#fic: from above gotham glows

[preciouslandmermaid]

like dead-eyed sharks, Gotham watches (battinson x f!reader)

Note: This takes place pre-movie and you can find the rest of this series. (Part 1 here) (part 2 here)

Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt was "blood kink/i just wanna see a man all beaten up and bloody" I have never written for that before and honestly...i think this fic got like away from me tbh. so im sorry if this isn't want u wanted lmao

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. confessions. secret identity revealed. canon-violence. cursing/explicit language. explicit consent during sexual content. smut. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)

prompt: blood kink pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes. bonus: on ao3, i split it into two chapters for ease of reading. the first half is plot, the second half is smut. ;) enjoy.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

You lean on the railing of your small balcony and watch the streaks of red and white lights below. The cool night air kisses your skin and tousles your clothes. Gotham’s air has a burning singe to it too malicious to be reminiscent of a campfire. It’s more akin to a cigarette lit by the gas stove combined with cheap perfume. You toy with the invitation between your fingers. The swooping, gilded text is embossed across the creamy card stock and you rub your fingers over a specific sentence: This invitation a courtesy by Johnathan Crane, M.D.

Arkham hospital is having a charity auction.It’s an opportunity. One you maybe wouldn’t have gotten while working at the paper. But what’s the catch? What purpose would Crane have to invite you?You replay your short interview with the enigmatic, intelligent doctor. The man has secrets but who in Gotham doesn’t? This charity provides an opportunity to snoop around Arkham and talk to Dr. Mercer’s co-workers who refused to meet with you earlier. Below, several cars beep at the same time and it creates a strange, dissonant melody. Youcan’t pass this up.

You wonder if Bruce will front you some cash. It’ll be easier to blend in if you can pretend to try and buy a piece of artwork or maybe a little stone statue to use as a door stopper. You chuckle to yourself at the idea and brush the idea aside. You won’t use Bruce’s money to spend on frivolous artwork and sculptures that you cannot possibly fit inside your one bedroom apartment. That settles it. You have to attend. The soft pitter patter of fresh rainfall tings against the high rise windows, railings, and roofs. From high above, Gotham is shiny chrome and long dark shadows.

You wonder if Vengeance is in those shadows tonight.

You haven’t seen Batman since your failed chemistry experiment. Your lower stomach clenches at the memory and you willfully push the lustful thoughts aside. You and Vengeance have little reason to see each other right now. It’s been nothing but dead ends since Falcone avoided arrest. According to Gordon, the evidence locker was recently flooded due to a pipe burst and the analysis of your blood samples—containing whatever Falcone did to you—were destroyed.

So, you’ve been busy working on re-writing your Arkham article under Bruce’s employ. Your time as a vigilante journalist has dwindled. Yes, there are other stories in Gotham that need your attention, but none are as urgent as reviving the Arkham story. Plus your instincts keep telling you that it’s connected: Falcone. Dr. Mercer’s death. Arkham. The mysterious drugs.

There’s a thread here. You just have to find the right one to pull.

You flick your thumb against the card’s corner. You should tell him. Batman needs to know about this. If you want your plan to snoop around Arkham to succeed—you’re going to need Batman’s gadgets. You bend down, the wind and rainwater tickling the delicate skin at your temples, and click on the multi-colored lights that frame the balcony window. Your own secret call to the Bat.

You return inside, leave the sliding door unlocked and wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce gets a call from Alfred while driving down fourth street. His voice crackles warmly over the headphone inside Bruce’s ear, “she’s got her lights on.” Alfred knows to periodically check the security cameras they installed across the street of your apartment and Bruce is grateful for his vigilance.

He pivots his motorcycle and takes a sharp turn through an alleyway as a shortcut. Someone on the sidewalk shouts profanities at him.

The rainwater ricochets off his helmet and spins like a hyped-up Ferris wheel around the tires. He’s seen you a handful of times for coffee dates or short walks in the park. Never lingering. Never doing more than kissing you. No matter how badly he wants to. It’s stupid. He’s fucked you twice as Batman, felt your walls quiver around his fingers and cock, listened to your sweet cries and watched your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. And yet...

It’s Batman who you call for in the middle of the night. He suspects that Bruce—in your mind—is at home, maybe asleep, maybe pacing his study, maybe watching some black-and-white foreign film. He wishes he could invite you over, sleep next to you, show you how he feels about youwith slow kisses buried between your thighs, but he can’t. The night is for him. For Vengeance. Gotham never sleeps so why should he? He needs to be awake and on the prowl. He needs to be ready for anything and that includes answering your silent and iridescent call.

He stows his motorcycle in the usual safe spot within the alleyway and uses his grappling hook to ascend to your floor without entering the building. His heart pounds as it always does when you’re in close proximity. Like his heart is trying to escape his chest and offer itself to you.

He sucks in a breath before sliding open the door. One of your downstairs neighbors is boiling cabbage, there’s a pair of wet socks on your radiator, and a candle on your coffee table flickers with the influx of air from the balcony door. The sight and smells of your apartment are achingly familiar. He prefers it—this tiny, homey space—compared to his large and extravagant penthouse. But then again, he prefers anywhere where you are.

He wishes he could remove his cowl and lay his head in your lap, but he folds his arms across his chest and says, “what did you find?”

“Take a look.” You toss a card onto the coffee table and the laptop illuminates your face in a blue-white glow. “I’m rubbing elbows with the right people it seems.”

“Crane?” He mutters to himself while examining the fancy, expensive card stock. A charity at Arkham. It’s strange that they’re hosting at the hospital instead of a fancy hotel. He makes a mental note to check the guest list.

“Several of Dr. Mercer’s co-workers talked to me before Mercer died. And now they won’t talk to me. That means someone or all of them are dirty and in someone’s pocket.” You explain and your eyes are lit furiously from within, “I hoped I could use Dr. Crane to reach the other employees of Arkham and this is my chance.”

“Do you think Falcone is involved?”

You shrug, “if not him then it’s another one of Gotham’s criminals.”

Bruce considers this information. It’s a decent lead. You aren’t looking at him. Your eyes are glued to the computer screen as your fingers move across the keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He could watch you for hours but those are hours he doesn’t have. Gotham needs him. As much as he wants to linger in your presence and kiss you—those are luxuries he cannot afford despite his generational wealth. He sets the invitation back onto the table.

“What’s your plan?” He asks.

“It’s simple. I go to the charity, talk to anyone that I think is involved, then we meet up during the auction itself.” Your eyes flick up and down, but he gets the distinct sensation that you’re not sizing him up in a flirtatious manner. Your expression, your tone, and body language is cool and professional. It reminds him of the early days working together...before he kissed you and pressed you against the windows of the Wayne penthouse.

“I assume you’ve got a way to enter Arkham without being noticed.” You return your attention to the screen, “we can snoop through their offices.”

“They’re likely to increase security during the event.”

You wave a hand, “that’s why I’m telling you now. It gives us time to prepare.”

He clenches his jaw. You are an unstoppable force when a story is involved. Your safety might not matter to yourself, but it matters to him. He can do this alone. He can visit Arkham while the charity takes place and discover whatever Crane or Dr. Mercer’s associates are up to. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. Even the small risk of arrest makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. He can’t protect Gotham and you at the same time.

He says, “I’ll go alone.”

“And do what?” Your nostrils flare, “punch some confessions out of doctors? No way, Batboy. I’m not letting you try and take this one from me. This is my story.”

“All you need is evidence.” He counters, “I can get that for you.” You stand from the couch and place your hands on your hips. You’re shorter but you glare up at him with the heat and intensity of a car lit by a Molotov cocktail. He holds your gaze and cherishes the burn he feels prickle across his skin.

“I need firsthand accounts.” You say, your voice firm and unyielding, “you could rifle through their paperwork and take pictures of every record available and it would take us months to find what we’re looking for. And who knows! Maybe Arkham will smarten up and wipe everything clean before I have the chance to publish.”

“You think people will talk to you at the auction?”

He watches your chest rise a little with your inhale. The way your eyelashes flutter close. You always closed your eyes before saying ‘yes’ to him. He wonders if you ever notice this little tell of yours—if it ever registers that the boy you scraped knees with and the man standing before you in black armor are the same.

“Yes,” You reply while opening your eyes, “I do.”

“Fine.” He bites out. Arguing with you is akin to arguing with a brick wall. “But, I’m not sending you in there without protection.” He won’t let what happened with you and Falcone happen ever again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You toy with the little black bracelet on your wrist. A gift from Vengeance. It’s simple and straightforward. All it takes is one little press of a button near your wristbone and it releases an electric shock more painful and debilitating than your average taser. He explained that he wanted you to have something in case anyone got ‘too close’. Honestly, you hope you don’t have to use it.

Arkham’s charity event is being held in the new wing of the hospital. There are currently no patients, but it’s the perfect location for the chairmen and board members to show off the latest technology, the new rooms, and convince Gotham’s rich and powerful to make donations.

You let out a small breath of relief as you take in the freshly painted walls and large windows covered by thin, latticed metal. At least it’s spacious.Some of the other wings within Arkham State Hospital tended to trigger your claustrophobia. The murmurs of conversation float through the circular room above the music of stringed instruments by the door. The windows within the high ceilings look down at you like large black eyes as they reflect Gotham’s dark skies.You think, they should’ve made this a daytime event. It would’ve been more remarkable.

The pamphlet in your left hand boasts about the ‘benefits of natural light while providing safety, comfort and security for our patients’. In other words—Arkham has patients that can’t go outside due to the security risk and this newly built wing is their solution.

The two other exits lead into hallways but those doors are closed and guarded by security. A sign is posted nearby that reads: For Private Tours – Inquire with Director Susan S.

“I was wondering if you received my invite,” a smooth voice says from your right side. You turn to see Dr. Crane wearing a tuxedo, his brown hair slicked away from his angular face and shining beneath the warm florescent light bulbs.

“Did your secretary not pass along my RSVP?”

“She didn’t,” His sharp blue eyes drop to your shoes and then rise to your face, his look appraising and yet distant, “but she’s new and you look gorgeous so I’ll let it go.” Dr. Crane offers you his elbow and you politely take it, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm and allowing him to lead you through the swarm of well-dressed and perfumed bodies.

Youdon’t know how Bruce stomached these events. His parents were socialites and humanitarians who believed in a brighter future for Gotham.Youwonder what they’d say about Arkham's recent addition.

Crane passes you a flute of champagne and you use the opportunity to ask him how he’s settling into Arkham. His lips tug into a smile that feels secretive. He bows his head toward you and his breath ghosts along your cheek and neck.

“Some of my co-workers dislike me,” says Crane, “but I don’t take it personally. Every place has their hazing routines, their cliques, and established loyalties.”

You notice the discreet looks being tossed your way. Bored, inquisitive, jealous, and others are outright scandalized. You suspect that someone’s told Crane who you actually are by now which means he invited you for a reason. Time to find a thread to pull, you think.

You ask, “did you invite me as your plus one to disrupt those routines and loyalties?”

His eyes glimmer, “I did.”

“I’m honored.” You press the rim of your champagne glass to your lips, then lower it, watching Crane’s gaze as they follow your every movement. “Why me, though?”

“I see myself in you,” Crane guides you to the middle of the room where some of the guests are dancing in slow waltzes and whispering business deals to each other. The dark sky of Gotham—light pollution never allows for twinkling stars—peers down at you like the eyes of a shark. You can guess where this is going. The music and conversation provides enough white noise to muffle your conversation as long as you and Crane continue to whisper. You set your champagne glass on a nearby tray.

Crane gently takes your hand and your black bracelet slides on your wrist. “I’ve done my homework after our first meeting.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do research prior to our first meeting.” You chastise as one of your hands settle on his slim shoulder, “I gave your secretary my real name.”

“A mistake I intend to never repeat.” He leads the dance. It’s a simple box step that doesn’t require much effort nor skill, “thank you for that lesson.”

You smile. “The first one is free.”

His hand slides to your lower back as he nudges you closer, “you really are determined to uncover Arkham’s secrets, aren’t you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear. You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching—and if they are—well, all they’ll see is Dr. Crane getting close to an attractive woman. He’s good at this. Something in your gut urges you to be careful and play it safe.

“I’m here for the auction, Crane.”

“You’re here for more than that.”

You avoid his keen perception and change tactics.

“You said I remind you of yourself. That’s a bold statement considering we’ve spoken once.” You narrow your eyes over his shoulder at a familiar face. A part-time nurse named Jessica who refused to speak to you after Dr. Mercer’s death. The color of her dress washes out her complexion and the necklace around her throat sparkles like freshly fallen snow. Crane pivots and you lose sight of her.

“I’m a good judge of character,” he replies without missing a step. “In fact, you and Dr. Jacobs...”

Dr. Jacobs. He was on your list as one of Dr. Mercer’s associates, but you never had the chance to interview him. In fact, you planned on following up with Dr. Jacobs after Mercer’s death, but the man wouldn’t return any of your calls. You chalked it up to grief. But now...

Crane continues, “you both have an inner fire that cannot be understated.” He slows his step and tilts his head back to meet your eyes—steady and true. Dr. Crane looks at you as if he’s gazing into a house fire. You swallow.

“They called you ‘quicksilver’ didn’t they? At the Gotham Gazette?” You sense his questions are rhetorical. “I found that fascinating. They named you after a chemical element, a Roman God, because you--” he says your name “—are a force to be reckoned with.”

He leans in, speaking low, “and I pity anyone who underestimates you.”

You comb through his compliments, his lingering looks, and piece together your response. His hand on your lower back threatens to burn through the fabric of your clothing. What will Crane gain by helping you? Does he know that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer knew each other? And if he’s not helping then he’s...merely pointing out that he sees your ambitious nature...and signaling that he’s the same.

You reply, “maybe I’ll talk to Dr. Jacobs tonight and find out if we’re as similar as you say.”

“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Dr. Crane sighs, “I believe he mentioned a family obligation conflicted with this event.”

Good. His office will be clear to search.

“That’s too bad.”

Dr. Crane smirks lightly, “indeed.” He leads you to the edge of the circle, “I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight.” He took your co-joined hands and pressed a polite, chaste kiss against your knuckles. Your gaze darts away from him. “I need to speak with a few of my colleagues.”

Finally! The sooner you can snoop the sooner you can leave Arkham.

“Of course,” You step aside and try to not let your eagerness show on your face, “I should go to the ladies room before the bidding begins.”

“I’ll save you a seat.” Dr. Crane says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arkham’s security is not without its flaws. He and Alfred decided it would be more useful and less disruptive to hack into the system and program the cameras to play a loop of footage rather than try and disable the system from the outside. Thankfully, you needed access to the doctor’s offices which were far less patrolled and monitored than the area where Arkham housed its full-time patients.

An alert pings on his device. That’s his cue. He cuts through the skylight with a thin, blue laser. Then, using a handle with a glass-safe suction cup, he pulls the glass free and carefully sets it aside. Ideally, he’ll return through this skylight once the job is done.

He stands from his crouched position by the window and tests the tension in his repel line.It feels good, secure. He drops into Arkham State Hospital with a faint ‘zzzziiippp’ sound and lands behind you.

“You made it.” You whisper, relieved.

“Worried I wouldn’t?”

“More worried someone would catch me wandering the halls.” You smile a little and his heart squeezes, “I can only use the ‘I’m drunk’ excuse so many times before it gets suspicious.”

“We’ll be quick.” He checks the time, “Alfred said the camera feed will give us an hour, but we should plan for less.”

You set off toward the offices while holding up the flashlight on your phone, “we need to check out Dr. Jacobs’ office.”

The wood-paneled hallways are dimly lit and the only light source is the exit signs glowing red above doorways. The thin dark green carpet helps to muffle your footsteps. He takes a moment to appreciate you walking in front of him. He loves how efficient you are, how fearless, even when it threatens to give him a heart attack. And your ass looks incredible.

You stop in front of the metal double doors. A key card reader glows a muted yellow on the wall.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Why Dr. Jacobs?” He asks while approaching the key reader. He inserts a featureless key card into the slot. It’s attached to a device in his hand by a wide and thin wire and several numbers rapidly scan across the screen and illuminate his jaw in a greenish glow.

“Crane mentioned him.” Your rub your hands over your upper arms, “he said that Dr. Jacobs and I are similar because we’re ambitious. I don’t know. Crane doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something without it meaning anything. He’s too smart for that.”

Bruce ignores the twinge of jealousy in his stomach. You aren’t interested in Crane. He knows that. You’re using Crane. But it still feels strange to hear you mention another man with a hint of admiration in your tone. He clenches his jaw. Crane isn’t that smart.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the device. “And you think he’s involved in Mercer’s death?”

“Mercer and Jacobs worked together and I never had the chance to interview him before Mercer died.” You lean in to watch the gadget in his palms, “I figured we would search the most likely suspects instead of digging through everyone’s desk.”

You continue, “we start with Jacobs, then Crane, and lastly Haywood.”

He mentally reflects on your files and notes. He should have known that you wouldn’t remove Crane from your list of suspects. Just because Crane wasn’t at Arkham at the same time as Mercer didn’t mean he was off the hook. You regarded everyone at Arkham with a low-level of suspicion. It didn’t matter if they were a groundskeeper, security, or head of the boardroom. Falcone’s payroll is the greatest mystery and it served to err on the side of caution when dealing with a dangerous criminal.

“Jessica Haywood?”

“Mhm.” The device beeps, the light turns green, and the doors click unlocked. “The jewelry she’s wearing tonight is well above the pay grade of a Per Diem nurse.”

Bruce unhooks the device from the reader and opens the door for you. You slip past him and for a brief second—the air lingers with your scent. His eyelashes flutter. It’s getting harder and harder to be this close. He pushes the thoughts from his mind and follow you into the personal offices of the doctors.

He says, “if Haywood is a part-time nurse, then she won’t have an office.”

“We’ll check HR for pay stubs and the nurse’s station log to see which floors and patients she’s worked with.”

Bruce grunts.

“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

Your smile threatens to topple the walls inside his heart and drag his loyalty Gotham into the ocean.

“Mostly.”

Dr. Jacob’s office smells like cigarettes. Together you meticulously comb through his files, check under seat cushions, and search for false walls. Bruce plugs a USB into the ancient computer desktop. In ten minutes, he’s obtained the contents of Dr. Jacobs hard-drive and sent it to Alfred for decryption.

On the way to Crane’s office, he asks, “are you still going to re-interview Mercer’s patients?”

“Assuming my relationship to Crane allows me access then yes.”

His heart ignites, burning hot inside his chest, and he exhales sharp through his nostrils.What happened tonight between you and him?He clears his throat and says, “relationship?”

You laugh quietly. “Professional relationship, Batman. Like us.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You realize how silly your words are the second they leave your mouth. Batman stops short and pins his steely blue gaze on you. You shouldn’t have compared you and Crane to you and Batman. They are completely different. Your relationship to Batman almost borders on friendship. Or maybe it’s more like...co-workers who never dated, but did hook up and now have underlying sexual tension.

“Okay, not like that.” You lift your hands, “I’m not out fighting crime with Dr. Crane.”

Some of the tension in Batman’s jaw lessens. “We don’t fight crime together.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t taught me to fight.” You wiggle your bracelet wrist, “and honestly you’ve been overprotective lately.”

“You’re a civilian.” He counters gruffly.

“So are you.” You lean your shoulder against the wall as Batman crouches at Crane’s door to pick the lock. “Unless you’ve recently been hired by the PD?”

Batman looks up at you and all that dark makeup around his light blue eyes highlights their color and depth. Your skin prickles, hot and sharp and painfully—painfully aware of what those eyes look like during the throes of desperate and sweaty sex. You want to kick yourself. You’re loyal to Bruce, you want to be with Bruce, but that doesn’t erase the attraction you feel towards Vengeance. His eyes drop back to the doorknob and he leaves your question unanswered.

Dr. Crane’s office doesn’t smell like anything which is a relief to your nostrils after the toxic and cloying scent of stale cigarettes in Dr. Jacobs. There isn’t a desktop in Crane’s office which leads you to assume that he takes his laptop home with him. You start with the filing cabinet that Crane glanced at during your interview with him. Batman searches his desk. And you work in comfortable silence. The anticipation gnaws at your stomach.

Come on, Crane.You need something tangible so you can start putting pressure on the doctors and nurses who are involved. Yourfirst article proved that the corruption within Arkham travels all the way to the administration. Mercer said they were powerful which means other doctors are involved. They have to be. So what did Jacobs do? Why did Crane mention him?

You step from the filing cabinet and pace the small office with your arms crossed.

“Dr. Mercer was afraid. He didn’t want to keep giving the police drugs and administration told him to stay quiet. His patients spoke highly of him. His co-workers liked him. Mercer dislike how the administration ran things.” You repeat the story to yourself in the hopes that you’ll find the piece you missed.

“Then, he dies two weeks after I present my article and the Gazette fires me. That’s not a coincidence.”

Batman opens one of the filing cabinet drawers. You let him continue his work as you talk yourself through the file details. There were plenty of co-workers of Dr. Mercer that have issues with Arkham but they were typical standard labor complaints—not enough holiday time, staffing issues, or personality clashes with other doctors. Who else could you talk to?

“I can try Jessica. She stopped talking to me after his death, but I know she idolized Dr. Mercer. Maybe I can appeal to her. Find the humanity.” You pause and press your fist against your lips.

There’s no way she could afford that necklace. Either she has a very wealthy partner or she’s accepted a bribe to stay quiet. But why? What does she know? Or are they just afraid of anyone who MIGHT talk?

A low ‘thump’ noise comes from Batman’s corner of the room.

Batman asks, “what’s Dr. Jacobs title?”

“Chief Psychiatrist.”

You hear him move closer and you turn to meet his stormy eyes. “Quicksilver, you need to see this.” The filing cabinet drawer is open, but a hidden inner compartment is unhinged and Batman grips a thick manila folder.

He opens the folder on Crane’s empty desk. Your heart bottoms out into your shoes and you clamp your fingers over your mouth to muffle your gasp.

“Holy shit!” you breathe.

The file spills out with evidence of experimental trials on patients. Experiments aren’t uncommon at Arkham. Sometimes drug companies and Arkham will partner up to test treatments, but it goes through a whole process of licensing and legal clearance. But this--? You steady one palm against the desk and your knees threaten to collapse from under you. The experiments involved sedating the patients with experimental manufactured opioids and then exposing them to high-stress situations—like torture—to see if their bodies and minds could withstand the pressure while on the experimental pain medication.

“Dr. Mercer…” His name glares in black ink like a gallows noose tightening around your neck. He was involved in this?!

You recall his final words to you before his death, “The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift your phone to take photos of the files. The tests, the results, the sign offs of two prominent doctors: Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer. Your eyes scan through the dates. Eventually, Dr. Mercer’s name stopped appearing. The files shift into another direction. The pain medication is no longer the focal point. Instead, the abstract of the experiment is: ‘To discover the effects of hallucinogens on recovery and behavioral control.’

“Wait,” you flip the pages and count the dates, “what happened to the pain medication trials?”

“It looks like they started a new project.” Batman’s hard and armored shoulder brushes against your body and you tremble for an entirely different reason. You bite your lip and refocus your attention.

“Why didn’t Dr. Mercer tell me? He said he was giving drugs to cops not--” You let out a frustrated sigh, “subjecting mentally ill patients to torture and experimental off-market drugs.”

