked over to a table nearby, picking up a long blade. You strained against the wall, trying to get away from him. “Normally, I’d wait a couple of days before starting with you. But your time’s a little short,” he chuckled. “I hope you don’t mind scars, my pet. I’ll start small.” He winked. 

The tip of the blade dragged across your chest, stinging with red marks as blood began to surface, before disappearing behind the buttons of your blouse. Your breathing picked up, causing him to chuckle again. “Don’t worry my pet, we’re not there yet.” 

“You motherfucker,” you hissed. “Is that what does it for you? Getting off with girls who would never even look your way?” 

His face became angry. “You women are stuck loving someone who could never love you back,” he hissed. “No one could ever love you back. I’m just here to end your misery.” He smiled wickedly, cutting deeping into your side of your stomach. 

“I get to mark you up with these, with my hands, making the pain stay with you,” he said, tracing your arm with the blade, a long angry line blossoming. “And then when I’m tired of you, I get to watch you die with your last vision being me.” He set down the blade, grabbing a set of brass knuckles. “I’ll make you feel this for weeks, my pet,” he taunted, before landing a hit on your jaw. “Not like you’ll live that long anyways.” 

“The pain I give you will be the only thing you think about until I get to kill you,” his fist landing on your stomach again making it hard to breath. Your vision became spotty and you found it hard to stay awake. 

“Aww poor thing. Too much to handle already?” he teased, holding your lolled head up to look him in the eyes. “Good thing I’m killing you soon, cause nobody’s gonna love you after this.” 

A loud crash came from upstairs. He dropped his grasp on your now sore jaw. “What the fuck,” he said, climbing up the steps. 

“Thomas Wayne! Come out with your hands up!” You heard Hotch’s voice echo from upstairs. You smiled to yourself. 

Aaron aimed the gun right at the head of the unsub, anger and fear vibrated through his body, his skin on fire. Even with the man’s hands in the air, he adjusted his grip, finger tensed to stop himself from shooting him anyways. 

“Aaron,” Rossi grabbed his attention, causing him to turn his head to make eye contact. “Go find her. I’ve got him.”

He quickly dropped his aim and holstered his gun before moving towards the basement door. Thundering of rushed feet resonated through the walls of the dark rooms. “Y/N!” he called out.

“Aaron,” you scratched out, barely audible to his ears. Quickly, he found you, rushing over to get the shackles off your wrists and ankles. You collapsed against his chest, huffing out a sob. His arms held you tightly, trying to avoid any visible wounds. You gasped, pain shooting through your ribs, but that didn’t matter to you right now. You focused on the hands soothing your back.

“Hey, shh,” he cooed. “It’s okay, Y/N, I’ve got you.” His own tears flowing over his face. 

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” you choked out. “I thought he was gonna-”

“I’m never gonna desert you, honey,” he pressed his face into your neck. “I’m so sorry. But he’s gone, okay? I’ve got you. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Aaron,” you started, knowing he knew. 