Gotham, even on her worst days, manages to surprise you. Youbelieved Mercer was one of the good ones. He wanted people to get better. He wanted to help. How could this get so twisted?

“Why does Crane have all this?” he grumbles.

“What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

Batman turns his head toward you, his eyes questioning, and you close your eyes.

“Dr. Jacobs has some big skeletons in his closet. There’s no saving his reputation from this. Arkham will have no choice but to fire him to save face and claim they knew nothing about this. And an internal investigation will likely take place after Jacobs is fired.” You gesture to the files on the desk. “That means Crane, the new blood of Arkham, has the perfect opportunity to apply for his position.”

You recall Crane’s secretive smile, his perceptive gaze, and deliberate and careful words. His glances at this cabinet during your first meeting were planned. He curated this moment from the start.

“He doesn’t want to be the one to blow the whistle on Arkham.”

“Because it would impact his chance at the job,” Batman guesses. It’s a fair enough assumption. You’d bet money on it if you were a betting woman.

You reply earnestly, “no one likes the person who reveals the truth.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Batman places his gloved hand over yours and gently squeezes your fingers, “Gotham needs people like you, Silver.”

Your lips shift into a grateful yet embarrassed smile.

“I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ARKHAM’S CORRUPTION BROUGHT TO LIGHT. The bold text slams across the headline with a grainy, colored photo Dr. Jacobs being arrested outside the hospital.

Every news outlet whether newspaper or television is reporting the story you wrote. The story secretly bankrolled by Bruce Wayne. Your childhood friend and sort-of boyfriend (you haven’t discussed labels yet). The article was published with an independent paper outside of Gotham. It spread like wildfire online and took Gotham by storm. The rest of the media vultures were forced to scramble to keep up.

And—it wouldn’t have been possible without Gotham’s caped crusader. Vengeance. The Bat. He cross-engineered the pain medication and it matched the drugs on the streets. Then, in a surprise twist, he revealed to Gordon that the ongoing hallucinogenic trial had components that matched your blood sample from your time with Falcone. Was it a little weird knowing Batman had your blood samples somewhere? Yes. But it led to the greater good so you chose to accept the weirdness.

The complied evidence encouraged Gordon to look into it. He obtained a warrant to search Dr. Jacobs home and office. His hard-drive contained copies of patient medical history and backups of all of his unethical experiments. ‘Sadly, the documents we found at his office were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Jacobs little pet projects’, you think.

However, the search for his co-conspirators is in process. It’s likely that Dr. Jacobs provided Falcone with the drugs he used on you and the other girls, but you’re doubtful Falcone will face any justice for it. Falcone is too slippery and influential. It’ll take something big to take him down.

Everything was connected just not in the way you imagined.

You click away from the news article.

Arkham’s official statement is “we are saddened to hear that our chief psychiatrist took advantage of our patients and staff. His actions were never sanctioned by our hospital and our thoughts are with the families of the patients at this time.” A rather magnanimous statement considering they’re scrambling for any good PR coverage lately.

You grab your coat from the edge of the couch and check your phone.

The text from Bruce reads: I’m outside.

You haven’t processed everything that’s happened in the span of a week. Gotham Gazette offered you a job with a pay raise and corner office. Dr. Crane mailed you a thank you note for attending the charity auction. The words were typed, concise, and polite. But you see it for what it truly is—Thank you for taking out the competition. Dr. Mercer’s involvement in the experiments is a tender sore on your heart. You never uncovered if Falcone or someone else killed him and now it’s over. You wish you could have put Falcone and his associates behind bars. But you’re forced to settle for shutting down Falcone’s drug connection.

It’s a victory. Victories are rare in Gotham especially for those on the side of justice. You try to remember that.

Arkham will move on. Gotham will move on.

And you have to move on too. There are other stories to be written, truths to bring into the light. You have a date tonight with Bruce and you’re determined to enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You loop your arm around Bruce’s elbow as you walk down the sidewalk toward his car.

“I appreciate that you came out, you know.” You say with fondness laced through your tone. “I know you prefer staying in.”

He’s a recluse, but he comes out to meet you every time you ask. You’re grateful the paparazzi are too swept up in the Dr. Jacobs story to care about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. You know how he feels about being in the public eye and you don’t want any unnecessary strain added to this new, budding relationship. Life feels almost normal when you’re like this…There’s no lead to chase, no witnesses to interview, no late night sleuthing through the library archives.

His lips twitch upward. “I don’t mind it.” His clear blue eyes glance sidelong toward you, his sooty eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, “as long as it’s with you.”

“Hmm?” You lean closer into his side and let the expensive woolly warmth of his jacket seep into your elbow and arm. “Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for me, Brucie.” You use the nickname from your youth and Bruce reflexively cringes.

“Maybe,” he teases, “but can you blame me?” He suddenly draws to a stop and cradles your cheek with one hand. You lean into the familiar mounds of his palm, the curve of his fingers. The chilly air of Gotham drifts through your legs and curls around your ankles. Every nerve in your body sings with joy at his closeness. Who knew you’d go from childhood friends, to strangers, to this? The tender display of public affection is enough to send your heart into overdrive and your pulse throbs inside your ears.

He gazes at you, pupils dilated, lips softly parted. You think he might kiss you at any moment. Bruce tends to get this look before kissing you—like he can’t believe it, like he thinks he’s dreaming. Your faces draw imperceptibly closer as if pulled by an invisible string. His breath is warm on your lips. It’s a delightful contrast to the chilled wind that tugs at your coat and sneaks cold kisses behind your ears. Your eyes slip shut.

“Oof!” Bruce exclaims. A blunt pain ricochets into your side. Your eyes spring open. You have barely enough time to throw your hands out and catch yourself as you’re knocked sideways and onto the hard and uneven asphalt. You wince as your skin scrapes against the ground. Bruce is on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, hair falling in dark strands in front of his face. A masked assailant towers above him with a wooden baseball bat. Oh God. Oh God.

“Story should’ve stayed dead, bitch!” Someone shouts before their boot stomps into your lower spine and pins you to the asphalt. Instinct takes over. Fear overrides logic. Your breath comes out in haggard puffs. The dark bracelet from Batman glimmers in your peripheral vision. You just need to get close enough. The boot lifts from your back. Someone grunts. The sound of shoes scuffling on the pavement reverberates in your head. Now is your chance! The boot returns with a swift, hard kick into your rib cage.

The air is forced from your lungs in a pained exhale. Everything feels raw. Your throat constricts. Another kick. The world blurs with tears. Your body instinctively curls like a wounded creature. One arm wraps around your stomach and the other to your head. The bracelet dangles like a cherished heirloom in front of your eyes. Batman showed you how to use it, but you can’t activate it from this position, can you? You need your hands free. The next kick hits your shinbone. The pain is acute and travels up your knee. You squeeze your eyes shut. What about Bruce?! You hate this stupid parking lot. You hate that no one is stopping to help or intervene. You hate that you can’t think and that your body is tense and trembling in preparation of the next blow. You hate the helpless feeling that’s building inside your chest and shaking salty tears from your lashes.

Someone is laughing. A slurred, drunk sound. “This one’s got some fight in him!”

“Whadda you think we should we do with him?”

“Just knock him out!” The one above you yells, “we’re here for her. Not him.”

Three. Three voices. There’s three of them. The next kick hits your shoulder and your forced onto your back. There’s no time to prepare, no time to cry out, as the boot presses into your throat. Fuck! You glance quickly to where Bruce was and see that he’s fighting—you gurgle as your assailant applies pressure to your neck and glares down at you through the holes in his ski-mask. A ski mask? What a cliché. An unexpected, hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. You flail and scratch your nails against his denim covered leg.

“This is what happens to nosy journalists in Gotham,” he sneers from above, “you should have just kept your pretty mouth shut and wrote stories about missing puppies and shit.” Several white dots dance around your vision.

Bruce grunts in pain. Your worry for his safety abruptly overrides your fear and hysteria. You don’t care if these guys are here to kill you or scare you, but you aren’t going to let them keep hurting Bruce. His only crime was being close to you. If he wasn’t here with you...then this never would’ve happened. You aren’t powerless. You aren’t helpless.

You release your hands from the thug’s leg and grab your bracelet. Muscle memory takes over. You presses into the spot near your wristbone and the bracelet hums to life. Two prongs like a spider’s fangs eject from the edge of the bracelet near the back of your hand. You slam the fangs into your assailant’s leg. They easily bite through the fabric of his jeans. The electric shock throws him off-balance and he convulses with a screech of pain. Your lungs rapidly expand as if to greedily swallow the air you were denied. You roll onto your stomach, onto your hands and knees, before pulling yourself upright. The scene comes to you in broken, jagged pieces.

The leader in the ski mask is on the ground sprawled out and twitching. If he’s dead then good riddance even though you’d like to know who sent him. The other two thugs are on the ground and Bruce is standing over them—chest heaving, his dark hair in disarray, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides, his chin smeared with blood from a split lip.

You exhale, “Bruce.” It’s unclear who moves first: you or him. Your arms encircle his middle and he clutches you to his chest like you’re going to fade into smoke.

“You’re okay?” His voice is raw and trembling, he strokes the sides of your face, your arms, your shoulders with desperate and careful motions, his eyes roam every inch of you, “you’re okay?”

You manage to nod. It’s surreal. You’re no stranger to violence in Gotham. You’ve run from drug dealers, used pepper spray on someone trying to steal your car, veered off the road due to a high speed chance, and not to mention your time with Falcone—your investigative journalism is a high risk occupation. But you’ve never been scared like this before. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because Bruce was involved. You feared for his safety. You refused to entertain the thought of losing him.

“Let’s go—let’s go.” He urges, pulling you by the elbow to his car, “c’mon, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.” It’s your fault. Bruce paid for the story, but you’ll pay the price of exposing Arkham for the rest of your life. “I’m sorry...”

Bruce shakes his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t recall the drive to Wayne Penthouse. You sat in the passenger seat with your eyes closed, your hands cupped around your head between your knees, forcing air into your lungs and exhaling slowly until your heart regulated. Bruce is painfully quiet. You don’t register anything until the purring car engine shuts off.

“Bruce,” you begin, lifting your head, “I’m so sorry.” Bruce is staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of his garage, raw knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes closed. His expression pained and closed-off. Your feel your heart drag across razor blades. He fought for you, bled for you. You’re relieved he could hold his own and grateful that the thugs didn’t bring any weapons besides wooden baseball bats and bare fists. You don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if any of them had a gun.

He rasps, “Don’t.”

You unbuckle and angle yourself toward him. Your bruised skin bristles with pain at the twist of your spine and shift of your hips. You need to explain. You need to help him see. This is an unfortunate part of the life you lead. He once joked that you were a ‘journalist with a death wish’. It’s not true, of course. You have no desire to die. But you have and will continue to suffer for the sake of Gotham’s truth. When you pursue influential people and start airing their dirty laundry, they will use their power, wealth, and any illegal or legal resources to try and scare you away.

Unfortunately for them, you aren’t easily cowed. What was it Falcone said? You’ve got Gotham in your blood. Gotham raised you. She taught you how to read people, and be resourceful, and hungry for truth.

“Bruce—they wanted me. They wanted to punish me for the Arkham article.”

“I know.”

“If you weren’t with me…” You trail off and look at the center dashboard of his expensive designer car. The guilt gnaws at your bones, threatening to break them. Bruce grabs your chin. His grip isn’t painful—it never is—but it is pointed, urgent, and he yanks your face toward his.

His lips press into yours without warning. Your mouth opens for him and a faint taste of copper bites your tongue. You’ve kissed Bruce more than a dozen times. But never like this.

His tongue moves in desperate, messy strokes and each movement sends a hot and powerful spark to your core. He groans loudly into your mouth, cupping the back of your skull, keeping you close, not even allowing you to break away to breath. You inhale raggedly through your nostrils and push your fingers up along his chest. Something fragile and tenuous shatters between you. He’s alive. You’re alive. It was a harrowing experience—but you are here. Together.

“I need you,” He gasps, “please.” He presses his forehead against yours and his sweet blue eyes bleed into yours. Up close, you can see the reddish-purple swell of a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His lips are raw, bloody, the split lip likely re-opened and aggravated from kissing. You close your eyes to collect your thoughts. You know Bruce. You know him like the lines on the sidewalk outside your childhood home. You know him like the curved handle of your favorite coffee mug. You know Bruce isn’t lying when he tells you he needs you and you know he’s not exaggerating either. You’ve wanted him for years. Ached for him. And this moment might not be perfect, it might not be what you imagined, but God—you’re not going to turn him away. Not when you need him just as desperately as he needs you.

“Okay,” You swipe your thumb across his bloodied lip, “yes, Bruce. Yes.”

Bruce’s expression crumples with relief and he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is slower this time. You take a moment to savor it. Your fingers card through his silky, dark hair and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth with an appreciative hum.

His cool and calloused hand pushes along your upper thigh.

“Right here?” You guess.

“Right here.” He adjusts and grabs your hips to pull you over the center console and into his lap. Your ass bumps against the steering wheel. At least it’s private, you smile at the thought. No one is going to come wandering into Wayne’s personal garage. Except for maybe Alfred? But you assume the old man has enough sense to give you and Bruce plenty of space. Bruce’s lips travel down your jaw to your throat and you angle your neck back to allow him more space to explore. His kisses are light and exploratory, slightly roughed by the dryness of his mouth and gentle scrape of his stubble. It feels better than you could’ve imagined.

Bruce exhales, his voice pitched low and gravely, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” his mouth closes over your collarbone. Your heart leaps at his words, at the implication, at the idea that maybe...just maybe...you weren’t the only one yearning and hoping for years on end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His body is sore. He forgot how much things can hurt when he’s not in the suit. But nothing is going to tear him away from this moment with you. He’s careful where he touches. He knows that low-life got more than a few kicks onto your perfect body and if he had been alone then he would’ve broken every bone in that man’s body as recompense. His anger threatens to boil to the forefront of his mind, but Bruce wrestles it back. Now isn’t the time.

He tugs your dress off your shoulders and his cock twitches at the sound of your pleased sigh. Your breasts are perfect. Perfect shape. And at this angle? The perfect height for him to bury his face between them and trail kisses across your skin. He’s never had the opportunity to worship you like this. To press his lips and tongue against your skin, taste your sweat, feel your heartbeat against his nose. His lips enclose around one of your nipples and you cry out, your fingers entangling in his hair to pull him closer, and he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.

“Fuck,” he moans, his hot breath pants against your skin, before he cups the breast in his hand and holds it while his tongue and mouth lavishes across your nipple over and over again. Your hips cant into his, seeking friction and release, and he trembles as your clothed cunt grinds into his hard cock.

“I��ll give you what you want, Quicksilver.” He promises and you whimper in reply to his words, “Shh.” His bloodied knuckles shine in the light as he kneads your other breast beneath his palm. “I’ll take care of you.”

He wants to make this memorable. He wants it to mean something. He’s outside the shadows with you for the first time. He isn’t hiding behind the cowl, behind his loyalty to Gotham. He is raw, and bloodied, and trembling with anticipation. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his long-sleeved dark shirt and yank it upwards in a graceless motion. He winces as he leans back, his arms overhead, and the shirt is tossed to the passenger side.

“Oh, fuck, Bruce!” You blurt and place your hand above his right pectoral. He winces again at the pressure, but gently places his hand on your wrist. His heart swells with pride and appreciation at his bracelet dangling from your wrist. It saved you when he couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” He looks toward the cut. It’s shallow. Superficial. It likely won’t scar. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He guides your chin, meeting your eyes, and his heart capsizes at the concern pouring from your gaze. “I’m okay, Silver. I promise.”

He holds your chin and kisses you before you have the chance to apologize again. It’s not your fault. It’s his. He got complacent after the article was released. He made a grievous error through his lack of vigilance. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve had Alfred checking the footage to see if you were being tailed, should’ve suggested you stay at the penthouse for a few days until the dust settled. People at Arkham and people connected to Jacobs and Falcone are going to try and settle the score.

He won’t let that happen, though. He feels you relax beneath his touch, feels your lips move urgently against his, how your body arches into him and your hardened nipples press into his bare chest. Bruce shivers. God, it feels so good to be skin to skin with you. He is wholly without armor in both the physical and metaphorical sense and it’s terrifying and electrifying.

He wonders if you know how you affect him. His hands cup your backside, squeezing, pressing you closer into him and pressing his agonizingly hard length between your legs. You make a sweet, soft sound and Bruce swallows back his groan. Everything you do is intoxicating to him.

“I’d like to do this again after we’re inside,” he says to the hollow of your throat, “properly.”

“Properly?” your laughter runs like a vein through your voice, “like with candles and roses?”

“Something like that,” he bunches the bottom of your dress until its hiked up in a ruffled heap around your hips and his gaze snags on the bruises on your ribs. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He says with a small grin.

“Ohh, a surprise.”

“Mm.”

He pushes his hand between your legs and discovers the dampened fabric of your underwear. Fuck. You’re always so wet for him. Bruce’s eyes roll back into his skull and he hisses through his teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were worried the sight of Bruce’s injuries would be a deterrent, but it isn’t. His bloodied lip, swollen cheekbone, and the bleeding cut on his chest are proof that he lived. A little scuffed up, but whole and alive and touching you with comfortable ease. You whimper at the first touch of his thumb across your swollen clit. Your body thrums with frustrated desire. He’s already made the tempting promise to continue once you’re inside the penthouse and quite frankly—you want to two things: for Bruce to be inside of you and then to see what he has planned in the comfort and luxury of his home.

“Bruce, please,” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, “don’t make me wait.”

He buries his face between your breasts, his kisses sloppy, and mumbles, “I want you to come first.”

Always a goddamn gentleman!

He arches his neck, leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat, and gazes up at you with fervent adoration. You open your mouth to quip at him, to tell him the car is cramped and you’re feeling impatient, but then the concentric motion of his fingers tightens, adding pressure, and the effect is dizzying. Your mouth lets out a garbled “please” instead of articulating any of the other thoughts inside of your head. You lean forward to kiss him, feeling his nose press into yours and the coppery taste of his kiss blossoms on your tongue. Your hips thrust and chase the movements of his hand.

Your hands glide across his chest, his arms—which are surprisingly sinewy—and your fingertips catch along ridges and bumps that can only be attributed to scars. But scars from what? Before the thought can form, Bruce’s index and middle fingers plunge into your wet cunt and your spine convulses and your walls clench around his digits. The world goes muted and soft. Gotham narrows into two souls in an expensive, black car within a private garage beneath a penthouse.

You pant into Bruce’s mouth, sweat collecting on your temples, as he strokes and coaxes the fire burning low and hot in your lower belly.

Bruce says, “you’re so beautiful.” His words are quiet, bashful. And your neck prickles at the compliment. It means more coming from him than anyone else in the world. You hide your face in the crook of Bruce’s warm neck and pepper kisses along his jaw and the side of his face. The windows fog. The sound of his fingers moving slick and fast between your legs fills your eardrums. Your thighs shake.

“F-fuck.” You choke out, “close.”

“That’s it,” he whispers, “that’s my perfect girl. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hits you slow and serene and drawn-out. Your neck arches and your chin rests on Bruce’s forehead as the quakes tremble through your body in throbs of heat and euphoria. Bruce keeps his hand there, poised within as your walls rhythmically squeeze around his fingers, and he doesn’t pull away until your head drops against his shoulder and pant onto his damp, bruised skin.

He kisses your temple. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

It’s awkward. You lift your hips and your arms tremble as you hold yourself steady. He struggles to unzip his pants. You only get a brief glance of his cock before he positions himself between your legs and motions with his other hand for you to lower yourself. You brace yourself on his shoulders and Bruce looks up, holding your eye-contact, and is unwavering as the tip of his cock slips between your folds.

His teeth bare into a snarl, “Oh, fuck.”

The blue of his eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his pupils. He moans your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. You let out a breathy chuckle, allowing yourself to close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you as Bruce sinks into you inch by inch. It feels so good you don’t want to move. You rock your hips back and forth instead of thrusting and it creates a deep and wonderful sensation that travels from your head to your toes. He fits perfect. His mouth travels hungrily across your chest and neck and jaw. His tongue licks glistening stripes of sweat from your skin. His hands knead and squeeze your ass. You feel as if Bruce is trying to melt your bodies together, consume you, and you find yourself copying his motions. You kiss him, bloodied lips and all, and drink in his low and deep groans. Your hands, even as they smear with the blood from his cut, travel across the muscled expanse of his pale chest and your fingertips occasionally dig in when he thrusts up into you. You’ve passed the threshold of your earlier desperate frenzy to touch and be touched, to feel alive and safe together.

These movements, these gestures, speak to the deep cavern of tenderness that is shared between you. Your throat tightens. Bruce’s fingertips trail along your spine and he turns his head to whisper your name into your ear.

Time doesn’t move. It melts. It shapes condensation on the windows. It pools at the dip between Bruce’s collarbones. It glistens where your bodies are joined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you cradle his face between your hands and touch sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Your heart is pounding. Your dress is crumpled around your hips and stuck to your skin. Your bruises pulsate with muted pain. Bruce’s dried blood peeks between your fingers. And yet you’ve never felt more at peace.

He says, “stay with me.”

“W-what?”

“Stay with me,” he repeats, unfazed by your confusion, “for a few days. Maybe a week.”

You swallow. Okay, stay calm. He’s not asking you to move in. Your smile breaks across your face and Bruce’s eyes widen at the sight of it. As if bearing witness to your joy is a privilege and not something he’s earned.

“We’re having this conversation now?”

“Silver,” he chuckles dryly and your smile widens. It’s so wonderful to hear Bruce laugh. “Someday, I’d like to ask you a question and get a straight answer.”

“I’m a journalist.” You roll your eyes, “asking follow-up questions is my forte.”

Bruce takes your hand between his and intertwines your fingers, “and you’re the best journalist Gotham has.” He meets your eyes, “so, will you stay?”

You should tell Bruce ‘no’ from time to time. It’ll be good for his pride. Today, however, is not the day.

“Yes, Bruce. I’ll stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake during the night. Bruce’s bedroom is cozily lit from the bedside table lamp and you reach across his back to shut it off. Your hand freezes in mid-air. They are scars. After you and Bruce left the garage, you meant to ask him about it, but his hands and mouth were...too distracting...and you lost all train of thought. You sit up and analyze the serpentine shape of his spine, the moles totting his skin, the curve of his shoulder blades, the cream colored sheets wrapped around his slim waist.

You resist the temptation to trail your fingers across the scars. You don’t want to wake him.

You hope that those thugs didn’t leave him with any scars. He claimed the one on his chest would heal fine. But, how does he know? He isn’t a doctor. You shift and sit upright. Your instincts flare. A gut reaction hits you like a punch to the throat. There’s blood in the water. There’s bones under the soil. A story. Another thread to pull. You carefully climb out of bed and grab a few pieces of blank paper from Bruce’s desk.

You start with today—it’s fresh in your mind.

The bracelet. Bruce didn’t notice or make comments when you first began wearing it. He didn’t ask any questions after seeing the bracelet electrocute someone into unconsciousness. Okay. A little odd, right? But there’s a few possible answers. Maybe he didn’t see it happen. Maybe he assumed you used a standard taser.