“Hey, it doesn’t matter,” he moved your hair out of your face. “It doesn’t matter cause I’ve got you.” 

~~~~ 

Soon after, you were moved to a hospital to get treated for the cuts and cracked ribs you suffered. Aaron hadn’t left your side the whole time, causing some issues for hospital staff but he really didn’t give to shits. Now as you slept, system full of pain meds, he sat resting his arms next to you, one hand tangled with yours. 

Slowly you woke up, looking around the room before your eyes landed on his. You released your hand from his and rested it on his head, combing through his hair like you used to in college. The sensations startled him into sitting up. 

“You’re awake,” he smiled, grabbing your hand again. 

“You’re still here,” you replied, only kind of surprised. 

“I told you, Y/N,” he said, sitting on your bed. “I’m not leaving you again.”

“Aaron-” you started, squeezing his hand. 

“I love you,” he rushed out, your eyes widening at his confession. “I always have. I lost you once before because I didn’t know how to say it to someone who needed so much more than I could offer. Reading your file-” his voice choked up. 

“So I’m not leaving again. And I’m not letting you leave again. Cause no matter how long I have you, no matter how long my love for you lasts, I’m gonna make sure I don’t fuck it up like I have before. You’re never going to have to go through anything without me by your side. Letting you walk out that door was my biggest mistake, and I’ve regretted not doing something for 10 years. And I’ll live everyday trying to make sure you never feel that way again.”

You sniffled, letting your heart open for the first time in years. Your knuckles were white from gripping his hand. “Aaron, I love you,” you laughed through your tears. His lips met yours slowly, giving you time and space to be comfortable against your healing injuries. His forehead rested against yours, smiles filled both of your faces. 

And suddenly, the end of the world didn’t seem as scary with him by your side. 

#criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #angsty #angst #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #hotchner x reader #thomas gibson #spencer reid #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #derek morgan #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner x you #david rossi #aaron hotchner slow burn

[youngjusticeslut]

How did you become a screener? What is the requirements of being a screener? How much do you get payed for it?

Thanks for asking! I talk about the whole story in my discussion episode on the Whelmed Podcast, but in case you don't want to listen to me prattle on for an hour (I don't blame you 😂), here's the tl;dr.

Honestly how I became a screener is: I shot my shot. I saw a new YJ site open up, I wanted to write reviews for it. So I pitched myself, submitted a writing sample, and the owner liked it enough to 'hire' me. Over the years he trusted me enough to give me full reign of the site, I brought on my team, and boom here we are.

As to how anyone can become a screener, there's so many ways! You could open up your own semi-professional site/blog (aka, how @yjfanvids and I became screeners for She-Ra). You could do reviews on Youtube. You can apply to work at a site like Screenrant or CBR. If you go the solo route by starting something yourself, then you have to have connections/friends who are already in the know and can give you the right people to contact. Otherwise you may have a hard time finding the right person/getting a response.

As far as requirements, I'd pretty much say you just have to a) write well and b) know your stuff. Having any writing experience is pretty great! There's another requirement, and it goes along with payment, being that you have to really love what you do.

Payment: Here's the down and dirty truth. If you're working for CBR/Screenrant/etc. you're doing to be paid close to nothing for an abysmal amount of work. It's disgusting and pure exploitation, and personally I wouldn't recommend it. But if you really really enjoy it, then absolutely go nuts. Sometimes you might not get paid at all, and will actually have to pay (ie setting up a website, hosting a domain, etc.) for what you do. Honestly I didn't get paid for YJTV for a long time-- I just did it because it was fun and a little hobby! I get paid now, but it's not a salary (I do have a real job, haha). Some people DO make this their jobs and end up working for big sites (like DC, Popsugar, etc.) that pay them really well! So it all depends on what you'd like to do :)

#personal #screener talk

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

PENULTIMATE PREVIEW PAGES PACKED WITH PRATTLING OF PIRATES AND PONYDOGS!

AKA: Second to last issue of Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow preview. XD

SPOILERS.

HnnNNnNNnNNnG COLORS!!!!!!!!

I say again: COLOOOORRRRRSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!

Never in my life have I wanted a full-color, oversized artists edition of a book as much as I want one for Woman of Tomorrow.

Like, yes. Yes. The raw inks are gorgeous, Evely is master, those lines are to die for BUT I CANNOT GET OVER HOW CONSISTENTLY *GORGEOUS* LOPES COLOR HANDLING IS.