You write ‘why didn’t Batman come for me?’ on the page and stare at the letters. Batboy always has a knack for knowing when you’re in trouble. He didn’t show today. You know you aren’t his first priority. You know he’s got an entire city to look out for. But…

You write ‘Security’ on the page. Alfred told you that the Wayne home has ‘top of the line’ security. How the hell did Batman break-in without tripping any of the alarms? You’re certain that Bruce or Alfred would’ve mentioned something if they were worried about the security of the home.

You write ‘Falcone’. You sketch out the timeline out of instinct. Falcone is well-known around Gotham, but when you and Bruce reconnected, you never explicitly told him you were investigating Falcone. It was better to keep that sort of thing under wraps. It’s safer that way.

After you were released from the hospital, Bruce said something like ‘Falcone can’t hurt you’ right? You rub your hand over your jaw and frown. This is a long shot. You grab your phone and text Gordon the following message: ‘Hey, did you tell Bruce that I was drugged by Falcone?’

You scribble onto the page and let your mind wander. You doodle a little flower. And the memory hits like a freight train. Bruce’s flowers. They said ‘to my perfect girl’. Never in your time together had Bruce used that nickname. Batman, however, did. Your heart leaps inside your throat and your phone buzzes in your hand.

Gordon replies: God, kid. What are you doing awake at this hour? To answer your question, no. When I called Mr. Wayne, I informed him that you were caught in the middle of an active investigation and dosed with an unknown drug. I might have mentioned Falcone while ya’ll were together in the room, but I never directly stated that Falcone harmed or drugged you. Now get some sleep!

You reply a quick thanks and set your phone down. This is crazy. Bruce is Batman? He’s Vengeance? You press your fingertips into your tired eyes and your thoughts circle like sharks. And if he is then why didn’t he tell you? You huff and stare at your quick notes scribbled on various pieces of paper scattered on the carpet.

It isn’t so unusual, is it? He’s grossly wealthy, intelligent, and without a social life which gives him lots of free time. And you recently learned that Bruce can fight! Those scars of his aren’t from kitchen mishaps or car accidents.

“What’re you doing?” Bruce’s groggy voice lifts from the frumpy bed sheets.

Well, it’s now or never. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep with this question hanging like an anvil over your head.

“Are you Batman?”

Bruce sits up.

“Or Vengeance? Whatever you like to go by, I suppose.”

He rubs his hand down the length of his face. His shoulders are stiff. You watch as he swings his legs and clambers off the bed with clumsy grace. His boxer briefs hang low on his hips and as he stands before you in the light of his bedroom you can’t help but notice the scars on his chest.

His eyes scan the disorganized and chaotic papers on the floor. His expression is unreadable. You lay your palms on your knees and wait for his reply. Although you think his silence is answer enough.

“Silver…” He says with a minute shake of his head, “can this wait until morning?”

“No.” You deadpan, “I won’t be able to sleep without knowing.”

Bruce slowly lowers himself to sit across from you on the floor. Suddenly, you are eight years old again and having a sleep-over party at the Wayne’s. His mother is downstairs making popcorn. You both won’t stop arguing over which movie to watch. Your heart clenches. You blink away the memory. Once upon a time, you called Bruce Wayne your best friend.

He sighs.

“Bruce,” you wait until he meets your gaze and you hold it, “I want the truth.”

“I know.” He drags his fingers through his messy dark hair.

“Is that something you can give me?” You swallow the lump in your throat. If he can’t be honest, if he brushes it off or refuses to reply, then you know this relationship—hell, your rekindled friendship—is dead in the water. Even your partnership to Batman will be forced to end. He peers at you through the strands of his hair falling in front of his forehead. You wait. He can agonize over his response all he wants. The truth, as always, is the only thing that matters.

He finally says, “yes.”

“Yes as in you’re Batman? Or yes as in you can tell me the truth?”

“Both.”

You tap two fingers against your papers on the floor, “ha! Knew it.” You scoot closer to Bruce and his eyes widen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You gaze up at the high ceiling, your brow furrowed in thought. You slept with Batman—Bruce – twice and he never thought about revealing his secret? Would he have just continued to live a secret double life while dating? Did he seriously expect that you wouldn’t figure it out someday?

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“After today,” you chuckle, “I think I have more enemies than Batman does.”

Bruce says your name softly, “This is only the beginning for me, Silver.” His hands curl into a fist, “Gotham needs me.”

“Gotham needs me too, you dork. You said so yourself!” You smile. “None of these other freelance journalists have the courage to take down the big fish. We both are driven by our love for this city. We both take risks. If you can continue to do your job and I can continue to do mine then I don’t see any issue.”

He stares at you and his lips part in awe.

“I thought if you knew...” says Bruce quietly, “you’d leave.”

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his curled fist. “Bruce, I – well—I endured several years without you and you know what? Those years sucked.” You smile, a timid and gentle smile, and more vulnerable than you’ve ever given him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Bruce leans in and rests his forehead on your bare shoulder.

He murmurs, “I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”

“Then it’s settled. We stay together and fight crime and change Gotham for the better.”

Bruce lifts his head and levels you with a serious look, “you are not fighting.”

You tease, “okay, you say that now, but I’m already work-shopping costume ideas and team names.” You cup the side of his face, “The Silver Bat? Mercury and Vengeance? Batboy and Journalist Gal?” You ramble off your ideas until Bruce’s serious expression melts away and his lips twitch in a begrudging smirk.

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #happy halloween #battinson imagine #batman x reader #batman x you #dc fic #the batman fic #bruce wayne x you #battinson x you #fic: from above gotham glows #kinktober 2022

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCXDP Fic Idea: Mr. Flavor's Soda

Danny gets thrown into an alternate dimension.

Which, sucks especially when he was just flying through the ghost zone on an exploration and had been attacked by a tribe of ghosts he had never seen before.

They looked surprisingly human, were it not for their horns and wings. Danny hadn't seen them coming, one moment he was looking at the Infinite Map trying to find his way back to the main section of the zone and the next he was being hurled to the ground from a flying net.

He hit the ground hard, with a startled yelp, as the ghosts surrounded him, each welding a sharp looking spears.

Danny wasn't sure what the net was made of, but it had forced him back into Fenton and deactivated his powers.

The tribe had been chanting in a language he could not understand, dragging him through their village as various creatures with similar features peaked out at him.

He been a helpless human staring up at the crowd as they sang and danced around a stone statue. Then a woman wearing a lovely golden leaf head piece stood up, and all went silent.

She gave what Danny thinks is a speech, waving her arms up and above her head. The crowd ate it up, cheering whenever she took a pause. The woman pointed to the stone as it began to glow, bowing it while flapping her wings.

Danny watched the crowd copy her actions intrigued by the strange festival until two large men flew over to him and lifted up his net. Their wings flapped in tune with the drums that picked up, carefully flying Danny over the crowd who all chanted and gently grazed their hands along his net covered body.

Danny felt unease, especially when the little tour ended with him dangling before the flowing stone that ripped open to a portal. It was ink black instead of the ussual green and horror creeps into his mind as the woman waves a staff over his head, the jingle of the bells attached to gently shaking.

Then the men through him through the portal. Danny's screams are drown out by the drums, stomping and joyful songs of the tribe that attacked him.

He has been sacrificed. He thought it would be the end, but instead, he wound up falling into a dumpster in a dirty alley back on Earth.

It took ages to wiggle his way the net, but by that point, Danny was too grateful to be alive to really care. When he stumbled out of the alley he came to find it was not his Earth.

His Earth did not have a place called Gotham. He been sent to a wrong universe, which wasn't the first time, but this time his powers were out of reach, locked within due to whatever net they had shoved him into.

The net disintegrated before his eyes, not even allowing him to study.

Danny was pissed. He wandered the streets, hoping to find help. All he had on his person was his student ID (which meant nothing if his school didn't exist) his broken phone and the credit card he had stolen from Vlad.

Testing the card at a gas station for a bottle of water, he held his breath as the clerk ran it and almost collapsed in relief as it went through.

Too bad the card had a limit of three thousand. He knew since he checked when he took it. It would be enough for a little while, but who knew with the economy in this world for how long. Everything was much more expensive, even the bottle of water was two dollars and fifty-five cents when back home it would have been Ninty five cents.

Danny needed a plan. He stumbled to a run-down motel and got a room wincing at the nightly rented it. Thank goodness the front receptionist didn't ask for an ID, as he checked him in.

Danny spent three whole days like this, trying to get Phantom to come forth from whatever lock he was stuck behind and wandering Gotham looking for anything familiar.

Eventually, Danny got a craving for a Coca-cola, and when he tried to find one, he came to the horrifying realization that his favorite drink did not exist. Not in this world.

Thank goodness Danny knew how to make some homemade version of it. He bought the supplies, telling himself it was worth the slight dent in his funds.

The receptionists at the motel startled when Danny breezed by carrying a lab kit (he only knew how to make it in a chemistry set since Tucker and he did it for a school assignment) and various groceries. She gave Danny an alarmed expression when he stumbled out a few hours later drinking his black liquid heaven.

Danny hadn't noticed she had gone for her phone with a pale face and shaking hands as he wandered around the city. He only realized something was wrong when he came back later that evening, carrying more supplies, determined to regain his various soda flavors he missed since his displacement.

As he was working, his rented room looked like a miniature lab as various sodas were carefully crafted. The following morning as Danny was attempting to scare his powers back into action by leaping off low fire escape he noticed a group of kids watching him.

They were just a filthy as Danny, so likely as homeless as him. Danny choose to ignore them as he raced up and down the stairs, doing flips to try to get his ghost side back. Eventually, a younger one creeper closer, staring at the re-purposed water bottled filled with his precious soda.

"Whats that stuff?" The kid asked eyeing the homemade cola with far too much interest.

"Cola" He responds, curious why the kid would get near someone who looked, honestly, insane. He would never have gone near someone taking two story jumps but that's just Danny.

"Is it strong?" The kid asks

Danny blinks. " I don't think so? I've been drinking it for a while, so it's pretty tamed for me"

"Where you get it?"

"I made it."

The kid nods, hand stuffed into his pocket before pulling out a crumbled twenty bill. "How much?"

"What?"

"How much for a bottle?" The kid asks, voice taking a sudden desperate tune.

Danny eyes the bill "I don't have any change. Just take the bottle. I can make more."

The boy's eyes bug out of his skull but he grabs a bottle and scrambles back to his group as if though he was worried Danny would change his mind. Odd.

The group of kids share the bottle between. They drink it quickly, some making faces as the carbonated bubbles go up their noses but happy.

The bottle is empty too quickly, and the kid comes stumbling back. "I know you said you didn't have change, but how many bottles could this buy me?"

Danny stares, and then he looks down at his haul. He has seven bottles left - one for each kid if he counted them right. "Look bring me smaller bills next time but for now just take the drinks"

"What kind of drug is it, if you dint mind me asking?" The boy says politely and Danny startles so hard he bangs his head on the metal latter.

A swears escapes his lips as the tiny boy- he could be no older then ten!- stiffens as if frighten. The group of kids behind him all become weary.

"It's not drugs! It's soda!"

"Soda?" The boy repeats confused then shrugs. "Sure man. Thanks!"

Taking all the bottles, the boy scrambles away, leaving the alley with his group as they all cheer. Danny shakes his head at them. This place is wild. He goes back to his jumps and ends up with more bruises than glowing powers.

But the following week the boy and his group retrun each carrying ones. Danny sells them more Cola for a dollar a piece encouraging them to save their bottles since he was running low. Then the week after that and the week after that, each time the group getting bigger.

Soon Danny starts to add different flavors, he hasn't found Sprite, Fonta or Dr.Pepper and he tries his best to bring the flavors back into this world. The kids loss their minds over it.

They nickname him Mr.Flavor since Danny forgets to introduce himself and now the little demons refuse to use his name even when he tells them. Danny realizes something weird is going on when adults start popping up in his alley also looking for a bottle.

He ends up making a steady income, walking home with a wab of cash. This is great since he is pretty sure he's near his card limit. The receptionist still eyes him with weary eyes but hasn't said anything as Danny builds a steady fulling for his drinks.

That's why when he wobbles back to his rented room now covered in even more reckless bruises, he is shocked to find his soda lab smashed to bits and a man in a red hood waiting for him.

"What the hell!" He yells as the man pointed a gun at his head.

"You think you can set up shop in my territory?" The man's growl is able to hear even with the voice changer.

Danny bristles "I can sell my soda wherever I want-"

"Soda?" The guy pauses, looking down at the various liquids sinking into the carpet. Before Danny can yell at him, the man reaches down and grabs two water bottles of every flavor. He walks backward to the smashed window - likely how he got in - with the gun still trained on Danny. "If this is anything other than Soda, say goodbye to your knee caps"

Danny lifts his chin "Shoot me. I'll turn ghost!"

The man says nothing as he flips backward through the window and vanishes into the night. Danny huffs, taking stock of the damage.

All his very small earthly possessions except for his three pairs of pants and shirts ( bought from a second-hand store with his soda money) were all ruined. He stumbles down to the front to report the damage, and the lady at the front actually shakes while telling him that they don't mind the damage.

Danny gives her a fifty as a thanks.

He tells the people the next day what happened. They all make faces and groan when he says it'll take time to replace his supplies. It's three days later that he finds the same helmet man in his room again. He was hit by a car earlier that night in a very desperate attempt to active his powers so he limps in, half sure he broken a bone or two.

The driver had speed away. A hit and run that hopefully won't be reported so no one will know Danny had noticed the driver was drunk and chose to get hit.

Danny spreads his arms "shoot me! Do it!"

Surely being shot would get Phantom back

The man shifts uncomfortable on his feet. "I'm not here to shoot you. I'm here to apologize. I tested your drinks and realized they were soda after all."

"So you smashed my stuff without verifying what it was? Lord of the flies you're evil!"

The man pauses. "Lord of the flies?"

"It's a classic. Read a book, pill head"

The man laughs. "I read plenty brat. Anyway, I brought you some gifts as a apology"

He pulls a tarp of a pile that Danny hadn't noticed in the dark. He gasps in delight when he sees state of the art chemistry sets all set up on a nice big table. He scrambled to the layout, eyes gleaming on the different syrups.

"This is awesome!" He chirps, picking up test tubes and checking thier quality. His mom would approve. His eyes catch a box underneath the table, which he quickly pulls out.

Inside are empty, new plastic disposals bottles. The lable has a shadowed leaping boy over the words "Mr. flavor Soda"

Danny gasps.

"I thought you needed a brand name." The man says, handing him a paper. "When you run out, go to this recycling place. They know to give you new bottles with your lable. Also, carry that sellers permit, or the cops will give you trouble. You know Anthony's Pasta?"

Danny gapes at the paper, blinking slowly. "No?"

"It's in Crime Alley. The Italian restaurant at the corner. They'll agreed to let you sell your drinks in thier lobby every Friday and Monday from opening to closing. There should be a light board in one of the boxes. Set up a menu for that day."

"What? Why would they agree to that?"

Danny can't see his face, but he thinks the man is smirking. "They owe me a favor or two. Do you best, kid, and stay off the streets"

"I'm not a kid. I'm fourteen, " Danny says, lifting his chin.

"Sure." The man steps back towards the window. Which seems to have been fixed in the nine hours Danny was out. Odd. "And kid? Please go to the free clinic."

He throws a business card with the clinics information before he vanishes into the shadows again.

Danny is left standing there with endorsement for a bubbling soda business with a shock expression.

Well, at least he has something to make some cash while getting his powers back.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Mr. Flavor's soda #Part 1 #Danny is stuck as Fenton #dimension travel #Jason feels bad for threatening a kid trying to make it #Soda taste so bland before Danny #He is seen as slightly crazy. like willy wonka

[luxaofhesperides]

if you give a ghost a trauma: a parody fic

read on ao3.

Danny wishes to be sent someplace he could have a better family. Unfortunately, that lands him in a Gotham where tropes are made reality to the extreme. He really just can't catch a break. (or: a dcxdp parody fic where i make danny the only one able to see how bizarre things are. this does not help him in any way.)

. . .

“We’re gonna get you!” Maddie Fenton, a Bad Parent™ cries as she shoots her gun at Danny, her half dead son.

“No!” he wails, flying around as he dodges the shots. “I wish my parents weren’t trying to capture me for Evil Science Reasons! I wish I had a better family!”

“Lol, done,” said Desiree, snapping her fingers. 

Danny only has time to say Uh-oh before he’s sucked away into a magic portal and spit out into a dark and dreary city. In just the one second he’s there, before he even hits the ground, he hears gunshots, screaming, and the wailing of police sirens. Then he hits the ground and groans, releasing his ghost form to go back to being a human. 

“Where am I?” he asks himself, getting to his feet and looking around. The alleyway he’s in is empty and full of garbage just scattered around. Wherever he may be, it clearly needed to invest more in its sanitation department. 

He spots a fire escape on the side of a building and uses it to climb onto the rooftop, a totally normal course of action. Then he stares at the city, glowing with the street lights and neon business lights and a spotlight with the shape of a bat in it glowing on the clouds. 

“This might as well just happen,” Danny says, “My life is already so weird anyway.”

He stands there for some time, at a loss of what to do next. The wind is cold and brings with it a promise of rain, and from the looks of the dark clouds above him, it’s going to rain soon. Danny needs shelter, fast.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” says someone who snuck up behind him.

Danny shrieks and jumps, nearly going over the edge of the roof.

“Woah!” the person says, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to safety. “That was close!” 

Danny blinks up at his savior, then squints. This guy’s definitely not normal, since he’s wearing a domino mask and a lightly armored black suit with a blue bird emblem stretching across his chest. 

“Way to nearly kill him, Nightwing,” says a new person, dropping down onto the roof from the sky. This new person wears red and black, a pair of bandoliers crossing over his chest. 

“Well, I saved him, didn’t I!”

“Um, hi,” Danny interjects. “Thanks for grabbing me before I fell, but who are you?”

“You don’t know who we are?” blue bird asks rather incredulously.

“Do you think I’m asking just for fun.”

Red and black steps in with a smile. “I’m Red Robin, that’s Nightwing. We’re vigilantes trying to keep Gotham safe.”

Danny makes an educated guess that the city they’re currently in is Gotham. Not a city he’s ever heard before, but what does he know?

“Okay,” he says. There’s really not much else he can say.

“You never answered my question,” Nightwing says. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah, just fine. No idea where I am or how to get home, but it can always be worse, you know?”

“Did you get lost?” Red Robin asks, pulling a holographic computer up from his wrist. Tucker would kill to get his hands on something like that. Danny wonders if he can get his own as a souvenir. 

“Something like that, yeah,” he replies. Another few gunshots ring out loudly through the streets, closer than they were before. Danny flinches, then ducks down a little, looking back towards the street apprehensively. “Um. You guys gonna do anything about that?”

The two vigilantes shrug, as if that’s an acceptable course of action. And then a hand shoots up and grabs the edge of the roof by Danny’s foot, making him jump in the air. Nightwing catches him yet again and moves him away from the ledge. 

A red helmet, leather jacket wearing guy built like a pro-wrestle hauls himself up the roof easily. There are guns tucked into holsters on his thighs and a red, block bat stuck on his chest. 

“Should I be concerned,” Danny says blankly. 

“Nah, it’s just Red Hood,” Red Robin replies, “The only person he ever tries to kill is me.”

“Cause you’re a replacement. And also, get over it, that was ages ago We’re good now. I haven’t even had a Pit Rage episode in months!”

“So the bullets you shot at me last week were just for fun?”

“Yeah, and they were rubber, so it’s not like you would have gotten hurt.”

Danny takes a few steps closer to Nightwing, hiding behind him. He’s getting bad vibes all around from that guy. 

“Tch,” a new voice says right behind Danny, making him flinch. A young boy with a sword steps out from behind him and joins the crew of vigilantes just hanging out on the roof. “As if he’s even worth that much attention.”

“Hello to you too, Demon Brat,” Red Robin says.

“How many of you are there?” Danny asks. “Don’t you need to like, protect the city?”

“Batgirl and Spoiler are working on it,” Nightwing says.

“We’re doing what?” another voice says, and a energetic blond girl dressed in purple armor hops onto the roof, tucking her grappling hook away. Following her is another person in all black, face fully covered, with stitches covering the mouth portion to make it seem as though they can’t talk. The person leaves the blond girl behind to head straight to Danny, making him take a few nervous steps back. 

“Dead,” she says, poking his chest with a finger.

Is that a threat? It feels like a threat. 

“No?” he tries. 

“What are you talking about, Batgirl?” Red Hood interrupts. “We all know the only dead person here is me.”

Everyone promptly groans, telling him to shut up about it and go one night without mentioning his death. 

Okay, that seems concerning! Is he another halfa? Is he like Vlad? Danny’s going to be so mad if he got dropped into another world directly into the hands of another Vlad. 

“You’re dead?” he asks, leaning away from Batgirl as she pokes him once more. 

“Yeah.”

“Same hat?” Danny tries, squinting at him.

“The fuck?” is the answer, which tells him that he probably doesn’t know what Danny’s on about. There’s still a 6% chance that he’s just lying to make Danny look like a fool, though. 

6% is more than 5%, which means it’s enough for him to just act on instinct and walk right up to the gun-wielding Red hood. He tries to consciously use his ghost sense, which is an odd feeling that reminders him of the moment before he hiccups. 

A light blue mist wafts out his mouth. 

Yep, the rumors are true: this man is dead.

“Once, again,” Red Hood says, “The fuck?”

“Seconded,” Nightwing adds.

“Third!” Spoiler joins in. 

Danny takes a page out of Batgirl’s book and pokes Red Hood’s chest. It’s very solid, only hard muscle, and reminds him a bit of Dan. That’s never a good sign. Something about Red Hood is making his skin crawl though, a sense of wrongness that sets alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind. 

“Did you come back instantly when you died?” he asks.

The white lenses of Red Hood’s helmet turn neon green. “Why the fuck are you asking me that.”

“Just checking. The green I’m seeing right now is making me think you’re a halfa.”

“What’s a halfa?” Red Robin interjects.

“An unlucky soul like me,” Danny responds, distracted. He lays his palm flat against Red Hood’s chest. The vigilante holds still, as if frozen, letting Danny do as he please. The ectoplasm he feels in other ghosts is usually calm, made unique by the personality of the ghost it belongs to, but it doesn’t roil and try to hurt the host like the ectoplasm in Red Hood is doing. 

He pulls back and looks around at the circle of vigilantes surrounding him. “Can anyone answer how he came back? Where did he even find this must rotten ectoplasm?”

“Pit,” Batgirl helpfully answers.

“Pit,” Danny repeats. “Like a pit of death? Toxic sludge? Landfill pit gone evil? What am I working with here.”

“Lazarus Pits,” the little one with the sword says. “How do you know about them?” He then pulls out his sword and points it at Danny, ignoring the way Nightwing hisses Robin, no! 

His name is Robin? Isn’t that just Red Robin’s name? Did this Robin have a color added to his name as well? 

“I literally don’t, but if it’s green and weird, then it’s probably ecto.” He turns back to Red Hood. “I’m gonna take care of it now.” And then he shoves his hand into Red Hood’s chest, ignoring the alarmed shouts from the other vigilantes. They try to pull him away, but Danny goes intangible, making their hands fall right through him as he gets a good grip on the ecto, sending his own out in a steady stream to chase the rotten flow towards his hand, then yanks it out. 

It’s green and goopy in his hands, steaming slightly in the air. “Ew,” Danny says. “That’s nasty. You were just living with this inside you?”

Red Hood doesn’t seem to hear him. 

Red Hood takes off his helmet and stares at the rotten ectoplasm in Danny’s hand. Nightwing approaches him cautiously, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Hood? You doing okay? How are you feeling?”

“It’s gone,” Red Hood answers, shocked. “The Pit Rage. It’s gone. I haven’t felt this clear headed since before I died.”

“That must have sucked,” Danny says empathetically, then shakes the nasty ecto off his hand. It lands on the roof with a wet splat. 

Once again: ew.

“How did you do that?” Red Robin asks, crowding into Danny’s space. Batgirl slides up behind him, trapping him between them. 

“Did you not just watch me yank it out? It was easy. Anyways, y’all got jobs to do, and I got places to go. So I’ll see you never!”

He tries to fly away, but only manages to get a few feet before he’s pulled down by multiple people grabbing at him.

“What is going on here,” A low, gravelly voice demands. Yet another vigilante appears, gliding out of the shadows. This one is much bigger than everyone else, cloaked in darkness, with a helm that has two little ear things poking out on top. 

“Batman,” Robin says, “This meta cured Hood of his Pit Madness.”

“I see,” Batman replies, looking Danny over. “Are you an orphan?”

What the fuck. Who just asks that?

“No.”

“Are your parents well?”

“Sure? My mom was pretty energetic while shooting at me before I came here.”

“You do not have to be unsafe in your home again,” Batman says, grabbing something out of his tactical fanny pack. “You can live with us instead.”

He holds out fucking adoption papers.

Danny backs up as fast as he can, shaking his head. “Oh, no! No you don’t! I did not trade one fruitloop for another!”

“No new brother?” Batgirl asks sadly. 

“Definitely not,” he insists. “No thank you! I’m fine as I am and fully plan on going home.”

Batman frowns. “You said your mother was shooting at you.”

“Yeah, and? The food in our fridge comes to life every meal and we have to fight it. This is normal for us. Chill out and put those papers away.”

The entire crew of vigilantes seems very put out with Batman obligingly puts the adoption papers away. 

“Yeah, I’m done here. Go back to protecting the city. I’m just gonna… go.”

Danny doesn’t wait for them to say anything else before flies away, remembering to go intangible this time. He soars through the polluted streets of Gotham, weaving between tall buildings made with dark stone and decorated with gargoyles. It’s all very dark and dreary, which means Sam would love it.

She would not be loving the pollution, though. Danny certainly isn’t. 

“I wish I could go home,” he says loudly, looking up at the sky expectantly. 

No magic portal appears to yoink him back. 

“I wish I was at home again, and not here!”

Desire does not appear to help him out. She leaves him stranded in Gotham, pouting at the sky until he gives up and flies down to sit on a new roof and angst about his situation. Hopefully this time a gaggle of vigilantes won’t bother him.

Resting his head against his hands, he sighs. Then again, and again, loudly. “Man, this sucks,” he says to himself.

“What’s got a kitten like you so down?” someone says behind him.

“I’m so tired of random people sneaking up behind me on rooftops,” he informs them without turning around. If they wanna talk to him, they gotta got to him, not the other way around.

“Ah, ran into the Bats, did you?”

They’re called Bats? But only two were Bats. None of the other vigilantes fit the theme. That’s just lazy and inconsistent. They should rebrand to something better.

The person walks over and sits down next to him. Danny glances over and is startled to find a woman in a leather body suit, with a hood that has cat ears and googles with an orange tint. 

…Is everyone in this city just dressed strangely at all times? Is this the normal fashion of Gotham?

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to stare. Who are you?”

The woman laughs. “Oh, so you haven’t heard of Catwoman?”

“Nope. No clue who you are.”

“Well,” she purrs, “A pleasure to meet you. I’m a thief.”

The dots connect in his mind. “Like a cat burglar!”

“Yes, like that.”

“Man, this city is wild and I come from a place that deals with ghosts on a daily basis.”

“So what are you doing in a place like this? Gotham isn’t kind to newcomers.”

Danny sighs, yet again, and tilts his head back to look up at the cloudy, starless sky. “I made a dumb mistake and got sucked into a magic portal that spit me out here. I have no clue how I’m going to get home.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

He glares at Catwoman. “I’m not open to being adopted. I’ll just eat any papers you send my way.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she reassures, “I have no interest in being a mother. But I have a spare bedroom if you need it, and I wouldn’t mind teaching you a few tricks of the trade. It’ll be fun, messing with Batman.”

Ah, so she’s doing this for Trickster Reasons. Danny can respect that. 

And he also doesn’t have any other options. Considering how much gun violence and general violence he’s hearing in this city, he’ll probably be killed an embarrassing number of times just from trying to find a place to sleep on the streets for one night. Between cold, dangerous streets with storm clouds hanging heavy over his head or a guest bedroom in the home of a thief with a theme, there’s really no choice.

“If you don’t mind me hanging around, I’d really appreciate having a place to sleep until I figure out a way home.”

“Come along, then! I was just about to turn in for the night.” Catwoman stands up, stretches, then takes hold of the whip on her waist and snaps it out. She takes a running leap off the building, then throws her whip out to wrap around a billboard to swing across the street. 

Danny watches her go, then follows her lead, flying behind her, ready to catch her just in case. But Catwoman moves with ease, clearly experienced in recklessly moving through the streets, and makes her way to a highrise apartment with no trouble at all. 

They land on a balcony just as the sky rumbles with ominous thunder. Another second later, and the clouds open up and heavy rain begins to fall. 

Catwoman throws the door open and they both scramble to get inside before they get drenched. The lights flick on, revealing a stylish modern apartment, filled with art pieces and ornamental bonsai trees. A few quiet cries come from corners of the room, and then cats appear, one after another, moving around Danny’s legs curiously before turning to Catwoman. 

“That was a close one,” Catwoman says conversationally as she takes off her hood and googles, revealing her face. Her pixie cut is messy and her eyes are bright and sharp, just like a cat’s. “I suppose since we’re going to be working together from now on, that we properly introduce ourselves.” She holds out a hand for to shake. “Selina Kyle. I look forward to the trouble we’ll cause together.”

Danny stares down at her hand, then takes hold of it. Looks like he’s going to be a thief! Well, it’ll be a fun story for later. 

He doesn’t want his name attached to his new life of crime, though. And, he figures, this is a fresh start. New life, new name. There’s one that pops into mind immediately, and he latches onto it, ready to step into the world of crime. 

“Call me Neal Caffrey,” he says, shaking her hand. “I’m ready to start when you are.”

#my writing #dc x dp #dpxdc #dp x dc #dcxdp #dp x dc fanfic #purposefully writing something bad is actually so freeing. everyone do this it will make writing so much easier #if ure confused abt the neal caffery joke check my end notes on ao3 ;)

[ciaraswritings]

Three Minutes To Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own DC or their characters, or their settings. This is certainly not canon.

Warnings & Topics: Suggestive themes. 18+.

Word Count: 463 words

Summary: Batman x gender neutral!reader, laying in bed, literally doing nothing but being fluffy lovebirds. Just a short fluff.

Author's note: This is my first time writing a gender neutral fic. I reread it several times in different gender perspectives, and it was steamy in each read. *cries in romance addict* I hope you enjoy.

Lying undressed in bed with someone you love is one of the most satisfying parts of life. Lying in the softest and richest bed in Gotham? Even better in my book. Warm, cozy comforters (yes, plural) were tucked around my body, pillows upon pillows were scattered all over the bed.

Pale, eerie moonlight shone gently over our bodies, the dreamy glow revealing the scars that decorated his body and the flickering of my exploring eyes. I studied the deepest of the scars, what used to be a long gash along his torso. His rough, calloused hands ran over my body, down my gently shaped waist, landing on my back. He pulled me closer. "Stop worrying."

"No," I replied, my fingertips dancing along the raised mark. I couldn't help but press my lips to it.

I could hear my lover's smile in the darkness. "You have to. It healed long ago."

Looking up into his captivating eyes, I rested my hand on his shoulder, nestling against his body. "I love you too much. I'm not going to stop."

He replied to this statement with a hungry, but somehow gentle, kiss. He was such a wonderful kisser. Hesitantly, I broke it to look over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. "Wasn't Batman planning on being out in the city by twelve?"

"Yes," his voice grumbled, his arms pulling me even tighter.

I chuckled, trying to wiggle from his grasp. "Heh, Batman's got three minutes to get ready, then."

The twinkle in his eye told me more than his words did. "Even Batman has things come up sometimes." He rested his forehead on mine, soaking in the warmth of my body.

"He could go out for a bit… come back, resume what he was doing," I press another kiss to this alluring man's lips.

He deepens the kiss I initiated, moving our bodies, pressing me into the bed, his large hands holding down my waist. When he breaks it, his lips move to my jawline, leaving the gentlest of kisses. "That takes time he would rather put towards something else."

A soft, content sigh leaves my lips as my eyes flutter close. This man's touch feels like warm honey, dripping and running over my body, his heat tingling through my core. No, Gotham was probably not going to be seeing Batman tonight, not unless something truly horrible arrived on stage. Not that I was complaining.

I stared up into the eyes of the one I loved the most. All I could feel at that moment was equally returned love. Shivers of affection coursed through my nerves as the gentle tapping of rain began to land on the roof above and the clock announced the arrival of midnight. Ah, good. Rainy, romantic nights were our favorite. And we were going to savor every second of this one.

#batman imagine #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #dc comics #dcu #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #imagine #batman #bruce wayne #minors dni #female reader #male reader #batman smut #dc imagine #dc batman #dc #dc fanfic #dc bruce wayne #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x male reader #batman x fem!reader #batman x male reader #batman fluff #bruce wayne fluff #dc fluff #oneshot #batman x you

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Sephiroth is accidentally summoned to Amity Park by the GIW who were trying to summon Phantom to capture him.

Phantom comes to his aid. Thinking he's a ghost due to his ghost sense activating due to all the mako in Sephiroths body. The silver haired psycho was at first amused by all of this up until the people in white started going on and on about how they are with the government and going to capture Phantom and do awful painful experiments on him and possibly make an army out of him and Sephiroth had heard enough. For a spit second, he saw himself in that child.

By the time he calmed down the only sound around him was the sizzling of half melted rubble and the crackle of downed live electrical wires. Phantom was staring at him in shock from the large glowing cage he was trapped in. The silverette was prepared for a lot of responses to the slaughter the child had just witnessed. Cheering, tears of gratitude, people calling him inhuman, a monster, but nothing like this kid. He simply asked, "Are you okay?"

This child was an enigma. Even after freeing him from his prison with a single swipe of Masamune he made no moves to flee. No matter how many insults or threats he made the white haired boy stayed. Appearently he had defeated the child in one on one combat and as a unattended ederich child spirit, Sephiroth was now his legal guardian. Usually he would be apposed but Mother was whispering to him in the back of his mind, cooing over her new grandchild and praising her son for getting such a good catch. If he were a lesser man he would have sighed.

Phantom soon revealed he had no where to go and certainlycouldn't return to his biological parents. His parents were evil mad scientists that attacked him once they learned what thier experiments had done to thier son. They wanted to study him in perhaps the cruelest ways possible. The "ghost zone" or "Infinite Realms" as its truly called was filled with his enemies and had no way to nourish his living half, but the living world had no way to nourish his ghost half aside from portals and harvesting ectoplasm. Aside from portals being both rare and fleeting, harvesting ectoplasm is no easy task especially when dodging evil government groups.

Phantom would have to find a new dimension to live in. One with ectoplasm readily available for harvest, but first they needed to tie up loose ends here. Phantom went into hiding on Sephiroths orders and the child quickly obeyed. The silver General on the other hand went on a warpath, destroying the laboratories and portals and the people who made them.

Phantom, now in his living form was saying goodbye to his friends and sister giving them wierd PHSs he had modified so they can communicate with him beyond dimensions (impressive) and portal guns he had made (again Sephiroth was impressed) so that they could visit him from time to time. He promised to send them the dimensions coordinates once they got there.

It wasn't long until they were in a dimensions they both liked floating above an outright filthy mako pool in some soft of cave system. Danny wasted no time busting out machinery and hooking it up to the Mako pool and purifying it.

This is, of course, when Batman gets a camera notification that someone is messing with Gothams Lazarus Pit.

Fic featuring: Sephiroth becoming a father mentor for Danny, Bruce being adoption blocked, Sephiroth agreeing to abide by Batmans "ridiculous" no killing policy and them making him pseudo regret it by carving the Joker up like a Christmas turkey. Hood got it on his helmets visual recording and he sent Sephiroth flowers, Danny casually vibing with the bats and birds until he does something blatantly eldrich, Danny asking his new mentor "if I grow out my hair will you teach me how to take care of it?", Sephiroth and Phantom just vibing, ptsd representation, Sephiroth seeing himself in this kid and deciding to be the savior that never came for himself.

#fanfiction prompts #prompts #dp x dc #final fantasy vii #sephiroth #sephiroth adopts danny phantom #they vibin #danny is just absorbing any and all information sephiroth gives him #danny phantom #danny fenton #Danny and Sephiroth both have ptsd and danny discosiates #i cant spell sorry #autocorrect doesnt even know what im teying to say #Damian is somewhat obsessed with Sephiroths odachi and wants it #tim is preparing to be attacked by yet another new sibling #just in case #batman is displeased by two obvious metas in Gotham but they have only acted in self defence and they cant seem to get rid of them #think of the chaos

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: contemplated s**cide

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

im sorry but also no I’m not

part thirty-six

❝ OVER THE EDGE (ALMOST) ❞

THURSDAY — SEPTEMBER 3 — 9:00AM

BENTLEY WAS REALLY COLD. 

“Don’t worry, Babybird — I won’t tell your secrets,”

Bentley breathed in and out three times before he could see. His breath was coming out as clouds of vapor in front of him, rising into the air. All he could see was the sky. A big, black mass peppered with millions of tiny twinkling stars, and a huge, bright full moon.

He blinked. There was a familiar dull ache at the base of his skull, and his muscles were kind of sore, in a strange, prickly kind of way. He was laying on something really hard and really cold. The wind was blowing, the freezing temperatures biting at his exposed skin and making it burn.

With a grunt of discomfort, he sat up. He was laying on the roof of a building in the freezing cold. The night’s sky was above, and over the concrete ledge that kept people from falling off the roof, Gotham was glowing. He had to be at least fifteen or twenty stories in the air. 

The city looked much brighter from up there. He pushed himself off of the rooftop and stepped closer to the edge, peering off at the view. He could see a lot — more than he’d ever seen. Hundreds of buildings and tons of cars moving and people walking and… so many lights. Lights everywhere, all shining and twinkling. He blinked, utterly taken aback by the view.

In the distance, a large light flickered to life, projecting an image into the sky.

A bat.

Bentley stared in awe, a phantom of a smile quirking up on his lips. That was the signal people used to call Batman, right? 

For a while, he just looked off the edge of the building, watching the cars, the people, the lights. At one point, he was pretty sure he saw Batman on a rooftop.

And then he realized someone was crying.

Bentley turned toward the sound, towards other side of the rooftop for the first time. More night’s sky and Gotham lights were visible past it, but that wasn’t what drew his attention — it was the person sitting on the ledge, their legs dangling freely over the sidewalk at least fifteen stories below. They were small.

Bentley glanced around, catching sight of the door that led to the roof, which was sitting slightly open. With a few hesitant steps forward, Bentley muttered: “Excuse me?”

They didn’t move. Their silhouette was nearly solid black from where Bentley was standing, outlined with lights and stars. They were shaking slightly, and he could hear them sniffling and sobbing quietly. 

“Excuse me?” He tried again, stepping forward. “Are you okay?”

Nothing. 

Bentley, slowly and steadily, made his way to the ledge about twenty feet from them, so he could see their face.

With the Gotham lights shining toward them now, he could see exactly who it was — it was Asten. He was holding his cell-phone in his hands with tears streaming down his face in a way Bentley hadn’t seen since he watched his parents die. His hair was a lighter blue than he remembered, and he looked… younger? Maybe? Only a little. He had on his Gotham Academy uniform, and his left eye was bruised spectacularly, making way for his bleeding nose. Well, it wasn’t bleeding anymore, but there was still blood on his face and peppered on his clothes that he hadn’t bothered to clean off. He was sniffling and spluttering pitifully, kind of like Nico at the bus stop, or Bentley after his first nightmare with the Secret Keeper.

“Asten?” Bentley tried, but of course, he went unheard. He waved one of his hands out toward his friend, but he didn’t see it. Why couldn’t anyone see him?

There were messages coming into Asten’s phone like mad. Since Bentley couldn’t be seen, he stepped closer, peering down at the screen.

Asten was texting Nico, and the texts he was receiving seemed to be a panicked, jumbled mess of where are you, his name, and the word please a whole lot. Bentley glanced up at Asten, who was staring at it but not typing back. His phone rang; he declined it. It rang again. He declined it again.

Bentley glanced around the empty rooftop again. The building was easily one of the tallest in the area — how did Asten even get up there? And why? He wished he could be seen, so he could help. Why was he crying?

Asten pulled a small, crumpled sheet of paper out of his pants pocket, and upon closer examination, Bentley realized it was a photograph of him and his parents. The cold breeze came and went again. It blew Asten’s hair around and made the little paper dance.

Bentley frowned in sympathy, glancing up at Asten, who was staring blankly at the photo. Texts were still coming in from Nico, one after another like clockwork.

Asten looked down at his phone, and with shaky fingers, typed a reply to Nico’s texts.

Everything would be easier if I was just dead.

Wasn’t that almost the exact same thing Bentley had said to Nico?

Bentley watched in silence as Asten sat his phone and photo off to the side, on the ledge next to him, staring off into the distance. There were texts and calls coming in like mad. The breeze whipped and blew as Asten moved, climbing off of the ledge and then right back on, this time, standing on it instead of sitting.

Bentley blinked. In an instant he was hearing his heart in his ears, and he reached for Asten’s ankle only for his hand to go through it, just like it had with Bruce when he watched Jason die.

“Asten,” He muttered, even though he knew it wouldn’t be heard. He blinked. Was Asten about to… I mean, Bentley had never seen… never thought… “Asten? Hey, Asten, please.”

The lights of Gotham were reflecting in Asten’s green eyes, tears and tear-streaks gleaming in the illumination. The breeze was whipping his blue hair and Gotham Academy uniform around. Bentley, panicked, reached for him again to no avail.

“Asten,” He repeated, moving closer. “Asten.”

Asten stared off the ledge, down at the sidewalk with people moving to and fro on it. He hiccuped, watching the people move closely, intently. Was he waiting… for them to get out of the way?

“Asten,” Bentley tried, his eyes becoming a little misty. “Asten, please get down.”

He didn’t. Instead, he actually moved closer to the edge like it didn’t even matter. Bentley reached for him again. It didn’t work.

“Asten, please, don’t,” He practically begged, the back of his eyes burning. What in the heck were you supposed to say to someone who was… like this?

Something changed about Asten’s eyes — about his whole face. He stopped crying. He seemed… normal. Calm. He didn’t look troubled anymore. Bentley looked down. There was no one on the sidewalk.

He quickly looked back up at Asten with a “No!” That went unheard.

Something moved behind them.

“You think we’re gonna have a blizzard tomorrow?”

Bentley and Asten both flinched in tandem when a familiar voice pierced the air. Asten didn’t turn, but his calmness left instead, and closed his eyes with a shaky breath and sent a few more tears down his face.

Bentley, however, did turn. He blinked blankly at a sight he hadn’t really expected — Red Hood was crouching in the center of the rooftop, his helmet still tight on his head.

Asten said nothing to Jason’s left field question, balling his hands into fists by his sides so tightly his knuckles turned white. 

“Have you ever seen a superhero before?”

“Piss off,” Was Asten’s whispered reply, bringing a hand up to rub at his crying eyes. “Go away.”

“What’s your name?”

Asten grumbled in annoyance. “Piss off.”

Jason moved only about a millimeter closer, still crouched. “Would it hurt to tell me if you’re just going to jump anyways?”

For a moment, Asten got lost in thought, squeezing his hands tighter. He swallowed thickly, looking down off the ledge, at the sidewalk and road below.

“Asten,” He muttered, a hiccup breaking up the word in the middle.

Jason nodded. “Asten. How old are you?”

There was another moment of silence where Bentley just stood still, watching. Listening.

“Twelve,”

Jason shifted uncomfortably, and he seemed to look around before he continued: “Your phone is ringing. You know who’s calling?” It wasn’t his Jason voice or even his Red Hood voice. It was his Robin voice.

Asten didn’t reply to that one, but instead, shuffled his toes closer to the edge of the building. Bentley’s hand drifted up to his mouth and stayed there, and Jason moved, albeit slowly, closer.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” Asten muttered with a quiet sob, wiping at his eyes. “It won’t work.”

“I’m not. I’m just talking,” Jason replied smoothly, standing up. “I’ve been in the same position before, myself. I know how it feels; so jump.”

Asten’s eyes widened, and he looked backwards for the first time, eyes lingering on Jason’s helmet. “What?”

Jason inched forward until he was next to Asten, his boots against the ledge. “If you really have no hope at all; no one that loves you, no one that you can count on — if you really have nothing left that makes you happy, a person, an object, an activity that makes waking up in the morning worth it… then jump.”

Asten started to cry harder, bringing his hands up to his face.

Jason’s head turned subtly in the direction of Asten’s eternally buzzing phone. “But I have a feeling that isn’t the case.”

Asten said nothing, crying nearly uncontrollably into the sleeves of his Gotham Academy blazer. “I hate it here.”

“So did I,”

Asten tugged at his own hair, squeezing until his knuckles turned white again. “Why… didn’t you… jump?”

Jason breathed in and out deeply. “My brother cared enough to show up before I could.”

Just then, a round of two or three sirens faded softly into Bentley’s earshot, and Asten turned on a dime, glaring dangerously at Jason with a fire in his eyes. “You called the cops?”

“No,” The Red Hood replied lowly, grabbing Asten’s phone and holding it up so he could see the caller ID on the screen. It said Nico. “But I bet I know who did.”

Bentley watched in silence as more time passed, and two cop cars screeched to a halt at the bottom of the building they were on top of, followed by a black Mercedes. All three of the cars’ doors flew open, and people piled out, including a certain blonde who still had his phone pressed into his ear, who left the police in his dust to get inside the building.

Jason held his hand out, up toward Asten. His other hand was holding onto the grappling gun he had on his hip. “You wanna come down so you can talk to him?”

Asten stayed on the ledge for a few moments, shaking, crying, contemplating everything and nothing. It was probably the scariest few moments Bentley had ever witnessed. 

Silence continued to pass until the door to the roof swung open, and Nico flew out, followed closely by his parents. He had obviously been bawling his eyes out, and let out a very desperate sounding: “Asten.”

That’s when Asten caved, reaching back and taking Jason’s hand. The vigilante grabbed him steadily by the arms and helped him off of the ledge, crying and all. Nico ran to him.

Bentley’s head felt like it was caving in. Splitting pain radiated from one side of his skull to the other, his limbs went limp, and the surface of the rooftop was hard when he hit it. With a groan of agony, he reached toward Red Hood’s boot.

Everything went black.

And then he jumped awake again, gasping deeply. He blinked a few times — they were in the bedroom with Asten. 