THE WAVES ON THE BEACH, THE WET SAND, THE CORAL REEFS, COMET’S CAPE CONTRASTED AGAINST THE SEA AND SKY, ALL OF IT. STUNNING.

If DC doesn’t release a special edition hardcover of this I SWEAR. XD

Anyways.

Other fun bits in here:

I love the detail that epics and poems have been written about the showdown about to take place, and I love that the beach has since been renamed ‘Kara’s Beach.’

I *do* believe that is the first time we’ve seen her actual name in this book? I’ll have to go back and check, but. Even if it’s not the first time, it’s not been mentioned much so. Neat!

It does have some ‘and this is the END’ vibes to it but IDK, I don’t think King/DC would kill Kara here? And PKJ has said he potentially has plans for Kara over in Action Comics so. *shrug*

Also love that Ruthye reminds us that Krypto is still alive! And this is still a rescue mission!

I just love Ruthye *in general*, and I hope that she continues to stick around in future Supergirl lore.

That is. Assuming we get more Supergirl comics. XD

(Which, you’d think would be a sure thing, given that she’s gonna show up in the movies later this year, but. Who knows! They just announced a stupid Geoff Johns Flashpoint sequel so I’m not terribly confident in DC’s ability to read the room, as it were.) 

Anyways!

I can’t wait to read this but also I don’t want this comic to end but I WANNA READ IT RIGHT NOW but also NooOOOOoOOO it’s only got two issues left--! XD

#supergirl: woman of tomorrow #dc comics #supergirl: woman of tomorrow spoilers #long post

[herradhighpriestess]

Deliberate Exchange

Summary: Elka Green is at work the morning the Exchange. She is one of the hostages pulled onto the motorcycles and not released. Elka is married to a conservative judge, in a loveless marriage, there's all sorts of drugs, sex and violence and political references/quotes that could offend, I hope you enjoy, xoxo I don't own any of these characters etc.

Chapter One: A Personal Note

Elka Green climbed the steps of the Exchange building, her eighteen hundred-dollar Gucci heels sounded in staccato clicks on the pitted and well traversed steps of the Exchange.

She tossed her hair back and adjusted the silk scarf that was loosely wrapped around her slim neck. Elka’s dark blonde hair fell long past her shoulders.

A sharp breeze blew in her direction, and a single tendril of her macadamia nut oiled hair caught in the loose knot of her scarf. As the wind died down, the single strand of warm blonde hair pulled free of her scalp and settled in the silken valleys of the designer fabric.

Elka paused at the top of the steps when she heard someone call her name.

“Elka, hey Elka!”

She forced her lips into a welcoming smile as Jerry Reynolds jogged over to her.

“Hey Elka, how was your weekend?”

“Good morning Jerry, it was pleasant. Thank you for asking.”

Jerry ran a manicured hand through his seventy-five-dollar haircut. Elka started walking again and kept her matte lipstick smile fixed in place as she headed in the direction of an organic coffee cart.

Jerry kept pace and prattled on about his weekend, completely oblivious to Elka’s disinterest. She struggled to not roll her eyes as Jerry rattled off story after adventure about his wild weekend.

Elka’s smile turned genuine when Albert Phinney pressed a white lid on a recycled paper cup and passed it to her as she walked up. “Good morning Mrs. Green, I hope your weekend was well,” he added as she accepted the hot cup from his hands.

Albert watched her intently as she took a sip of the steaming soy concoction. She smiled warmly when the sweet espresso flooded her mouth and coated her taste buds.

“Today, it’s a soy hazelnut macchiato with a dusting of cinnamon and nutmeg.”

Elka took another sip as Albert whispered that he had added some light agave syrup. Monday through Friday, Albert made Elka a mystery espresso. It was a tradition that had started more than seven years prior and showed no signs of stopping unless one of them ceased to live.

It had been Elka’s first day at the Exchange, she had started on the lowest part of the totem, barely clinging to its wooden splinters. She had been obscenely early for her first day, not many people had been around. Albert had been brewing coffee and unwrapping and arranging sweet pastries and Bavarian cream filled delicacies onto plastic platters.

Elka had straightened the stiff collar of her stark white blouse and pinstriped blazer as she approached Albert’s coffee cart. He had offered her a warm smile and didn’t tell her that he wasn’t quite set up for business yet when he saw her nerves peeking out from behind her statuesque and stoic facade.

Elka stood a little over 5’8 and in her Jimmy’s, she came in just a hair under six feet. Albert’s smile broadened when Elka couldn’t decide on a coffee and held up a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand to pause her indecisive litany.

“Allow me to make you a drink not on the menu,” he had whispered in a low conspiratorial tone and bustled about steaming soy milk and adding an amber colored sweet syrup.

Elka had smiled gratefully and accepted that first drink which started the long-running weekly tradition of Albert creating her morning coffee. She always abstained from one of the tempting and delicious looking buttery pastries. Every great once in a while, Albert would top one of her morning espressos with whipped cream and fat light-brown raw sugar crystals.