Right. The bedroom. Asten — he was sick. The Secret Keeper. Reality was coming back to him — he and Nico, after their fight with the Secret Keeper, had gone upstairs, stayed utterly silent, and didn’t move. (Typical of them, right? If they weren’t panicking they seemed to not do much of anything at all.)

Bentley was curled in a ball on the loveseat, his head close to something else small that he quickly realized was a sleeping Nico. Sunlight was streaming in from the windows, Asten was still limp in the bed, and Jason was in one of two chairs situated near the door, reading a book to himself. His cell phone was laying face down on the arm of the seat. The clock next to Asten’s bed read 9:01am.

Apparently Jason and Asten had more of a history than Bentley realized. Maybe that’s why Jason was here? Even though Asten didn’t know it was him?

“Bad dream?” Jason questioned softly, and despite already knowing he was very much awake and alert, Bentley jumped at the sound of his voice. 

“Mhm,” He hummed quietly, sitting up and re-situating himself.

“Secret Keeper stuff?”

“Mhm,” He repeated. 

A moment of silence ensued, and Bentley dug his phone out of his pocket, piddling around with it for a few moments. He glanced at his friends. Asten was still unresponsive and limp in the bed, the washcloth laying on his head and IV in his arm. Nico was curled up in a tiny ball on the other side of the loveseat, beneath the same blue blanket that Bentley had been under. 

He stared at his phone for a few more moments before he texted Jason: I saw a memory. You getting Asten off a ledge.

Jason’s phone dinged. He picked it up, read the message, and then glanced up at Bentley. They shared a moment of silent eye contact. Jason’s thumbs were hovering, but not moving, so Bentley typed again.

You said you’d been in that position before.

Neither of them looked up, but the air in the room seemed to get thicker. Bentley listened for the telltale little taps of Jason’s fingers, but they never came. So, instead of ignoring it like he typically would, he sent another text.

Would you have really done it? Jumped?

More silence, this time even more tense, thicker. Jason’s typing bubbles came up and went away a few times, and then his message came through:

Back then? I think so.

Bentley typed again. Why didn’t you?

Dick showed up.

Bentley glanced up at Jason, blinking at the way his phone light was illuminating his white streak. Jason didn’t take his eyes off of the screen. He’d told Bentley first hand about being at rock bottom, so maybe this was what he was talking about when he said he got close to death again? It gave Bentley a weird feeling. 

Would you do it now? Was the next message Jason got.

Typing bubbles came and went on Bentley’s phone again, before a one-word text came through: No.

Bentley exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding.

You promise? 

“I promise, Bentley,”

He glanced up at Jason, who was looking back at him with his white streak and greenish-blue eyes. 

More quietness passed.

“Jason?”

“Hm?”

Bentley blinked a few times, his eyes moving here and there, not settling anywhere for too long. The mental image of Jason on a ledge like Asten was made the back of his eyes burn. The fact that Jason had gotten to that point before. 

Bentley blinked again, clearing his throat subtly. Glanced at his friends to make sure they were really asleep. “I watched you die,” He whispered. “When I was kidnapped, I… saw it.”

Jason breathed out, shifting on the chair, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He opened his mouth; nothing came out.

“The Joker, I was… and I couldn’t…” Bentley took a breath. “I saw all of it.”

No one spoke.

“I already told you but I… want you to know that…” Bentley sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m really, really glad you’re alive.”

Another long spurt of silence passed. Bentley just sort of looked at Asten, watching his chest rise and fall beneath the quilt.

“Kid…”

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Bentley continued, glancing up at Jason, who looked oddly tense. “It’s okay.”

So Jason didn’t say anything.

Bentley picked at the bottom of the blanket. “I don’t know why she shows me this stuff. I’ve seen a ton of things — she showed me some of the different futures I could have. I’ve seen… me die… and you were, uh, trying to save me. In a glowing green pool. I saw my headstone.”

Jason’s eyes traveled back up to Bentley and bounced around for a few moments, his expression darkening at his words. “You aren’t going to die.”

Bentley looked down at his hands. “I also saw one where I was… back with my dad. And I… helped him, uh…” He trailed off, staring intently at the cushions of the loveseat. “And I saw where I was Robin and Tim was Batman.”

Jason didn’t speak, but he had a detective-y look on his face again.

“I just want to make the right choices. To unlock a good one,” Bentley continued with a sigh. “Which is why I need your help.”

Jason leaned forward in his chair. “Kid-“

“It’s not hard. You can say no, I just…” He squeezed the blanket between his fingers. “I want to go visit my father.”

Silence.

“And I want you to take me,”

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @flyrobinflyy @skylathescholar @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun @xiaonothere

#batfamily #batman #oc; bentley #oc; bentley whittaker #tim drake #batboys #dick grayson #red hood #damian wayne #nightwing #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #barbara gordon #jason todd #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #duke thomas #oracle #the red hood #orphan #red robin #spoiler #signal #robin #oc; asten #oc; asten evans #oc; nico allen #oc; nico #ov; secret keeper #ov; the secret keeper

[bluerosefox]

Robin’s Haunted Halloween

Guys (Hello yes still alive, just busy with RL stuff and writer’s block lately)

What if, a few days before Halloween, Damian overhears some classmates making plans to “summon” ghosts in Gotham from some internet summoning ritual and they decide to try to summon the spirits of Martha and Thomas Wayne at their death site on Halloween. Damian, not wanting to bring this to his father’s attention (especially since Halloween night will be busy for the bats), decides to show up as Robin and teach them a lesson (mostly to scare them by jumping in the middle of their dumb summoning circle and ripping into them verbally for disrespecting the dead) 

He just wasn’t expecting to actually get punched in the face by one of the teens (she was a tiny thing and surprised him when in fear she turned around and punched him after he had jumped down behind her in the alleyway), spill his blood on the failed summoning circle marks (it started glowing and things were floating as a green portal appeared, the other teens ran off as Robin stayed behind to make sure they hadn’t summoned something else), and actually have it work when his father’s parents ghosts appear in front of him.

Now they’re stuck in the mortal realm until sunrise, are bonded to him as well so they can’t go to far from him, and only he can see/hear them (which could lead to some funny sass moments with them...)

And Damian really wasn’t expecting another portal to open up, a teen around his age appearing with green glowing eyes, white hair, floating above him, and a flaming crown appearing looking for his grandparents who were so rudely ripped away from him during the Halloween feast/ball/party he was having in the Infinite Realms.

And he’s (“King Phantom but call me Danny”) staying with Robin for the night just to make sure the elder Wayne’s return to the Infinite Realms safely when times up. Cause it turns out they’re not strong enough yet to remain in the Mortal Realms and can actually faded into ‘shades’ or worse ‘echos’ (mindless spirits that relive their final moments time and time again) and having Danny (an endless source of pure and rich ectoplasm) around can keep them fading into those.    

(All ideas can be used by others and just to clarify this has:)

Ghost Grand/parents Martha and Thomas Wayne [either by blood or ghost adopted]

Ghost King Danny

Bio!Dad Bruce [optional]

Long Lost Twins or Half-Brothers Danny and Damian (depends) [optional]

Halloween Summonings

Damian not telling his father what happened due to it being the subject of his father’s parents and knows how... he gets when thinking of them.

Danny becoming invisible to avoid being seen by the bats cause he really doesn’t want Batman looking into ghosts, he has enough on his plate. He doesn’t need Batman snooping.

Damian holding back a laugh a few times on patrol when his paternal grandparents make snarky remarks and doesn’t wanna be seen as crazy cause only he can see/hear Martha and Thomas

Due to the summoning, he can still also see/hear Danny when he goes invisible too (this ability goes away once the time on the summoning is over though)

Damian begrudgingly taking a liking to Danny (the puns remind him of Grayson, no matter how groan inducing they get) especially when Danny saves him during the night and they talk about dogs later.

Damian getting to know his grandparents (and learning his ‘Tt’ sound comes from one them) [saw it in a fic and fell in love with the idea it] 

#Danny Phantom #danny fenton #ghost king danny #damian wayne #Damian al Ghul #batman #Martha wayne #Thomas Wayne #ghost grandparents #Halloween summoning #ghost summonings #bio!dad bruce wayne #twins Damian and Danny #half-brothers Damian and Danny? #idk #random idea #writing ideas #Danny trying so hard to think about the fact Robin's blood worked on summoning the elder Waynes from his realms #best not to think about it #he's trying so hard not to dwell on it #he really doesn't want Batman's attention on ghosts #its bad enough he has to deal with magic users like the pain in the butt Constantine #Damian trying to dwell on the thoughts of a GHOST KING calling his paternal grandparents #Grandpa and Grandma #or mom and dad #again depends if Danny is related to them in this #cause if adopted Damian dreads his future cause its something inherited in the Wayne blood #if blood related... especially once seeing Danny's human look #dp x dc

[vigilante-izuku]

Hi, do you have battinson fic rec??? Have a nice day

WHY YES...YES I DO...

okay so just in general you can always find my fic recs as the tag "favorite fics" on my blog because those are my all-time favorite fics ever and everyone needs to read them asap.

some battinson fics that haunts me and i think about them ALL the time:

Dismantle by Maharani_Radha

SLOW BURN. ARRANGED MARRIAGE. IT HAS IT AAAAAALLL. (also she's one of my favorite writers anyways so i knew i was gonna be obsessed with this fic)

From high above, Gotham glows BY tinybluewitch

LITERALLY READ THIS JUST A COUPLE DAYS AGO AND I'M A CHANGED PERSON. I HAVEN'T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT SINCE. ITS SO GOOD!!! IMMEDIATELY WANTED TO REREAD IT AS SOON AS I FINISHED

Bruce Wayne is Batman (NOT CLICKBAIT!) by juniorstarcatcher

ANOTHER FIC I READ RECENTLY AND ITS SO FUCKING CUTE. THE READER IS VERY FUN AND DELIGHTFUL ON HER PURSUIT FOR THE TRUTH.

Don't Be A Stranger by OuterCrasis

BIRDIE, MY BESTIE, WROTE THE CUTEST BATMAN FIC OKAY. THEY'RE AN INCREDIBLE WRITER AND YOU SHOULD CHECK OUT ALL OF THEIR FICS, BUT THIS ONE HAS THE SWEETEST PREMISE. AND I'M JUST *GRABBY HANDS* CRAVING MORE OF READERS AND BRUCE'S DYNAMIC.

where two are joined, relentlessly (series) by devilfic

OKAY OKAY OKAY THIS SERIES HAS ME BY THE THROAT. ITS SO DAMN GOOD. THE BUILD UP, THE SECRETS YOU LEARN ALONG THE WAY, BRUCE AND READER'S RELATIONSHIP...*CHEF'S KISS* (also i've read their other battinson fics and they're also really fucking good and you should def check them out!!!)

#eri's answers #battinson #this is just a few of many great fics out there #im planning on rereading some of the others favorites to remember them better #plus there are some wips im reading too !!! that i need to get caught up on #battinson x reader

[floriianthefool]

Announcement y'all!!

I'm posting a new fic (another reader-insert) with mer Bruce Wayne as the love interest. I've been posting it on ao3 for the past month as it's over 10k, but, just wanted to post the blurb and first chapter here for advertising reasons.

Hope y'all enjoy!

-

A dark shape glides just under the surface, fins slicing through the waves. The water churns, a thick shiny tail smacking the surface.

He presses down from above, you bent over backwards on the railing, clutching at his shirt, feeling weightless. “Please, don’t do this. Please! Don’t let go!” Eyes burning, you try to grab him.

He lets go.

You hit the water with a splash.

In which you and Gotham Bay Aquarium's newest resident meet, and the rest, as they say, is history.

-

“Creepy little fucks, aren’t they?”

You merely hum, continuing to gaze into the dark blue waters of the tank, encompassing the entire wall at the end of the winding hallway, thick glass reaching the ceiling clear and smooth. Undulating waves of blue light wash over the room, the two of you all that was left of the evening shift, even the last of the cleaners all gone. Quiet. Silence thick like water around you, a muffled quality to the air, submerged in the microcosm of that moment.

“Very creepy,” you agree as a dark shape glides through the shoulder-high swaying sea grass planted at the bottom of the tank, lit up by the sea grass’s dim glow.

You could stay like this for an eternity, just you and Michael, gazing into the tank as the world went on beyond the walls of Gotham Bay Rehabilitation Centre and Aquarium. Just disappear for a bit, lose yourself for a fraction of eternity. Finally do the soul-searching you had told your mother this internship would grant you.

A hand briefly brushes against your own, soft, lightly calloused. “Lost in your head there for a bit, were you?”

“Just thinking,” you say, the skin between your eyebrows pinched as you cross your arms, uneasy. Something flutters in your stomach.

You had thought Michael would be over this, this thing he saw between you that you couldn’t bring yourself to name, shame and embarrassment clogging your throat. What would you mother think? No. What was it with men, what was it with men and their obsession with viewing romance between any man and woman who held even the slightest cordial relationship with one another. What was it with Michael. He had been a good friend. A great friend. A fellow inexperienced intern to get berated with by Crane, to gossip with, to have fun with. He had been a good friend (and maybe, maybe he had made you feel less lonely).

You had hoped he would stay your friend.

Eyes resolutely staying on the tank, avoiding Michael’s eyes, your gaze locks onto the dark shape once more as it grows closer to where the two of you stand. Smooth, long, and lithe, fins gliding through the water seamlessly. It stills, gaze sharp, cutting despite the metre thick glass between you. Head tilting for but a brief moment, it turns, gliding up and out of sight into floor two of three of the tank aquarium, the tank spanning three floors, and only the first and second available to the public, what made the aquarium internationally famous despite its location in Gotham, New Jersey, the cesspit of the east coast.

At least it wasn’t Bludhaven.

“Well, that was weird,” Michael comments.

You can’t help but snort, hardened resolve cracking as the forest between you melts away. “You scared h- it, dude, one look at your ugly mug and zip.” You mime a fish zooming by.

He cracks a grin, shaking his head, chestnut curls swaying with the movement. “You sure it was my mug and wasn’t yours?”

“Hey!”

“Woah, kidding, kidding,” he grins, arms raised in peace, “didn’t mean to offend, princess.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. It was good to have him back to normal, not that strange on-edge state that had defined your relationship for the past two weeks. Your stomach settles. It was good to have your friend back.

“Well, not to kill the fun, princess, but I think we should start locking up,” he says, walking backwards away from the tank.

Not looking away from the tank, you call your agreement.

The feeling is back. Not the cutting gaze, the knife just grazing your carotid artery, the animal part of your brain on edge. No. It was the other feeling. The heaviness. The weight of eyes pressing down, ever-observant, ever-present. No particular emotion, just that heaviness settling down upon you, inescapable and molasses thick.

With one last glance to the top of the tank, you turn to join Michael, ignoring the feel of eyes on your back.

“Yo, Mick, slow dow…” you trail off as he saunters by the staff-only door. “Mick, where’re you going?”

“To lock up.”

“Then come on,” you say, gripping the door handle as he continues on his merry jaunt. The fluttering in your stomach is back, faster than before.

What is he doing?

“Idiot,” you hiss before scurrying after him. “Dude,” you say as you grip his arm,” what are you doing?”

“Sadly, not that hot babe from this morning,” he quips, winking, still walking down the hallway, still pulling you with him. As he heads in the direction of the aquarium entrance, he flexes the bicep under your hands, and you scoff.

“Dude, stop being so immature. I mean, why aren’t we locking up right now. Where are you going?”

He finally stills, brown-eyed stare crinkled in a smile. It doesn’t ease your nerves. “I thought we’d start bottoms up first today.” At your surprise, he flushes. “That’s if you don’t mind. You don’t, do you?”

You glance at the manta ray tank the two of you had stopped by, a large ray gliding past at that very moment. You fight back your momentary sense of awe before turning back to Michael. Something loosens within you. It was just Micheal being dumb as usual, forgetting to tell you stuff until the last moment. “I don’t mind, but you should have told me instead of running off. Plus, why bottoms up?”

“Well,” he says, other arm up and scrunching his curls between thick fingers for but a moment. He tugs at one splayed across his forehead and drooping over his eye. “If we did it bottoms up, the last thing we’d see before leaving’d be the main tank, y’know? Thought it’d be cool.”

He was so… strange today. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a Michael this nervous before. An easily flustered and blushy Michael.

You let go of his arm, crossing your own. “Okay, cool,” you say. “Let’s go.”

And so the two of you lock up. Switching off lights, adjusting water temperatures, changing tank lighting, feeding, recording measurements, administering medicine, cleaning tanks, locking doors, and more. Much, much, much more.

Finally, exhausted and sweaty and stinky, smelling of fish, you arrive outside the observation room for the aquarium’s biggest tank. It’s star. It’s prize. The pearl of the east coast.

A similarly tired and sweaty and stinky Michael trudges up behind you.

“Hurry up,” you pant, resting your forehead on the cool metal of the door. You pull at your blue t-shirt, the weave sticky and clinging to your skin. Why couldn’t they have designed a better uniform? You could feel your trousers sticking to you as well. “Michael,” you call again.

“Coming, just- just give me a minute,” he huffs, loud footsteps growing closer. “Let- let me just catch my breath. Just a second.”

He sags onto you as he reaches the door, sweat slick on his face.

“Gross,” you mutter, reaching for the handle.

A hand drops on yours, heavy.

“Ow!” You jolt. “Dude, what’s your problem!” You cradle your hand as it stings, throbbing in time with your pulse. You blink back sudden tears.

“Sorry, sorry,” he rushes, sweaty face turning red.

“You should have thought of that before you tried to break my hand!”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for you and you flinch, backing away from the door. His gaze darts between you and the door, your hand and the door handle, before finally settling on your face. “I’m sorry, I am so sorry.”

“Then why did you do that,” you hiss, scowling.

He scratches his neck, eyes once more darting away before he forces them back on you. “It’s just, don’t you want to see the tank before we leave?”

“No.”

“Oh come on,” he groans. He says your name and then, “don’t you want just a glance. Just one. Crane isn’t here to tell us off, we can just take a peek and then go. Just a peek. A quick looksy. We won’t get a look like that again.”

“We can’t even go near the tank, it’s too dangerous by ourselves.”

“From above then, on the walkway.” At your raised brow, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a wimp. Just a look. I’ll go by myself if you won’t come,” he says, moving away, away to the door leading to the main tank.

You start towards the door, glance back at Michael. Still aching fingers curving around the cool handle, you glance at him again. He was really going alone, just to look into the tank. By himself. Alone. No one to call for help to if he fell in. Hand curled around the handle, metal warming, you glance back after him again.

Idiot.

“Michael, wait up,” you call, running after him. He slips through the door, letting lose a brief bark of laughter. You and Michael. Michael and you. You always running after him as he did something stupid.

Slipping through the door, you slow as you follow him to the stairs leading to the walkways, one of two intersecting at the centre of the tank, high above the waves.

“Just a peek,” you call. “Just one, then we need to switch off the lights.” You pull yourself up the stairs, gripping the cold railings.

“Yeah, yeah, now come on!” he laughs.

Rolling your eyes, you hurry, water-proof boots thunking on the metal. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Hah! Coming.”

“Idiot,” you say as you join him at the intersection. “At least be creative.”

“Hey, hey, just didn’t want to offend you, y’know.” One side of his mouth quirks up into a smile. “Women don’t like it, y’know. They like gentlemen.”

“And I suppose you’re an expert.” You smile back, leaning on the rib-high railing.

“That’s me,” he says as he joins you. “Michael Wellings, knower of women.”

You just snort.

For a moment, there’s silence as you both gaze down into the undulating waters of the tank. There is a dark shape, long and lean, just below the surface. It cuts through the water, twisting and turning, staying near the surface.

This is nice. Just like the old times. Well, not that old, but still. It was nice just… hanging out with Michael.

“Well, this was nice.” You turn to him, smile faltering at his stare, emotionless, his face blank. His face twitches, a barely there pull at his muscles before he smiles back, wide, teeth gleaming. “Michael-“

“So, um,” he stops. Another pull at his muscles, a twitch. A strain to his smile. “About, about last week, did you change your mind?”

“My mind? About wha-“

“Oh, y’know. My offer.”

Oh God, not this again. Your smile drops, a furrow developing between your brow. You can’t you can’t believe him.

Just, just men and their fucking audacity.

“I can’t believe you, dude, did you-“

“Just answer the question,” he interrupts, still smiling, still strained, still tense. He clenches his fists.

“No!” you explode. “No, I didn’t change my mind! Did you bring me up here just to fucking corner me. Get me alone and-"

“Why? I’ve been so nice and-“

“So what! Being nice entitles you to a relationship!”

Your stomach churns, the butterflies now fucking elephants. You clench and unclench your fists, face and ears hot, as if steaming.

“No! But, but you led me on-“

“I didn’t lead you on! I just wanted to be your friend! Your friend!” Your heart is thundering in your chest, a lump at the back of your throat, eyes stinging.

“Why can’t you just like me?!” He finally explodes, snarling. Face red and twisted, he’s unrecognisable. He strides forwards and you back away, jittery as he crowds you against the railing, the cold metal digging into your spine. Oh God, he was so angry. Furious. “I have been so nice to you. No one else wanted to hang out with you, no one except me! Me! And you fucking led me on! Am I not good enough? Am I-“

“Michael-“

“Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!” He’s panting, a vein throbbing on his forehead, his shout echoing around the room of the tank. You lean further back as he crowds in, neck craning over the side of the railing as he braces his hands on your shoulders, still pushing in.

He’s too close. Too close.

Eyes blurring, you grip the railing, jittery and shaky and weak. You need to calm him down. Get him to calm down and step back and give you come space. Your breath speeds up, head pounding to the beat of your galloping pulse.

“Michael-“

“It’s the fish, isn’t it?”

“Wha-“

“It’s the fish.” He steps back and you crumple into yourself, sucking in great heaves of air, gasping, shaky hands grasping at the cloth of your trousers at the knee. You need to calm down. Calm down.

But your breathing stays rapid, stays harsh and quick as you can’t breathe.

You grip your knees, nails digging in. Grounding you. “M- Michael, what are you-“

“Quiet!”

You glance up. He’s calmer, red seeping away, breathing heavily through his nose. He glances down, eyes arctic cold. Your breath hitches as he leans down, crowding your space. You press back, metal digging into your spine. “Michael, Mi-“

He grabs you.

You scream, thrashing in his grip. “Michael! Michael! Let go! Please, let go!”

He struggles up, arms tight and bruising.

“No, NO!” you sob. “Michael! No! Please.” You’re still screaming as you near the edge. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening! He wouldn’t do this! You have to be dreaming. Just dreaming. You twist in his grip, buckling, heaving, scrabbling at his shirt. “Let go!” you scream. “LET GO!” You rake your nails down the side of his face.

“AGH!” he screams, stumbling, and for but a brief moment, his grip loosens.

You twist, thrashing, kicking, pulling at the iron grip around your wrists. “Let go! Let go! You fucking bas-“

He slams you into the railing. Suddenly weightless, top half hanging over the edge. Michael above pressing down, you scrabble at his shirt. “Michael! Michael, just-“

His grip on your wrist tightens for just an instant, a small fraction of eternity, a grain of sand in the hourglass of time.

He lets go.

You hit the water with a splash.

-

And that's all for today folks! The rest is up on ao3, hope you enjoy!!