Elka put a few dollars in the battered paper tip cup and headed to the large revolving doors of the Exchange with Jerry hot on her highfalutin shiny, leather heels.

Elka breathed a sigh of relief when Jerry said he’d catch up with her later and hopped into an already packed elevator to head to the bustling seventh floor. She casually waved at him and continued in her preferred solitary fashion of the carpeted floor of the Exchange.

She sipped at her macchiato and reveled in the sweet coffee as she readied her mind for the day.

Elka was Mrs. Elka Alsina Green. Married just under four years to Justice Calvin Patrick Green of the Supreme Court.

They had met when Elka had been a key witness in a defense case against a legal firm CEO caught up in a masterful Ponzi Scheme. Judge Green had waited until the verdict had come in and had slammed his gavel down before asking her out for dinner.

In their short marriage, Elka’s bullish behavior and competitive drive led to her being promoted to her current position of an Information Systems Analyst Supervisor. Her intense focus at the Exchange led to people loving or hating her, unfortunately Jerry was head over heels for her, smitten beyond belief, despite Elka’s multiple reminders of her marriage.

She hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings by adding that she held zero attraction towards him.

Elka swirled the coffee in the dull green paper cup as she stalked through the Exchange and paused to say hello or offer a few passing words to several colleagues. After she finished the coffee, she fished a pack of gum from her burgundy Louis Vuitton bag. Soon the sweet and artificial peppermint coated her tongue and chased away her coffee breath.

Elka adjusted the shiny plastic badge over her heart as a familiar and delightful nervous energy filled her body, leaving a vast tingling in its wake that danced through her limbs as she waited for the opening bell to ring.

As Elka’s heartbeat increased and she snapped her gum faster, Jerry had remained at the Exchange entrance and looked down at the older man running a stiff bristled brush over the tops of his shoes.

Jerry could nearly see his reflection in the buffed surface of his shoes.

“You can’t short the stock because Bruce Wayne goes to a party,” Jerry said loudly to the man sitting next to him. The man whose name Elka couldn’t seem to remember. Dennis.

“Wayne coming back is change. Change is either good or bad. I vote bad.” The man who Jerry was looking down upon in his current sitting position as well as in life was a very loyal man with five grown daughters. Esau pretended to be every part the simple-minded man who was shining the shoes of the pretentious, all in hopes for a few crisp bills and shiny coins to rain down around him.

Esau continued to work the brush over the tops of Jerry’s gleaming shoes, urging a glow to swim to the surface. As Jerry and Dennis continued to discuss Bruce Wayne, Esau let his eyes wander over to his black nondescript backpack which held a loaded automatic weapon.

“On what basis?” Dennis asked.

“I flipped a coin,” Jerry answered casually before adding. “Come on let’s go scalping,” he said as he tossed a fresh five-dollar bill to land next to Esau‘s leg.

Esau watched Jerry adjust and smooth down his royal purple tie that stood out proudly against his bright blue and white striped shirt.

While Elka covered a deep yawn, Scott Carthwright pulled a creased ten dollar bill out of his pocket when the delivery guy from Antonio’s, a stellar delicatessen, walked up with a brown paper bag.

Scott opened the bag and pulled out the parchment wrapped sandwich that was supposed to be a mortadella on wheat with a fat pile of pungent pepperoncini and thick rings of Vidalia onion. He was looking forward to the olive oil and balsamic dressing that would soak the bread and impregnate it with the progeny of sweet, bitter, spicy, and savory. Scott let out a dramatic exasperated sigh and looked at the delivery guy who sported sharp features and a hooked nose. “It says rye, I said no rye man.”

The salt and pepper haired delivery man, Joshua, flicked his eyes over to the clock before his gaze landed on Scott’s plastic badge and ID number, G13689.

While Scott continued to bitch about his sandwich, on the marble landing of the carved staircase, Karl pushed a wooden handled mop along the floor after a pair of traders walked past. His beige monochromatic clothing made him almost disappear in the sea of ostentatious bustling busybodies with their platinum money clips, excessive caffeine consumption and high blood pressure.

Karl glanced down at his sunny yellow mop bucket filled with sudsy water.

Submerged in the soapy water was a matching automatic weapon to Esau’s, which laid in deadly dormancy, waiting to take lives.

Elka glanced up at the large clock and made her way to her glass-walled corner office, which was sprawling and spacious, she smiled at the fresh peonies her secretary Janice had left on the corner of her desk.

No sooner had Elka taken her seat and booted up her computer, when her life changed irreparably by a masked man in a leather jacket.