#bruce wayne #DC #dc fanfic #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman #floriian: long fic #floriian: like the soft beating of a heart in a still chest (fit into me like a missing rib) #floriian

[illeaadante]

Passive Ecto-contamination and how Jazz Fenton is probably classifiable as a meta in the DCU

So, I’ve been on a Danny Phantom and Batman crossover binge recently, and I have to say, we don’t talk enough about how likely it is that the entire Fenton family, but especially Jazz, probably has enough ecto-contamination to count as a meta-human. 

This girl has lived her entire life around ectoplasm (bc Maddie and Jack were working with it before they were together and you know they don’t care enough about lab safety to have stopped when Maddie was pregnant or when Jazz was little) and her late teens living two floors above a dimensional rift. She may not be a halfa, but she is 100% not fully human after living her entire life being surrounded, and sometimes ingesting, ectoplasm and it’s radiation.

I think Jazz in particular would get some more passive ghost powers. She’s got her own obsession in her drive to be a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure she’s also tougher than a normal human. She can take blasts from Vlad pretty much on par with Danny, and while her parent’s inventions don’t work on her as well as they do Danny, the do still effect her. (Yes, I might be extrapolating from the vacuum gag, don’t @ me.)

Her eyes probably glow a bit in the dark, she heals faster than a normal squishy human, and she ages slower than she should if she weren’t ecto-contaminated.

All of this to say, that I 100% think that if they existed in the same universe, the Lazarus waters would just be, like, rancid ectoplasm that’s been cut off from the Zone but still retained its powers (probably because of all of the dead people shoved into it tbh) and that it would be really fuckin’ funny if a fully healthy Jazz Fenton was pushed into the Waters, only to come up spluttering and complaining about how gross that is.

small not-fic thing under the cut

Could you imagine. Like, I’m picturing Jazz had moved away to Gotham or Bludhaven and started dating Dick, only to wake up suspended over a very familiar glowing green pit. And the League of Assassins is reluctantly impressed with her apparent lack of fear when they explain what the waters are, but she just hangs there mentally groaning about how long it’s gonna take to wash her hair, and how much she’s gonna have to explain to her boyfriend once he gets here (and this is Jazz, she clocked that Dick was Nightwing almost immediately, the only thing that had tripped her up about Danny was the fact that Phantom was dead.) On the up side, she’ll no longer have to pretend to ignore all of the blatant signs of vigilantism that her boyfriend puts out. (Under the false bottom of a shared dresser drawer is not the best place to hide your electrified escrima sticks, is all she’s saying.)

So Nightwing and a few of the batfam come to save her and just as the fight seems to be turning she’s dropped into the pit. Dick is enraged, Jason took the opportunity to reload, Damien never stopped swinging, but then.

Splash splash. Coughing and spluttering. An irritated whine.

Everyone looks over to the pit where a very much Not Dead Jazz Fenton is wading out of the waters. She’s shuddering, and seems to be in some pain, but she’s rather nonchalant as she wrings out her hair.

Everything just. Stops. All of the assassins stare. The batfamily stare. Ra’s al Ghul isn’t thinking anything right now, as his brain needs to reboot, but afterward he’s gonna develop quite the obsession. One thought goes through every single person’s mind.

“What the fuck.”

Jazz looks around, tossing her still gross hair behind her to hit her back with a thwap, and she just looks around in mild concern.

Anyway, once they get Jazz back to Gotham and do the whole vigilante reveal (”yes, I know who you are.” “How?!?!?!?”) they realize that Jazz isn’t dead, but she isn’t in great shape either. She is supremely unconcerned, and texts Danny to get their parents out of the house for a few days so that she can take the Spectre Speeder and go see Frostbite.

Thus becomes the Batfamily’s crash course intro into Ghosts, ectoplasm, ecto-contamination, and the Infinite realms. Jason demands to come see these ghost healers too, it becomes a whole field trip. They get to the Far Frozen and that’s when Jazz has to do explanation round 2: yes, my little brother is the King of All Ghosts, which means that, despite being alive, I am also a  Lady of the Infinite Realms. 

#dc #danny phantom #jazz fenton #jazz centric #we don't talk enough about Jazz's deeply weird childhood #she psychoanalyzes herself while hanging above the pit #she determined that yes #Dick and Danny do share some similarities #but her attraction to the vigilante stems more from his ability to empathize with her as both an older sibling and a crime fighter #rather than her developing a brother complex #well #anymore of a complex #ghost king danny #Jazz Fenton: Lady of the Infinite Realms #dick grayson #Nightwing #Jason todd #danny phantom batman crossover #dick is just confused at how his well-adjusted girlfriend can have a weirder life than him #batman #batman au #danny phantom au

[moonlight-prose]

I hear sad boi bat dude in conjunction with rain prompts, and now I'm imagining a civilian finding him on their rooftop in the pouring rain and walking out with their umbrella and holding it over him while he perches. It makes absolutely zero sense but the image makes me smile.

SHADOWS IN THE STORM

a/n: okay this poured out of me faster than i actually anticipated, because i could see it so clearly. this is the first ever batman fic to be posted on this blog and i'm half worried (mainly cause i've never written for him) and half excited. in all honesty your request is perfect, because nothing is better than this sad boi bat dude in the rain. i hope you enjoy it! it's a quick drabble so there's probably tons of mistakes.

rain prompts

word count: 996

pairing: the batman x reader

warnings: none, fluffy as hell

You’d seen him there before and mistook him for something else entirely–until now. In all honesty you were asleep long before he showed up, taking his usual spot on the edge of the roof, his eyes watching the streets below. You weren’t sure if he chose this building because of its height, or if he merely found solace in the way it was farther than others from the center of the city.

The echo of rain outside caught your attention long before he did. You’d busied yourself with household chores. Wash the dishes, finish up the laundry, until you see it–the shadow that cast itself along your balcony as someone walked along the top of the roof. When you first saw it, you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sight. Only now it was a comfort you didn’t think you’d ever need.

Each night, like clockwork, he took his place and at first you believed him to be an intruder, now you recognized the pointed slant of the ears on his mask. The hunched over figure covered in black from head to toe–blending into the night sky that it would often make you do a double take to make sure you were correct.

It had been a long night for him–you assumed. Having taken the day off work due to a cold, you kept the news on for as long as you were awake. The ongoings of the night playing one after the other. A robbery on the other side of the city, a gang of men teaming up against a helpless man, a shooting not three blocks away from your building. He had managed to get to them all.

A thump echoed above your head, mixing with the rain as he walked slowly. You wondered if he knew you waited for him. Watching the clock until the familiar sound of his boots rang above your head. It’s not like you meant to, but some part of you felt safer when he was here. Only tonight you weren’t worried about the crimes, or even the storm that only picked up with every passing minute. No…your mind had settled on fretting over the one who sat in the rain.

You stood in the center of your apartment, the television still going on a lower volume. Its soft glow was the only thing illuminating your living room. Every few seconds, your eyes would drag between the umbrella that sat propped near your door and his shadow. It was pouring outside. The kind of storm that would remain for days, nearly flooding the streets in the process. They used to scare you as a child and yet now–you felt a comfort in listening to the pitter patter of the rain hitting your windows.

“Fuck it,” you mumbled, grabbing your thickest coat.

There was a single flight of stairs and a heavy metal door that separated you from him. He would hear you coming–you knew that. Yet you still went. Sliding open the latch on the door and shoving it open with your body–the rain already soaking your boots.

Keeping the umbrella upright, you moved slowly towards him. His hunched over form far more threatening when you were so close. This was the same man who hunted those who spilled blood, the same man they called vengeance rather than hero. His signal shined on still in the cloudy sky, casting an ominous glow over everything around.

You joked once that you never saw the moon in Gotham–not clearly anyways. Instead you saw that. His call to the night, a warning to those that he was there. He was watching.

He didn’t acknowledge your presence beyond a mere glance in your direction, too focused on the streets below. So you shuffled closer–enough to see the black paint around his eyes and his armor he wore like a symbol. The light colors of your umbrella contrasted with the near obsidian color of his suit. It was almost comical; the sight of you sharing your umbrella with the bat of Gotham.

“I thought you might need this,” you said, trying not to lean against him.

There was the distinct reminder that while he used your rooftop to perch–you didn’t know this man. You weren’t sure you would ever know him and somehow that felt okay. Casting a quick glance at him, you noticed that he let go of his tight hunched over position. It looked like his armor was waterproof, but the bottom half of his face was still dripping from earlier.

You jumped when his gloved hand clasped over yours, taking hold of the umbrella. The rough leather scratched against your skin as you pulled away slowly–catching his gaze in the process. He hadn’t said anything–didn’t need to–because you knew what this meant. The bat of Gotham was apologizing to you in his own silent way for showing up each night; for possibly scaring you.

A smile crossed your lips, the rain nearly soaking your jacket. “I’m glad you show up every night.”

Although your words were barely audible over the storm, you knew he heard them. His eyes flashed, lips tugging upwards slightly before his expression shifted–back to the man they showed in the news. For a moment you saw the person behind the mask and that caused a strange warmth to spread in your chest.

You shifted to sit on the edge of the roof beside him, taking the liberty to lean against him as the rain continued. Eventually the storm would come to an end and he would leave, but you knew he’d return. Casting that–oh so–familiar shadow over your balcony once more.

#pattinson!batman x reader #the batman x reader #the batman x you #the batman x y/n #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #the batman #the batman fanfic #my writing

[preciouslandmermaid]

from high above, Gotham glows (battinson x f!reader)

Note: First Time writing Battison lol and uhh this one really got away with me so there’s a decent amount of Plot and Yearning before you get to the smutty stuff. LMAO. Takes place pre-movie with some generous fuckery with the timeline and off-hand original characters.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. Dubious consent drug use (reader is required to take the drug to keep her cover secret). reader suffers from claustrophobia/fear of tightly enclosed spaces (only mentioned/experienced during the "fear scene"). established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. minor hurt/comfort. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. 

prompt: cockwarming, clothes ripping, balcony/window | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list  

“You’ve got Gotham under your nails, girl.” Falcone hisses, close enough to smell his shitty cigar breath, “More than that. You’ve got her in your blood. I can tell. And I could use a girl like you.”

You ignore your roiling, empty stomach that sloshes with alcohol. Someone leans down to whisper in Falcone’s ear – some goon, you gather – and it’s just enough time for you to slip away from the crowded booth. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your short dress.

Your bones practically vibrate beneath the thumping bass of the club’s techno music. The lounge is an assault on every sense. Sight: nauseating flashing lights. Sound: the music that rakes claws down your spine. Touch: sweaty, clammy hands reaching for your dress, your arm, your shoulder. Smell: cigars, and marijuana, and sweat, and cigarettes. Taste: harsh, clear vodka that burns and strips layers of your throat going down.

You stumble out into the misty and glossy Gotham and press your hand to your racing heart.

Was the intel you gathered about Falcone worth his grubby hands and gross breath? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. You eagerly get into your car and verbalize everything Falcone told you into a tape recorder. You’ll write down the rest when you’re home.

*********

Home is a single-bedroom apartment that’s only redeeming quality is the little balcony that views the sunrise on precious mornings. When the sun touches Gotham, it paints everything a reflective orange and yellow, igniting the city on fire without a touch of smoke. More often than not, you went to bed on the couch, watching that sunrise, watching Gotham burn.

You don’t bother scrubbing off your glittery makeup or removing your tight dress. Your fingers itch to fly across the keyboard. This frantic determination is what earned you the nickname “Quicksilver” back when you were a pulp journalist writing about missing cats and happy birthday columns.

Despite your hard work, both in the field and out, the Gotham Gazette refused to promote you. In attempt to prove yourself, you singlehandedly wrote an article that revealed the corruption of several Arkham State Hospital doctors. When you dropped the story on your editor’s desk - they fired you. You went freelance after that.

It’s a shame the Gazette wiped your files and withheld your work laptop. Your current laptop wheezed to life; their fans mimicked a jet engine about to take flight. Corruption ran into the very veins of Gotham. Her blackened, wet streets were littered with petty crime and shady corporations. Sometimes it felt like you and the Bat and Gordon were the only people left with a shred of moral integrity.

You click on the multi-colored lights that framed your balcony window. You are the only one in the building that kept the lights up year-round. They are your very own, personal bat signal. You flipped them on whenever you had important news to share about Gotham.

The blue light of your computer screen frames your face as you start transcribing your notes from your tape recorder. The soft click-clack of the keys and the sharp, heavy ‘clunk’ of the play and pause button are the only sounds that fill your apartment for a long, long time.

Batman’s voice is gravel scraping against your skin, “what’ve you found?”

You jolt. “Jesus.” Your gaze narrows at him, “we talked about knocking, didn’t we? Just a little tap-tap on the glass will do.”

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

You roll your eyes. No time for pleasantries, huh? Not even a shred of basic, human decency. You’re not sure what you expect from a guy who runs around dressed like a bat. Still – he’s your ally. You turn the laptop around to show him your notes.

“It’s worse than I thought.” You say, brow furrowing, “I thought – I theorized that Falcone was just using the girls to run drugs, maybe help establish meetings, but he’s – he’s got them testing some kind of psychoactive drug for him.”

“LSD?” Batman rasps, his shadowed eyes scan the screen.

“Something else.” You drum your fingers against your coffee table. It’s always a little silly seeing Batman, decked out in his heavy armor and big cape, in your cramped living room. It’s big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and your overflowing bookshelf – but that’s it. Batman swallows the space like a hungry black hole.  

“Injected – is my theory – based on his linguistic tell.”

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

“He mentioned Gotham being in my veins. Said he could use someone like me.” The term ‘use’ was slang for junkies when they blissed their brains out with drugs. You look down at your exposed skin, at the translucency of your inner elbow, where a needle impresses, where wandering, greedy hands at the club try and grab. You suppress a shiver.

Batman’s question comes as a surprise; “How long were you with Falcone?”

“Few hours.” You shrug. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. There is some truth to Falcone’s words. You were born and raised in Gotham. And very little in this city could scare you. Hell, when Gordon introduced you to Batman in a dark, shadowed alleyway, you merely blinked at Vengeance and proclaimed you needed some food if you were going to have this conversation.

You start to pace, because moving helps you think, “he didn’t give up much. He was too busy trying to impress me with expensive drinks and flattery. But he threw the word opportunity around a lot. He kept mentioning how he was the one on the ground floor of this thing.”

You fold your arms across your chest and stare out your balcony sliding glass door. “We know Falcone is involved in a drug trafficking, and maybe even human trafficking too. I’ll go there again tomorrow—”

“No.” The word tears from his throat. You spin, expecting him by the table, and your heart gallops in surprise at his close proximity. He practically looms over you. You peer up, and the second surprise comes in the color of his eyes, striking and watery blue, smudged with some type of black paint or makeup.

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

You almost laugh. “I’ve got shit.” You shake your head, “I don’t have anything to pin Falcone with. I’ve got conjecture. I’ve got a half-remembered conversation thanks to all the booze they plied me with. I don’t have names, or details, but if I go in again—”

“You said he wanted to use you.” Up close, you see the chest plates of his body armor flex when he inhales deeply. “You could get hurt.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stare into Batman’s impassive, stoic expression and his tense, tight jaw. Your resolve flares white-hot. The girls working for Falcone are actively getting hurt, being hurt, the longer you take to crack this case. Yeah, sure, you’re just a freelance journalist. But lots of people in Gotham read your articles. A big enough article should garner enough public backlash to cause the Gotham PD to investigate. That was your hope anyway. And if not—well—you had Batman in your living room. You’d give the evidence over to him.  

You lift your chin and set your shoulders, “I can bear the pain if it means saving others the trouble.”

Something ripples across his half-masked face. Something – you think – like empathy? Until his eyes drop pointedly to your mouth. Your thoughts dry up, your mind a wasteland, and a new, sudden pulse reverberates across the muscles of your heart. You slowly release your lower lip from your teeth. If you had any space to move, you would slink around him, return to the solace, and comfort of your couch and start digging through Falcone’s contacts. But – tiny living room, big Bat. Outside, you hear a deluge pattering on the balcony railing and the rooftops below. A low and distant rumbling thunder vibrates through the skyscrapers.

Batman edges impossibly closer and the front of your chest brushes against his armor. Your neck aches from craning upward to look at him.

“Don’t go back to the lounge.” Says Batman.

“You’re not my boss.” You quip. “No one is. That’s kinda the point.”

“What about Gordon?” His lips thin. “I thought you worked for him.”

“Nope!” You respond brightly, “I just dig around in sketchy business and stir the pot, so the PD gets off their assess and does their actual jobs.”

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

“I’m sure you can, Vengeance.” You agree with just the barest touch of sarcasm.

Handle Falcone? Yeah. He’ll probably go break a few of Falcone’s ribs. Effective for intimidation, but not effective for the truth. You’ve seen Vengeance in action more than once (he’s got a pesky habit of turning up in the same circles you’re investigating). But would his technique of busting skulls help the girls in trouble? No. It wouldn’t. Based on your assumption of Falcone, if Batboy was busy fighting, then Falcone’s men would just transport the girls – and the drugs – to another location.

You reach behind yourself and tug the door handle, “I’ll call you with an update.” You slide the door open and burst of wind pushes chilly rainwater onto your floor and your back. “I promise.”

Batman glares down at you. He looks ready to say something else but thinks better of it. You step to the side to let him pass. You release a relieved sigh once he’s gone. What was that? Why did it almost seem like he was going to kiss you? You shake the foolish thought from your mind. You and Batboy? Hah! In your dreams maybe.

*********

A single phone call changes the trajectory of your entire day. You find yourself at Bruce Wayne’s Tower. You never thought you’d be here again. You use a tissue from your car’s glove compartment to try and wipe off the residual clumped mascara from last night. You aren’t as blue-blooded as the Wayne family. But the closeness in age, and the friendship your mother had toward Martha Wayne, meant that you and ‘Brucie’ were set up for playdates when you were old enough to talk. You despised him instantly.

On your first playdate, you bit him. The Bruce-Free days only lasted so long before the mothers decided to try again. On the second, he wouldn’t give you your favorite toy back. This caused quite a rift. He was forced to handwrite an apology. You still have it – somewhere – in a shoebox.

By the third or fourth playdate, things changed. Bruce stopped some older kids from picking on you and shoving your face in the dirt. He earned a busted lip and your unwavering, childish loyalty. You started looking forward to those scheduled, routine meetings in his big, fancy penthouse.

Until his parents were killed and whatever fondness that was born beautifully between you as children grew distant and cold.

You frown and count backward on your fingers. Jesus. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. Granted, it’s not like you tried to reach out either. After the years of ignored calls and radio silence in the fresh, tender years after his parent’s death—you gave up on trying. Was it shitty behavior? Maybe. But you were like ten. You didn’t know how to handle the grief of losing anyone either.

You smooth the wrinkles on your slept-in shirt and pop a piece of gum in your mouth to calm your nerves. Oh, well! You can’t hide in the car forever.

You’re led inside his glossy, gothic penthouse. Your eyes snag on the polished, wooden table holding a vase. You’ve got a tiny, white scar from where you smashed your face into that exact table from running through the hall. Alfred gives you a polite, well-mannered smile before pouring tea.

He says, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” You accept the pretty, floral teacup, “can’t say I was expecting a phone call from the Wayne house.”

“Hm. Indeed.” His eyes sparkled, “I, myself, was quite surprised when Bruce told me to contact you. He said he could trust no one else with it.”

You squirm a little in your seat. “Being vague to a pseudo-reporter is like the literal worst thing you can do. Care to enlighten me as to why I’m here?”

The only tidbit of information Alfred gave on the phone was that Bruce had a job for you. Although it felt a little weird to be meeting up with your old childhood friend under the blanket of professionalism and employment opportunity, your pathetic bank account is two overdraft fees away from being closed completely, so you really couldn’t be prideful or finicky.

“I’m afraid I cannot. He will explain everything.”

In that moment, the man of the hour decides to bless you with his presence. Your teacup clatters shakily against the porcelain saucer. His damp hair hangs in wet, slinky tendrils along his pale forehead. A shadow of dark stubble crests over his square, handsome jaw. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping based on his hunched posture and the dark half-moon circles under his baby blue eyes.

“Did you not consider getting dressed, sir?” Alfred tuts and shakes his head. Bruce sinks into the chair opposite to yours with a sigh. His dark, large hoodie and gray sweatpants drape over his frame like a blanket. His feet are bare which you find both funny and startlingly intimate.

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

You smile at the old moniker. “You’ve been following my career have you?”

Bruce’s lips quirk, something boyish and bashful crossing his features for a mere second, before he tamps it down.

“Here and there.” He shrugs, reaching for his tea, “I heard about you leaving the Gazette.”

“I wish it had been a more dramatic exit.” You sigh, “I can see the headline now. Sacked journalist gags Gazette with gory tell all of Gotham’s crime grime!” You drag your hand across the air as if smearing the headline into space.

Bruce exhales through his nostrils, a short and huffy sound. “Does it have to rhyme?”

“No, but it’s more fun if it does.” Your heart flutters when you look over at him (when did the gangly boy who hid behind pillars at charity events get so handsome?) You look away and focus on the ever-blooming pink roses on your teacup.

“Which brings me to my next point – why am I here?” You ask.

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

“Close to nothing.” You half-heartedly glare at the doorway where Alfred exited. “Said you had a job, said you asked for me.” Your heart does a strange twist. “Said you’d only trust me with it.”

Bruce stiffens. You notice it in his shoulders hidden beneath his baggy clothes. You’ve never known Alfred to lie but his statement, however true or not, made Bruce uncomfortable. You attempt to read his exhausted, sullen face, but it’s like trying to read a street sign within the reflection of a puddle.

Bruce avoids your eyes, “it’s about Arkham.”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. How did Bruce hear about that? Or was this unconnected? You shift in your seat again, sitting upright, attentive, and a scent not unlike blood fills your nostrils. Your old editor used to say: ‘Quicksilver, you got the instincts of a fucking shark.’ It’s a shame the bastard didn’t bother to fight to keep your big story afloat. Before Bruce even opens his mouth again, you can taste it—The Story. There’s something under the soil waiting to be dug up and brought to the light.

“I’m listening.”

“I heard about the story the Gazette wouldn’t publish.” Bruce sucks in a breath, “I want you to write it.”

The floor dips out from underneath you. You’re glad you’re not holding the expensive, delicate teacup because otherwise it would be shattered on the hardwood floor.

You balk. “What?”

“Write it.” He says with more certainty this time. “I’ll pay you.”

“Bruce.” You shake your head, immediately worried for his reputation, “if people find out you’re footing the bill to uncover Arkham’s dirty laundry…”

Something scared and small inside of you cringes at the idea of going into Arkham again. Then, abruptly, the face of one of Falcone’s drugged-out girls surfaces to your mind. Shit. If you do this, you’ll be fighting two monsters. Falcone’s dangerous corruption and obvious viciousness, and Arkham’s cold, claustrophobic corridors and placid doctors who – if you’re honest – have plastic smiles that freak you out more than some of the dangerous patients.

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

God, he’s dumb. He’s all that’s left of the benevolent Wayne family name, and he wants to spend his days a shut-in recluse paying an ex-journalist to write a story no one wants? You want to shake sense into his shoulders.

You nibble your lower lip before asking, “why me?”

Bruce actually looks at a loss for words (not that he’s been a man of many words but whatever). His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left. His eyes narrow imperceptibly. You twist the tiny sugar serving spoon between your fingers for the sake of movement, so you don’t start pacing in his parlor.

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

All air whooshes out of your lungs in something that resembles a chuckle but is far too warbled to be an honest laugh.

“Even if I write the story, Bruce. What happens next? If I post it online, people will call me a conspiracist, or a liar, or both! And if it comes out that you’re involved, they will drag your name through the mud for supporting it.” You explain a hurried rush, desperate for him to understand, “there’s no way in hell the Gazette will publish it. And none of the smaller papers either would risk the Gazette’s wrath.”

You continue, “And this is all assuming my old contacts will even speak to me.”

You had walked in, ready to accept the job offer with a smile on your face, and now you were arguing against it. Why? Because you don’t want Bruce to have his name slandered? Because it looks hopeless? Or because you don’t want to face Arkham again? Or because you already have your hands full with the Falcone drug ring investigation?

You are uncertain of the answer. It feels like a little of everything.

“Write the story first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.” He slides his palms down his legs, from his thighs to his knees. “There are papers outside of Gotham. As for your contacts…well…the ones who won’t speak to you are likely paid off by the Gazette, right?”

You blink at him. Holy shit. He’s serious. He wants you to rewrite the story. The damp, musty air of Arkham clings to the vessels inside your lungs. Can you do it? Can you tell both stories? Save the girls from Falcone and save the patients in Arkham? It’s a Herculean task.

But it’s not impossible. You told Vengeance last night that you’d suffer pain for the sake of others. And ‘others’ included the criminally deranged patients in Arkham.

You pinch the upper bridge of your nose and close your eyes. “Fuck…”

“You’re going to say yes.” Although you’re not looking at him, you can hear a faint smile in Bruce’s voice. A molten, nostalgic, and hungry heat unfurls through your bones. Goddamnit. At the end of the day – it’s Bruce, the scrappy boy who took a blackeye and busted lip for you – that’s who is asking you for a favor. You can bite and bark all you want. But you know you’re going to agree. Doesn’t explain how he knows it, though.

You meet his steely, blue gaze, “how do you know?”

Bruce shrugs.

You groan. “Fine, fine. Yeah. Yes. I accept. Show me the paperwork to sign.”

The rich bastard does actually have paperwork for you to sign. Which is like – hilarious and also ridiculous and your leg bounces under the table with each shiny, wet signature you leave behind. It’s basic non-disclosure agreement and ownership stuff that you’ve seen a hundred other times. You mutually agree to not reveal whose paying you, you keep your contacts private and secure, and Bruce agrees that once the article is complete—it’s his. You can choose to strip your name from it completely. He’s free to sell it to the highest bidder outside of Gotham.

Though, with minor hassling, he agrees to consult with you beforehand before it goes anywhere to print.

Once the business is done, you find yourself falling into sort-of-easy conversation. It’s mostly one-sided because Bruce’s life is incredibly fucking boring. He’s unlike the other rich elites of Gotham – those with their smiling, plastic faces on glossy magazine covers.

“What?” Your prompt, leaning your elbows on the table, “Not even a single torrid and gut-wrenching love affair to share with your old friend?”

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

“No.” A little line appears between his eyebrows. It’s cute. You stifle a giggle in the back of your throat. “Unless he’s keeping secrets.”

You lean back in your chair, “I’ll ask him on my way out.”

You talk about work because it’s easiest. You tell him about your other articles – both published and tossed aside. You tell him about your brief period, post-Gazette, as a private investigator (“It was mostly trying to find out if partners were cheating on each other and I got bored fast” You clarify, “money was good though”). You tiptoe around any topic that implies you have a life outside of your work. Simply because you don’t. You fall asleep staring at your computer screen, up to your neck in research, and you wake up staring at the same screen. It’s a little…embarrassing…to consider how hollow your life is, but Bruce doesn’t leave his house. It’s not like he can judge you and you’d give him hell if he tried.

A notification on your cracked phone screen informs you that you need to go. You’ve got a meeting with Gordon in an hour. You already passed information off to the Bat. Now, it was time for Gordon to follow-up with you on the leads you gave him last week.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers, falling into quiet step behind you.

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

His lips twitch. You think he almost smiled. Now, It’s not perfect. You’re not slotted together at the hip like you used to be when you were kids. And he’s practically your boss now. But at least you’re talking again. At least it’s something. That’s better than the years of static and loneliness and complicated, yearning feelings you endured in your youth.

You press the button for the lobby with a short wave to Bruce in farewell.

His long pale fingers suddenly wrap around the silver, polished elevator door and he stops it from hissing shut. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips, and the arch of your brow. He looks …haggard – a little wild…like whatever he’s about to say or do is being ripped from his ribcage. Bruce is on a flimsy tether and he’s one rough pull from unraveling.

His voice dips low, stoking at an ember you weren’t aware of in the depths of your belly.

“You always used to close your eyes before saying yes to me.” His eyes pin you, their gaze darkening, and the rumpled slump of his shoulders tightens.

You grin. “That’s because you were an insufferable brat who always got his way.” You rapidly press the ‘close door’ button a few times. It doesn’t do anything, of course, because Bruce is white knuckling the door.

“Anything you need…” He trails off, then finishes his sentence with a gruff, “– just call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible with your heart trying to fucking escape from your chest like an Olympic acrobat. “I’m on the payroll now. Got it.”

You’re about to become the Queen of Multi-tasking.

*********

Fuck this fucking club, you think, as Falcone places his arm around your waist. It sends a clear message to the other creeps in here. He’s interested in you. Everyone else better back off or they’ll lose an eyeball. Your skin crawls. You put on a brave face. You giggle at his jokes. You pet the front of his blazer, curling up next to him in the booth, enduring his cigar-breath and fingers groping your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get outta here, sweetheart?” He asks, “I got something I wanna show you. Something that’ll make you feel good.”

You flutter your eyelashes, playing dumb, “really?”

Gordon followed some of Falcone’s cars to the shipping district and confirmed that Falcone was keeping the missing girls somewhere else. Gordon couldn’t breach the private warehouses without a warrant. And Batman has been MIA for the past two nights. You hope and pray that Falcone is planning to take you there now. You’re desperate for a lead.

“Yeah, baby.” He grins. “Remember how I was telling you that I’m getting into something big? Something groundbreaking? Well – tonight, you get to have a taste of it.”

You don’t want to be too eager. “Can’t we just go to your office?” You wine.

“No, no, baby.” He takes a long pull of his cigar, “I don’t keep it here.”

He signals for one of his boys to bring a car around. You don’t bother to hide your nervous and bouncy excitement. You mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the car ride. So far, you’ve avoided Falcone’s mouth by dodging and playing coy and leaving before things get heated—but he’s a brute and a criminal. He’ll take advantage of the small space of the backseat. You’re sure of it.

Plus, he thinks you’re a runaway who is desperate for her next fix. He thinks you’re vulnerable and weak. He has no idea how wrong he is.

You hold the image of the missing posters at the forefront of your mind. You repeat their names as Falcone shoves his tongue between your teeth. You climb onto Falcone’s lap so he can’t reach between your legs and fantasize about Batman punching into Falcone’s slimy face.

Thankfully, it’s a short ride. You make a big show of pouting when the car door opens and then giggling as if you’re drunk at Falcone’s goon. Falcone leads you past some of the warehouses and into a small receiving office. You’re confused until he opens the door at the far end of the wall which leads into a narrow staircase.

Your lungs shrivel. It’s underground. You take Falcone’s offered hand and follow him down the stairs, counting each step, counting every breath. You hope the stairwell will open up into a larger space. You never did well in tight, confined spaces. You swallow thickly. You repeat the girl’s names over and over again like a mantra to salvation and sanity. Nearly halfway down and you start to hear low, echoing moaning. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Falcone doesn’t look back at you.

The universe is downright cackling at you when the stairwell ends, and you’re confronted with a wider-than usual hallway pocketed with doors. The air is chillier than above and you’re in a black mini dress and fighting off a panic attack.  A full body tremor wreck through you. The urge to bolt, to run upstairs, digs its claws into you.

Falcone misinterprets your trembling, “don’t worry, honey.” He nods to one of his boys and they open one of the doors, “you’ll get what you want.”

You come face to face with one of the missing girls. Her cherry blonde hair is mussed over her damp, tear-streaked face. She’s curled on a mattress and muttering, quietly, to herself. It almost sounds like a song.

All self-preservation flies out the metaphorical window. Your heels click toward her, you crouch, and smooth her hair away from her face. Her big, brown eyes are glossy and distant. Wherever she is – it’s not here. And you’re thankful for it. Her hair is longer than her missing photo, but you recognize her. Her name is Karina. She broke up with her boyfriend and ran off after they had a fight. Falcone – or one of his people - must’ve grabbed her during the emotional turmoil and fallout.

Now, you’ve found her and there’s a high chance the rest of the girls are in the other rooms. You need to get to them. Gordon might not be able to shut this place down in time. The silver lining is that Falcone has limited security here. This is where he keeps the girls – not where he keeps the drugs. The few security goons you saw only carried pistols. You will get your hands on one. You’ll get these girls out.

You’re a journalist, not a hero. But doesn’t stop you from formulating a plan. If all else fails, you’ll reveal the ace in your sleeve, and tell Falcone about the tracker in your phone. It had been Batboy’s idea. It’s a one-of-a-kind program. Once activated, if you don’t check-in after 2 hours via a passcode, it alerts Gordon.

Come to think of it, it probably alerts Batman too.

“Don’t worry.” Falcone croons, “it’s more than pleasant.”

His goon grabs your arm. You almost jerk away until you remember yourself and let your wrist fall limp in their hands. You flinch at the bite of the needle. The world swims in vibrant, pulsing color. You cling to reality as feebly as you can. Whatever lucid part of your mind rationalizes that the high cannot last too long. Your tongue rests heavy in your mouth. The door echoes shut with a loud bang.

The walls close-in toward you. Shit, fuck, what the fuck?! Is the room collapsing? You press your hands to the concrete with a panicked gasp. Yes, yes, you feel vibrations. An earthquake? In Gotham!? It sounds implausible. Your mind is foggy, formulating thoughts through a haze of animalistic panic, your heart thundering so loud in your ears that you hear nothing else.

You hiccup, unaware when you started crying, your sluggish fingertips clawing at the flat, immovable walls that press closer and closer with every ragged inhale. A swarm of black spots dance like demons in front of your eyes.

You’re not even sure why you say—“Bruce?!” until you realize it’s because an earthquake is happening, and you’re stuck underground and he’s at Wayne tower and it’s going to collapse! And no one is going to be able to warn him and no one is going to be able to save him and no one is going to be with him and—Oh God!

The air is stale. You don’t have enough of it. You’re going to die in here. The realization hits you as the ceiling starts to drop. Tiny flecks of white plaster drop onto your head and into your eyes. They cloud your vision and burn. You want to curl up into a little ball and scream, but you suddenly remember you aren’t alone.

You grab Karina’s addled face, “we have to breathe slowly!” You shout to her over the noise of crumbling walls and plaster. “Slowly!”

You practice the correct slow and measured breathes to conserve oxygen. Karina doesn’t listen. She is crying. Her tears fall, fat and watery down her face. You keep trying to show her how to breathe like a mother teaching her child how to take their first steps. Karina is hopeless. She continues to wail and cry, and blubber apologizes and lamentations for her parents.

You stumble to your feet on the unsteady, shaking ground. Somehow, the metal door has withstood the ongoing earthquake. You’re not sure how this is possible, but you’re not going to spit on the blessing. Your fingers dig into the cold handle and tug. It gives way – unlocked – and you barrel into the hallway with watery knees. Another tremor of the earth and you shoulder into the doorway directly across the hall. Your body flares at the pain of impact.

Someone is screaming. It’s not Karina. Your face turns toward the sound. The collapsing world is a mess of greys and an off-shade blue that’s too unlike the sky and nearly nauseating. Every time you move your head, there’s an after-image of the world prior, like your mind is lagging and struggling to hold connection to your body and your visual receptors.

Batman is standing in the hallway. His cloak is billowing outward, led by an unknown wind, and you nearly collapse with relief. He can help. He can save Bruce and Karina and all the others. You don’t have to do it alone.

You scream, “Bruce!”

He reflectively jerks like someone slapped him. The elbow in his hand, held at an awkward and painful angle, is dropped. You lean your weight against the wall and stumble toward Batman to explain, your tongue still feels heavy, and your lips tingle.

“Bruce – my friend – my friend Bruce - you have to help him.” You grab Batman’s solid arm, heavy and black, but he’s the only thing not crumbling around you.

“There’s been an earthquake—didn’t you feel it?! And he’s on his own and someone has to warn him so he can -so he can get out. So, Alfred can get out. They live in a tower. It’s going to collapse. It’s going to collapse. Please, please, please, please. I can’t lose him again. Please, please, please.”

Your body won’t stop shaking. Your jaw tenses with a wild, deep urge to grind your teeth. “You’ve got tons of gadgets. Do a gadget. Help him. Help him, please.”

Batman is holding your face. When did that happen? You feel the heat of his palms through his gloves. Or maybe it’s you. Your skin is burning up. You feel the heat of it travel all the way down the back of your neck and across your chest. The words are slipping now like big slimy eels. Your tongue struggles to shape them.

“What did he give you?”

“Dunno.” You slur, your eyelids droop. “Karina. Other room. Help Karina. The girls. Help B—Bruce. Please. Please. Earthquake. Tell him. Hurry. Hurry.”

He squeezes your face, “Silver. Look at me.” He demands. “There’s no earthquake. It’s the drugs. Did you see where Falcone went?”

As if to prove him wrong, a piece of rubble falls from the ceiling.

It lands on him.

He collapses like a squashed bug. You shriek. The force of it renders your throat into bloody ribbons. You back pedal with arms flaring, blood hot and sticky on your face, and you trip over your feet. Someone is grabbing you, their grip strong, and they’re talking—but you can’t hear them. The walls are falling, falling, falling. You’re going to be buried alive. You failed. You failed the girls. You failed Bruce. You failed yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut because to look would be unbearable.

*********

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in a hospital. The white and blue gown is itchy and fits poorly. You rub your eyes and work the muscles of your aching, dry throat. Your body feels…mostly fine. There’s some minor discomfort at the back of your skull and your jaw.

Gordon says, “Quicksilver, you gave me a scare.”

You probe your memory and glance to your bedside where Gordon sits. “Take it from the top, Gordon, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You asking me as my friend or as a cop?”

He straightens his shoulders and his mustache quivers, “a friend.”

“Finding Karina in a sub-level below a shipment receiving office. Falcone’s men drugging me.” You chew at your lower lip, “I think…I think there was an earthquake?” Your mind snaps to Bruce and to his safety. The heartrate monitor betrays your unease.

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I – I saw him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or if it was real…but he was there.” You fuss at the sheets pooled around your waist, “I guess it was all a hallucination. Fuck. What was it?”

“The lab is running an analysis on your blood.” Gordon clears his throat, “we know it triggers the adrenal gland, and it induces auditory as well as visual hallucinations, and based on the other victims, we think it affects cognitive abilities as well.”

You make a mental note to ensure Gordon releases the analysis to you.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re badly shaken, but everyone is accounted for thanks to you.”

You weren’t sure what happened to Falcone and didn’t feel ready to ask, but if you had to guess—he likely weaseled his way out of there.

You relax a little into the pillows, “Gordon, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

Gordon smiles faintly, “I thought you were freelance. Untethered, I think, was the word you used last time.”

“Fuck off.” You laugh, “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

*********

Gordon gave you the rundown of what happened while you waited for Bruce. Your app triggered shortly after you entered the shipment office. Batman was following you the whole evening (because of course he was! He’s worse than an overbearing grandmother).

When you didn’t check in, he assumed the worst and followed. Batman found you, rambling and sweating and screaming about an earthquake in the hallway. Batman called Gordon who arrived shortly thereafter with EMTs.

None of the doors keeping the girls were locked. A stronger dose, Gordon explained, usually rendered your body paralyzed. He theorized that Falcone must’ve wanted to see how you’d react first, but when Batman arrived, he fled. You decide not to think about what could’ve happened if Batman didn’t show up.

Gordon leaves the room to take a call. You’re left alone with your thoughts.

You rest your cheek along the stiff, bleach-smelling pillow and stare out the window to Gotham’s chrome brilliance. It’s overcast, painting the skyscrapers gray, the big, fluffy clouds reflect on every giant window. They promise rain. And when Gotham’s skies promise rain—she almost always delivers. You sigh.

Bruce hasn’t been in your life for more than three days and he was your first thought when you were in trouble. It is embarrassing. It’s heart-wrenching. You were on a drug-addled hellscape of your worst nightmare and what did you do? You begged Batman to keep Bruce safe. The seasons change, but your candle to Bruce Wayne hasn’t. He’s ingrained into you. The little white scar from his hallway table. The folded apology letter in the shoebox under your bed next to the faded, sun-washed photograph of you two eating watermelon slices.

The door creaks open.

“Hey, no hoodie this time! I’m honored.” You smile and try to infuse as much teasing and normalcy into your voice as possible.

The treacherous heartrate monitor betrays you again. Your pulse is erratic from simply looking at him. Truthfully, he looks like shit. All bedraggled, and sleep-deprived, and pale. He somehow manages to look more hollowed-out from when you saw him last. You wish whoever kept carving out pieces of Bruce Wayne’s heart out of his chest would just stop. But, sadly, the truth is that Bruce is the one holding that knife.

You kick the covers off your legs, standing when he approaches you, “you shouldn’t—” He says, but he’s too late. Too slow. You throw your arms around him. You tremble, hot and biting tears burn inside your lower lashes, and your hands fist the fabric of his heavy, woolen coat. His cologne is earthy, masculine, and warm.

It takes him a minute to wrap his arms around you. But when he does—oh God—when he does that’s when you shatter. You’re not sure how you have the energy to weep after everything that happened, but somehow, against all odds, you do. You cry messy, snotty tears into his expensive wool collar. He clings to you like he might just fuse your bodies together through sheer willpower alone. It nearly hurts. You gasp, muttering his name over and over again, through the salt and relief that clumps your eyelashes together.

“I was so scared.” You admit, voice small like a child, “I was so scared something happened to you and that I wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

You shrug and pull away to look up into his face. “I can take it.”

Bruce’s hand cradles the side of your face. You lean into it. His hands are cool and surprisingly calloused. His thumb catches an errant tear and brushes it aside. He looks at you like he’s about to give you something. His expression so earnest, so pained, that it momentarily steals the breath from your lungs. Your exhale quivers through your parted lips.

He says, quite simply, quiet plainly, vocal chords rough and strained; “I can’t.”

It feels like a declaration. It feels like a confession. The wretched heartbeat monitor has not stopped relentlessly beeping and displaying your desperate, aching heart. Your fingers crawl toward his jaw. His stubble scratches your palms. His pink tongue skirts across his plush lower lip. There is a question lingering in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. You crane onto your tiptoes, edging closer, and Bruce finally asks the question in his eyes—

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Your eyes close, “yes,” and you nod minutely.

His lips graze yours. You close the barely-there distance between your mouths. He sighs into your mouth. It tastes like inevitability. He presses you snug against the hard, lean muscled strength of him. He is warm, and strong, and safe. You start to pull away, but he chases your mouth with his, humming pleasantly and pleased, you feel the vibration of it from his chest.

His hand on your face slides to the nape of your neck and he holds you, securely, and almost possessively. Your tongue glides against the seam of his lips, and he opens willingly for you. You lick into his mouth with a selfish and needy whimper. This feels right. It feels good.

The door swings open, followed by Gordon’s voice, “They said they’d release—” You wrench your mouth free and hide your face in Bruce’s collar.

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

You burst into laughter, bubbly and bright, traveling all the way up your stomach and through your nose like fizzy champagne. To your immense pleasure and surprise, Bruce doesn’t let you go. His grip relaxes, but he doesn’t release you. You stay pinned to his side. Hip to hip.

You wipe the residual tears from your face, “tell me I’m going home.”

“Under supervision, yes.” Gordon’s perceptive gaze flickers to Bruce. “The side-effects of the drug are unknown. They wanted to keep you here but I – uh – I argued against it.”

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

“Hell yeah!” You beam, “tell me you have the same mattresses. Please.” The sleepovers were rare, but you had fond memories of those squishy, expensive mattresses and throwing pillows at Bruce’s head. After the kiss…maybe you’d stay in Bruce’s room? A tiny light of hope ignites in your chest.  

Gordon’s eyebrow lifts a notch. You ignore him.

“I have a guest room, yes.”

Well, that hope was short-lived. You stamp down on your disappointment and focus on the positives. You’re staying with Bruce. He won’t be a phone call away. He’ll be a few feet away at most. You can make up for lost time. Lord knows you’ve got plenty of it.

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out, but generally, yes. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” He regards you, both professional and concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “The less time I’m in a hospital, the better.” To Bruce you say, “can we stop at my place so I can get some clothes and my laptop?”

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

“I suggest we keep the Falcone investigation private for now, Quicksilver.” Gordon says with a worried pinch to his brow, “we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. I know you’re not really ‘The Press’ anymore, but you’d be doing us a favor.”

“Don’t get your tie twisted, Gordon. I’ve got other projects on my plate.”

Gordon hums, a deep sound low in his chest, and he gives a knowing glance to Bruce before leading you out.

*********

You try not to internally panic at the reality of Bruce standing in your awkwardly living room. His eyes roams over your bookshelves and to the messy, unkept pillows and blankets on your coach.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Your bedroom door softly clicks shut. You peel off the hospital scrubs they gave you. Your shoulder whines with sharp, throbbing pain. In the mirror above the bathroom sink, you prod the mottled bruises that decorate your shoulder and splatter like paint across your collarbone. You don’t remember hitting the door that hard. You change into bulky, comfortable clothes. You shove enough clothes for a few days into a backpack.

According to your discharge paperwork, the doctors advised you should be monitored for at least 72 hours. You exhale harshly through your lips. Three days with Bruce Wayne. What can go wrong? What can go right?  

Maybe he’ll just hand you off to Alfred and call it a day. You chuckle to yourself.

“Okay,” You swing the door open, “I’m ready—h-hey!” You proclaim, frowning, seeing Bruce holding your laptop open in his hands.

He doesn’t even look up, one hand on the keyboard, the other flat beneath it. “Your laptop is grossly outdated.”

“First of all, invasion of privacy. Rude. I should kick you out.” You sidle beside him and peer around his arm, “secondly, how’d you guess my password?”

His lips curve upward into a smirk. Your stomach swoops and awareness prickles across the nape of your neck. You’re relieved there’s no longer a heartrate monitor to blast your embarrassing feelings on monochromatic display.

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

The sound of your laugh unravels something in him. He’s been so careful, so distant, and yet one laugh from you and he’s weak. He wants to wrap you in his arms again and ensure you’re safe. He wants to drag Falcone by the hair to the steps of Gotham Police. He thought he mastered fear. He believed himself immune to it. He is shadow, and vengeance, and righteous fury.

But, at Falcone’s drug den, he was helpless to ease your suffering. His failure plagued him. It is forever buried into the deep reaches of his mind. Every possibility of what could have been flashes through his mind whenever he looks at you. Losing you would be…his stomach sours thinking of it. He avoids your perceptive gaze and carefully snaps the laptop closed.

He says, “you should change your password.”