The metal detectors began to blare their alarms as Bane walked into the lobby of the Exchange, armed guards milled about with their federally issued .40 caliber handguns.

Bane’s broad shoulders were encased in a well-worn and creased leather jacket. DCS Downtown Courier Service, was emblazoned across the back in dull brick red letters.

Bane’s thick and heavily corded muscular neck and body were obscured by the fire engine red helmet that drew the attention of Sandra, a full-time member of the Exchange’s security team.

Sandra approached Bane and began to recite her repetitive litany for newcomers to the Exchange.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and she struggled to not roll her eyes in irritation at yet another person not being able to read the sign that clearly stated to remove all headwear, from hat to motorcycle helmet.

“Hey rookie, lose the helmet. We need faces for camera.”

“Come on,” Sandra managed before the red helmet was off Bane’s head and smashing into her face. The bridge of her nose exploded, and she saw bright blue stars before losing consciousness.

She would awake in a narrow emergency room gurney a while later, a plastic IV line in one arm, keeping the pain down to a dull roar.

In a brutal display of startling power, Bane moved to the right and swung the helmet in an arc, catching another guard in his forward momentum. He dodged left and avoided the next man’s reaching arm and gun. Bane slipped around the man’s extended arm and forced him to discharge his weapon before dropping him to the ground.

Bane looked around at the fallen guards, his veins and arteries swelled and became engorged with lethal toxicity. His body moved with the feral grace of felines stalking in the tall brush of the Serengeti.

“This is a stock exchange, there’s no money you can steal,” Jerry said in a tone that still held the repugnant tone of his obnoxious silver-spooned upbringing.

“Really? Then why are you people here?” Bane rebutted quickly and pulled Jerry roughly by the neck to a nearby desk. Bane slammed Jerry’s soft featured face onto the desk’s paper cluttered surface and ripped the plastic access badge from his chest.

Dennis tried to sink into his seat and disappear off of Bane’s radar, his sweating fingers struggled to not drop Bane’s red motorcycle helmet onto the ground. He felt like he was going to piss his pants, sphincter tightening. His stomach threatened to reject his liquid latte breakfast, acidic bile burned at the back of his throat.

While the metal detectors continued to blare their alarms as the masked group of men stormed the lobby. The masked men were all heavily armed and swarmed the offices and took up post by the elevators.

One of the men sprayed a line of bullets in the ceiling and the abrupt gunfire quieted a lot of screams.

Another anonymous man lifted a bullhorn to his masked mouth and began to speak. His voice reverberated through the lobby and reached Elka’s ears as she crawled under her desk and hugged her knees to her chest, through the glass walls, Elka could see that Janice had taken the same position under her own desk.

“Disobedience will be punished by death,” the masked man began and in a brutal display of startling power, grabbed one of the crying interns who was wailing incessantly and pulled her to her feet. He swung the bullhorn in an arc, catching the crying woman in mid-sob and knocking her unconscious to the floor.

“Cooperation and silence are what will allow you to retain your life.” Elka peeked around the corner of her desk as the masked man looked around at the people shaking in fear, the veins and arteries in his muscular neck swelled and became engorged with lethal toxicity. His body moved with the feral grace of felines stalking their unsuspecting prey in the tall brush.

Elka ducked back under her desk as the man’s gaze took to sweeping across the faces of the scared men and women standing in trembling huddles. They were corralled by their own fear, nearly paralyzed with the thought that the next bullet fired was going to kiss them between their shoulder blades.

Elka took a sharp intake of breath and nearly felt the weight of the masked terrorist’s eyes pass over where she was hidden from view. She flinched when she heard his voice grow in volume as he moved down the hallway, his men had spread out and were dragging people from their offices and impromptu hiding spots.

Elka pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply through her nose, she tried to remember all the jargon her yoga instructor spouted about finding a place of calm and being able to breathe away anxiety. She closed her eyes; her heartbeat was pounding in her ears with a dull roar and she couldn’t shake the image of the masked man. A short film on perpetual repeat, danced behind her eyelids of his predatory stalking around the Exchange floor, his eyes found every weakness among the hostage masses, from their red blood cells to their very warm, wet core.

Elka risked another peek around her desk just as the armed man did another visual sweep. His eyes landed on Elka when her face appeared around the mahogany desk. Elka found herself unable to move, trapped under his warm caramel colored eyes.

As the dangerous man approached her with light footfalls despite his heavy boots, he watched her expression fill with fear. He smiled behind his mask as he closed the distance between them, walking towards her with deliberate and painful slowness.

He stopped in front of her, “stand up,” he ordered and pointed to the floor in front of him. He watched her struggle to stand and found he barely had to drop his eyes to return her wide-eyed stare. His eyes fell to her plastic badge indicating her supervisorial capacity.

The next few moments were a blur for Elka, she was startled back to reality by the feel of his massive hand enclose around her bicep.

From the closeness of his proximity, his voice caused her stomach to clench and her mouth went dry.

“How much longer does the program need?” the intricate metal asked man asked Esau, with his eyes completely trained on Elka and the rapid and rise and fall of her chest.

“Eight minutes but they cut the fiber, cells working,” Esau said as he watched the progress of the computer program weave its way into the monetary network.

She flinched when she heard his voice call again to the man that had until not too long ago, shining shoes.

“Time to go mobile,” sounded the masked man’s musically toned voice as he closed a large hand around her upper arm. From the closeness of his proximity, his voice caused her stomach to clench and her mouth went dry.

The next few moments were a blur for Elka, she was startled back to reality by the feel of his massive hand yank her around by her bicep.

Elka heard the shouting of the masked man’s counterparts and fresh gunfire erupted as she was pulled towards the exit doors of the Exchange.

“Everybody up!” a deep male voice shouted and was followed up by a spray of bullets. Some hit yielding flesh with a meaty smack.

“You two, move.”

Bane paused in front of Dennis and pulled at the red helmet that he was clutching like newborn stock options.

“Thank you,” Bane said in a haunting and melodic tone as he pulled the helmet from Dennis’s sweating hands.

Elka seemed to wake up as the physically imposing man pulled her towards a line of waiting motorcycles.

She began a futile attempt to pull free of his grasp.

He didn’t audibly respond to her feeble attempt at resistance, instead he tightened his grip until he forced a hiss of pain from her lips and yanked her towards the closest bike.

Bane didn’t relinquish his stranglehold on Elka’s arm, even as he swung his leg over the bike and settled on the padded seat. He spared a glance at Elka before he pulled her to perch in front of him.

Her fears were renewed when he started the bike’s engine and began to let it idle as the other men with him gathered the remaining hostages at the exit doors and got on the bikes as they gunned the engines to life.

Outside, SWAT and police milled about and argued about the best approach to the terrorists.

Foley and Blake had their firearms leveled at the Exchange as one of the rooftop snipers squinted and called out. “I’ve got something.”

“Steady….” Foley called.

“Steady.”

The hostages started down the steps of the Exchange and the security chief shouted over the growing Gotham Police Department’s adrenaline buzz.

“Hold your fire, they’ve got hostages.”

In the midst of the shouting, Elka tried to slide out of Bane’s grasp, she almost squealed with victory when the toe of her shoe hit the ground. Her joy was fleeting as Bane wrapped a powerful arm around her and pulled her back until she was flush against his chest. She was forced to shift her body until the smooth, metal gas tank was cool against the inside of her trembling thighs.

As Bane and his men tore through the city on their motorcycles, they dropped their hostages one at a time.

The police force erupted in chaos and officers tried left and right for a clean shot at any and all of the terrorists, while trying desperately to avoid the innocents.

Some of the unlucky guys and gals landed poorly and Gotham’s emergency room had a slew of broken wrists and ankles to grit-filled road rash.

The original objective had been to take temporary hostages in order to ensure a safe escape from the Exchange.

As Bane urged the bike’s speedometer higher, Elka squeezed her eyes shut.

Bane kept his grip on her strong and unyielding, through the razor thin vents of his mask, he could detect the sensual aroma of a high-end parfum, sold only in overpriced blue glass bottles.

The fragrance held the sweet and citrus undertones of rosehips and bergamot.

Bane inhaled a lungful of the subtle fragrance as he continued to maneuver the motorcycle through the city.

As he steered them further from the Exchange, Elka began to fall still under her body’s shock response.

“Where are you taking me?”

Bane was genuinely surprised when Elka’s voice sounded above the wind rushing past them. He responded immediately and without delay as soon as her last spoken syllable had tumbled from her lips.

His single word response caused her vocal cords to temporarily cease to function.

“Home.”

#tdkr #The Dark Knight Rises #Bane x OC #Bane #abdu #grey consent #violence #murder #Selina Kyle #blake #gordon #batman #Bruce Wayne #poltical hot topics #smoking #drinking #so much offensive