Your nose scrunches. His heart pangs within the hollowness of his chest. All at once, he is seven years old again, chasing you in the park, and pretending summer would never end. He’s refined the art of missing you – of your necessary absence – and now all those careful, practiced skills are turning to dust.

“Why?”

He tucks your laptop under his arm, “the code is too obvious.” Said code is his birthday. The password implies that you’ve not forgotten him—despite his distance, his lack of friendship. He recalls your glossy, wild eyes begging the Batman to save him. Falcone’s drugs clutched you in a vice grip of madness and you thought of him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” You shrug, but a nervousness enters your eyes and gives you away. “How many people know we’re friends? Like two people, right? The odds of those two people trying to hack my laptop for information are close to zero.”

He sighs. You’ve got that fiery, determined gleam in your eyes. There’s no winning this argument.

On the walk back to the car, you continue, “besides, all my important notes and files are encrypted with a different password. I browse anything online through a VPN. And—” You keep talking throughout the car ride. You fidget in your seat. You chew at your lower lip.

He realizes, albeit slowly, that the excessive rambling isn’t because you want to prove a point. It’s because you’re anxious. It’s likely because of Falcone’s continued freedom. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Falcone can’t reach you here.” He says levelly, “you’ll be safe at Wayne Tower.”

“Huh?”

“You’re…” He clears his throat, glancing sidelong toward you, “acting jumpy.”

“Oh.” You rub both of your hands over your face. You go quiet. You turn your face away, watching the city through the rain-speckled windshield. Bruce immediately wants to kick himself. Shit. He wants to comfort you, reassure you, not cause you to withdraw. He fumbles to find some type reply of that’ll get you talking again.

You reach over to the center dashboard and flick on the radio. An old, classic croons through the speakers. You rest your chin in your palm and continue to stare out the window. His fingers flex against the wheel with an errant, foolish wish to stretch across the space and settle his palm on your bouncing knee. The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the rain hitting the metallic roof, and the droning, sorrowful song in his ears.

*********

Bruce is painfully absent once you enter the tower. He doesn’t even explain why. He walks in with you and then vanishes like an impressive magician. You’re half-tempted to go knocking on walls and look for secret doorways.

Dory shows you to the guest room. She’s sweet and fusses over your comfort and keeps saying how nice it is to have a guest over. Alfred helps you connect to the wi-fi signal. He keeps you company in the room you’ve plugged your laptop into (the old beast can’t hold a charge anymore). You take notes about Arkham, you eat little sandwiches and fresh fruit, and force yourself into some semblance of normalcy. Alfred is a decent conversationalist, but you worry that he’s here to keep you occupied so you won’t go looking for Bruce. You push the thought away.

It's not like Bruce is avoiding you, right? He’s just busy doing weird billionaire reclusive stuff. You wrinkle your nose. What could Bruce be doing? Oh, God. Maybe Alfred is keeping you away, maybe Bruce has some freaky, embarrassing hobby. Like roadkill taxidermy and then he uses the taxidermy animals to produce original puppet shows.

Alfred says, “found something interesting, have you?”

You realize you’re smiling from the thought of Puppet-Show Bruce. You shake your head.

“I’m piecing together the etymology of the word Arkham to build my timeline for the hospital and the Arkham family’s influence. I want to see if any of it connects to the current medical board or the staff.” Your fingers continue to click-clack across your keyboard.

“It’s interesting. Usually, surnames will connect back to a specific occupation, or piece of land which you can cross-reference, but for Arkham there’s nothing.” You divulge these findings to a patient and attentive Alfred.

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

“You’re looking at me funny.” You squint at him.

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

You press your lips together. A pleased, appreciative warmth prickles along your skin.

In the evening, Bruce doesn’t show up for dinner. And you start to wonder if you hallucinated the kiss at the hospital. But there’s no way, right? The drugs were flushed out of your system. You were of sound mind and body. Did he regret it? That is the only plausible and logical reason in your mind for his avoidance. He kissed you, regretted it, and now probably regretted having you in his house for the next three days.

You roll onto your side in the big, comfy bed. You can’t even enjoy it. Your stupid stomach is tied into knots thinking about Bruce-fucking-Wayne. You stare at the dark ceiling. OK. You can’t sleep. Fine. His home is temporarily your home. What did you do when you couldn’t sleep?

The chilly air bites your legs when you kick off the heavy, puffy covers. When the thoughts go loud, you go quiet, and focus your mind on something else. Bruce is dodging you, but at least he gave you something to do. Might as well be useful if you’re not going to be unconscious.

You’ve set up in the main parlor/sitting room/whatever-the-hell this room is with its heavy, iron lantern chandeliers and sleek, dark mahogany and bookshelf nooks. Your computer hums loudly to life on the desk and blue light spills across the woven, red tapestry rug. Behind you, the tall, cathedral-like window is sluiced with rainwater and pockets of light from Gotham below twinkle like an inverted night sky. Your files on Arkham flood the screen.

Your shoulders hunch forward, “okay, Dr. Mercer.” You mutter to yourself, “let’s see you’ve been up to.”

*********

He doesn’t know how to approach you as Bruce. He approaches you as the Bat. His cape and cowl do more than protect his identity from criminals. His mask is a shield. If he’s Batman—and not Bruce—he can do so much more. He can be more than just a man.

He watches you from the shadows. You’re hunched over your laptop, bloodshot eyes, fingers drumming on the hardwood, your face hardened and taught with concentration. You worked yourself to the bone, risked your life to save the missing girls. Not because anyone hired you to. Not because of the promise of fame or recognition Not out of ambition to try and get your old job at the Gazette back. But because you noticed a pattern. And you actually care. You brought it to Gordon, who gave what support he could within the confines of the justice system, but otherwise you worked alone. And despite the odds stacked against you, you succeeded.

If not for the tracker in your phone, he doesn’t know if he would’ve found you. Well, that’s only partially true. With the tracker, Bruce doesn’t know if he’d find you in time. But he knows – deep in whatever remains of his heart - if you were missing, he’d tear Gotham bolt-from-bolt to find you. He gingerly steps from the shadows, his cape dragging softly on the floor, and his boot intentionally hit a creaky floorboard.

You look up, eyes wide, and you don’t scream. Your throat bobs in a difficult swallow.

He says, “you weren’t at your apartment.”

“Instead of breaking and entering into my friend’s house—” Your brow pinches together, “you could have called.”

He is prepared for this conversation. The mask hides the slight lift of his brow. He steps behind you and peers over your shoulder to the computer screen. Your notes on Arkham are impressive. He doesn’t know how the ancient thing manages to hold enough memory to store it all.

“You asked me to check on him.”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t an earthquake.” You twist, turning your face toward him. A faint smell of mint toothpaste catches him off guard. The knowledge that you’ve settled into the tower, that you’ve done ordinary things like brushed your teeth and shared tea with Alfred, should scare him. But it doesn’t.

“Besides, I didn’t expect you to actually follow-through.”

He frowns. Has he already lost your trust in him?

“Why not?”

You turn back to your screen, shrugging mildly. “I saw you die.”

His breath hitches. How much pain did you endure from the moment the drug was injected? What other horrors did you see? And yet, here you are, continuing to research Arkham because he asked you to. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Anger rolls through his gut, hot and metallic in the back of his throat.

“You shouldn’t have gone near Falcone.” He grumbles, “I told you—”

You interrupt him. “And I told you I didn’t work for you.”

Yeah, that plan backfired magnificently. He assumed when he gave you the Arkham assignment, you’d step away from the Falcone case. He should’ve known better. Guilt, and anger, and self-loathing churn and mix like a dangerous, erratic cocktail. When you interrupted him, you turned around, and now he’s pinned like a butterfly by your gaze. Your nostrils flare gently as you stare up at him. Your eyes roam. He feels the heat of your eyes as they trail the square of jaw, the cleft of his chin, the shadowed expanse around his eyes.

“For the record, though…” You say softly, “I am glad you’re ok.”

His eyes drop to the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. The T-shirt you’re wearing is well-loved, buttery soft from frequent washes, and a few holes peeking around neck hole hem. His frown deepens. His glove skims the edge of your collar. Your pulse leaps inside your jaw, but you don’t flinch or step away.

He hooks his index finger into the fabric and gently tugs it aside. A scatter of dark bruises splotch over your collarbone and disappear into your shoulder. Everything in him goes tight like a bowstring ready to fire. His heart is thunderously loud in his ears. His eyes cannot move away from the bruise even as he notices your breathing pattern change.

“Falcone?” He says asks, lowly, dangerously.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. “A door, actually.” You don’t pull his hand away like he expects. Your fingers glide over his glove and loosely twine over his. Your hand is much smaller than his. It’s a strange detail to notice in this moment, but it’s the only thing that’s tethering him to sanity.

“I’m fine. I promise.” Your thumb rubs across his knuckles. He cannot feel it. And for once, he’s cursing his layered and protective armor. He cautiously turns his wrist and enfolds your fingers between his. You bite your lip and look away…almost shy. This would be the perfect time to kiss you. The rain gently is pattering against the window. There are no sirens or Bat signals to pull him away. He tilts forward, preparing to drop his mouth to yours…

“I don’t think Falcone is at the top of this pyramid.” You announce abruptly. He blinks.

He responds, “what do you mean?”

You untwine your fingers from his and walk around the desk and toward the bookshelf and the window. You pace back and forth in front of it like a race car on a plastic track. Around and around. Several steps, then pivot, walk the same steps in the other direction.

“Falcone is a sleazeball and an opportunist. I know he deals in uppers. Drugs like ecstasy, drops, cocaine…” You list off, clearly finding comfort in talking your problems aloud, “they’re expensive and addictive. But the drug they gave me and the other girls…that wasn’t a party drug.”

He knows. He has a sample of your blood being tested in the Batcave.

“What’s your theory?” He tracks your pacing form with his dark, smudged eyes.

“I’m thinking about the execution of the drug and its effects. It requires a needle. It induces a panic-like state.” You shake your head in uncomfortable remembrance, “it increases body temperature and effects cognitive functions. Could it be used in a controlled environment for torture? Probably. But that doesn’t feel financially ludicrous enough to tempt someone like Falcone.”

“You think it’s a prototype.”

“Exactly!” You snap your fingers and glow from within. His eyelashes flutter at the brilliance of your smile. “See? This is why we work well together.”

He can see the threads in the air that connect one thought to the next.

“Falcone is working with someone else.” It’s not a completely debased assumption to make. Falcone has plenty of business connections.

You offer him a distracted nod. “That’s my theory.”

A notch forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drops to the carpet, your thumb is pressing into the tempting lush shape of your lower lip. His heart careens into his ribcage in a desperate, love-struck attempt to break free. He can’t be with you as Bruce. Bruce has a secret identity, a secret life. But Batman is freedom. He’s the choice to wake up and try to make a difference. He’s fearless and fear inspiring. There’s only so few hours in the night and he can’t afford to lose them.

************

You explain, “it could be Penguin. It could be someone else. We’ll know more when Gordon has my blood report.”

It feels strangely liberating to talk this through with Batman. You can’t talk about it with Bruce—though you know he’s trustworthy, you’re not sure he’d support the…extremes…you take to uncover the truth. And you don’t want to worry him either.  Hell, there used to be a time when you never kept secrets from him. Where did all the time go.

You sigh, shoulders slumping, and cover your hands over your face. If only Bruce would stop avoiding you, then you’d talk to him! God. You hope he doesn’t wake up and find you having a midnight fireside chat with Gotham’s vigilante. That would be awkward. You smile behind your palms. It would be awkward first, then funny.

Batman says your name delicately as if he might break it on his tongue if he’s not careful. The warm, supple heat of his gloves wraps around your wrists and gently pulls your hands away from your face. You are unsurprised to see the grim, flat line of his mouth, to see the haunted echo behind his cerulean eyes.

“It wasn’t me who saved those girls.” He says, “it was you.”

You find the carpet infinitely interesting. Wow. What is that pattern? Eastern-European? Late 19th Century? Is it Dracula Chic? The detail work is fantastic. The color is so rich and textured—

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “You made a difference.”

You must’ve fallen asleep while working on the Arkham article. There is no way this is real. There’s no way Vengeance is complimenting you. It’s surreal. It’s impossible. His gaze drops to your mouth. His thumb lightly presses into your lower lip. Yes, this is definitely a dream. Your heart is pounding harder than the rainfall against the window.

Batman leans toward you, close enough to feel the feather-whisper of his breath on your lips. His heavily lidded eyes drag from your mouth to your eyes. A low electric pulse strums through your veins. Your finger scramble for purchase on his arm guards and squeeze in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. It could be real, it could be a dream, or it could be the side-effects of the drug.

“Is this real?” You mumble. “Because it seems like you—like you might kiss me.”

Batman’s gravelly voice responds, “I’d like to.”

You press your teeth into your lower lip. Bruce kissed you, but a kiss isn’t always pretense to a relationship. A kiss isn’t a promise to monogamy. Besides, you have your suspicions that Bruce is regretting the kiss anyway. There’s no harm in kissing Batman. You’re not betraying anyone. You touch his stubbled jaw with your fingertips and instinct pulls your eyes closed.

“Yes, you may.”

He sighs unevenly and then, his mouth is pressed into yours with surprising, desperate intensity. You clutch his face, opening your mouth beneath his, and moan softly at the first lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Batman kisses you like he’ll die if he stops, like this kiss is all that stands between Gotham’s salvation, like he’s been waiting to kiss you for years. His tongue drinks in every soft, keening sound that he pulls from your throat. Your spine bumps into the window and you loop your arms around his neck. There is a feeling of complete, utter safety that envelopes you. And you melt into him.

His hands briefly move away from your face, but when they return—they are cool and calloused and firm. He cups your jaw, tilting your head back for him, and pressing the hard length of his body into yours.

He rasps, “I want to touch you.” His lips find the hollow spot of skin below your ear, “can I?” He suckles your skin, kissing his way down the side of your neck, explicitly careful of the bruises that dip below your collarbone.

“Yes, yes please.” Who knew Batboy could turn you into someone who whines?

His fingers hook around your sleep shorts and tug and—you hear and feel the fabric rip. You shiver in his arms, unafraid, and filled with nervous trepidation. Batman covers your mouth with his. You wish you could touch more skin beyond the scrape of jawline and his long, calloused fingers. His knuckles brush against the front of your clit and Batman hisses through his teeth.

Your hips eagerly shift, your blood ignited with desire, your head swimming with dizzying affection. He repeats in light, teasing strokes, back and forth, along your clit. Your finger slide for desperate purchase along the sleek, dark material of his armor. His other hand enfolds your wrists before pinning them together and lifting them over your head. Your knuckles rap lightly against the cool window.

“Ohhh,” You smile with understanding. His mouth latches onto your jaw and a soft hiss is pulled from your lips when his stubble scratches your sensitive skin. “You can touch, but I can’t?”

“Something like that.” He hums. His fingertip swirls over your swollen clit and it earns him another pitched moan from the back of your throat. His index finger glides between your folds and thank God he’s kissing you—thank God—because the sharp, ragged cry that you release would’ve woken the whole tower. He swallows your moans, relishing them. He grunts with pleasure when his finger plunges into you, covered in your arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He pumps his finger in and out of you, the sound of it slick and debauched, stoking the fire from deep within your abdomen.

“Be good and keep your hands up there.” He releases your wrists.

Out of sheer curiosity about what he’ll do next—you decide to listen. He kisses you senseless, kisses you breathless, and you’re certain it must be a distraction technique because there’s another ripping fabric sound from below your waist. Farewell, sleep shorts. You don’t mourn their loss for long because Batman plunges another finger into your wet, aching cunt. His thumb presses onto your clit and there’s something…clumsy…about the way he touches you. Unpracticed. Oddly, it’s a turn on. Batboy might wear a fancy belt, but it doesn’t look like he’s got many notches on it.

“Like that.” You breathe, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, “yes, yes, yes—" His thumb presses firmer, the concentric motion growing frantic, and your body tenses. You forget his instruction to keep your hands to yourself. You grab his face, hold him close, your lips smear messily along his cleft chin and pouty lips. You release a strangled moan when his fingers curl inside you.

“Stay quiet.” He warns with some difficulty. His eyes burn into your warm face. As if you’ve forgotten that you’re in Bruce Wayne’s study getting finger fucked by Batman. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

You choke out, “y-yeah, I k-know.” You squeeze your eyes shut, head lolling backward, his mouth on your throat. The familiar tightening and tensing of your lower abdomen heralds the final peak of your desire.

“I’m gonna—” Your voice pitches higher, “cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Batman gives a sweet little drawl of, “please,” at the hollow of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shatter around his fingers, gush over his knuckles, your fingertips like claws on his biceps. Your mouth hinges open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His thumb continues to stroke your over-sensitive clit. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds he’s plucking from you like a trained violinist. Your body spasms, twitching, the come down of your orgasm only promising another quick release if Batman keeps toying with you.

“I want to feel you,” says Batman into the shell of your ear, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fucking hell.” You blink, dazed, and swallow roughly. “Right now?”

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “Yes.”

“O-okay.” You nod and are surprised your brain and vocal box can string together a single sentence. Batman turns you to face the window.  Gotham twinkles and shines, gray and bright, as rain travels like independent rivers the windowpane. You flatten your palms against the glass and flinch in surprise at the first touch of his cock near your sensitive folds. He slides his cock back and forth between your folds, not entering you, just slickening his cock with your earlier release. Your eyes roll backward into your skull. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Just through the sense of touch alone, you can surmise the girth and length of him. You can already imagine how he might fill you.

You arch on your tiptoes, rocking your hips into his, and whine lowly. His fingers come to settle on your waist.

He says, “stay very still for me.”

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.” You tease with a lopsided smile.

The rumbling that comes from behind you sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. But, before you can turn back and see if Batman is smiling—the tip of his cock thrusts into your cunt. The world goes white.

“Oh, fuck me!” You gasp brokenly. Batman inches himself deeper, and deeper, holding your hips firm between his strong, calloused hands. He stretches you wonderfully, fills you, and your walls squeeze around him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to garner more closeness. He bottoms out. Your stomach muscles clench. Your frantic breath fogs the glass. The seconds tick by in agonizing slowness. Your body quakes. Your fingers curl with a quiet squeak on the glass. He said stay still but didn’t give a time limit. You wrestle against the instinct to start grinding your hips, desperate for friction, desperate to satisfy the craving that’s burning inside of you.  

You look over your shoulder and Batman’s jaw is dropped open in pure, lustful awe.

You say, “please.”

His striking, blue eyes lift from your joined bodies and his upper lip glistens with sweat. He clears his throat.

“You feel…” He grunts and bows his head, “will you touch yourself for me?”

You nod. Your hand tucks between your legs and finds your swollen, slick clit. Your fingertips brush against the hard, impressive length of him buried deep inside you. Batman groans through clenched teeth. With every stroke of your fingers, your inner walls squeeze his immobile cock, and you try—you really, really do—to not move your hips and start thrusting.

You manage it for like thirty seconds. It’s not even intentional. You’re rubbing your clit, panting with soft little ‘ah ah ah’s. Next thing you know, you’re dragging your hips away, and letting out a deep, unrestrained moan at the feeling of his cock sliding along your walls.

Batman suddenly crowds you, pushing you up against the window, and your breasts squish into the cold glass. Your nipples pebble beneath your thin, old t-shirt.

“I—” You begin to explain yourself, or apologize, but the words rapidly dissolve on your tongue as Batman thrusts into you. You place your both palms on the glass to steady yourself again. At this angle, the head of his cock keeps hitting a deep, toe-curling spot inside you. A collection of stars dance and twirl in front of your vision like fairy dust.

You’ve forgotten the earlier instructions to stay quiet. Your moans punctuate each thrust and Batman doesn’t try to muffle you. At this rate—you’ll take the awkwardness of Bruce walking in if it means Batman doesn’t stop.

Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch down at Gotham as Batman – the masked vigilante, Vengeance, your partner – fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. He grunts from deep within his chest. Your walls squeeze. Your thighs shake. The side of your face presses into the glass, too tired to hold your head upright, and your cheek and flecks of saliva smudges the pristine surface. Everything pulses with white-hot heat and frenzied intensity.

You blindly reach behind you and grab hold Batman’s wrist. His hand twists beneath yours, and for a wild, panicked second, you’re worried you’ve crossed a line, you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He traps your hand under his and clutches your fingers, twining them together like a Celtic knot, squeezing the delicate bones in tandem with his eager thrusts.

“Oh, oh fuck.” You announce emphatically. Every atom, every nerve, every muscle, is wound up tight inside you like a spring-loaded weapon. Your inner legs are slick with arousal and sweat pools at the dip of your spine. The windowpane is blotched with evidence of your clawing fingertips and haggard breath. All the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone. Your walls grip around his cock. He says your name with feverous reverence, with glimmering absolution, with greedy satisfaction.

Praise drips like rainwater from his mouth, “you’re so good for me.”

In the haze beneath the din of your blissed-out cry, Batman quietly says, “it’s you - you’re - I—“ and whatever else he would’ve said is swiftly pulled into the undercurrent of his bitten-off moan. He buries himself to the hilt, pressing you flat against the window, and shudders as his cock swells and pulses inside you. His arms encircle your waist, your spine rests snug—if uncomfortable—into the hard planes of his armor.

You droop, boneless and sweating, and listen to the rapid, deep, and booming beat of your heart. Batman’s haggard breath fills your eardrums alongside the pouring rain. Your eyes gently open. You are greeted by dark, warm mahogany and weathered book spines, and a woven, expensive rug. Your laptop purrs on the desk behind you.

The room looks the same. Yet, your world has changed. Batman doesn’t move. In the muddled, rain-streaked reflection of your visages, you see Batman tilt forward and rest his forehead in the middle of your back between your shoulder blades. His warm breath slips through the fibers of your t-shirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps.

You hope he doesn’t let go (you’re gonna collapse onto the floor if he does). Your eyes slip closed again, because—what’s the point in keeping them open? You could sleep here for a few minutes. Then you’ll crawl your way to the guest room later after Batboy leaves. You loosen your grip on his fingers and sigh languidly.

If your eyes had been open, you would’ve seen the longing that ensnares his expression.

*********

He wishes he could stay here forever in the warmth of you. He’s carried the memories of you like a candle in the dark. He never imagined, never thought, that he would experience this with you. You fit him so perfectly—it’s maddening. It’s an impossible dream. He catches his reflection in the glass. He can’t forget who he is. He can’t forget his family’s legacy. He’s Vengeance. Allowing himself closer to you would only result in heartbreak. And Bruce made a promise a long time ago to protect you from any pain. This can’t happen again.

He waits until his cock softens inside of you before pulling out. You mumble something completely intelligible. His lips quirk in fondness. You are normally so eloquent—you talk fast, waving your hands in dramatic displays, and piece together missing puzzle pieces at hundred miles per hour. A sense of pride smolders in his gut. He can make you speechless. He pours water onto the ember. This won’t happen again.

He adjusts himself and collects you easily in his arms, one arm beneath the bend of your knees, the other scoops around your back.

“I can walk.” You grumble, your sweaty head falling against his shoulder, “put me down.” He doesn’t bother listening. He walks silently through the dark halls of his home. Your breathing slows and your hand slides off your stomach, dangling to the side.

He crosses the threshold into your room and lays you carefully onto the disheveled bed sheets. His fingers trail across your jaw. He selfishly drinks in the sight of you in the muted, orange glow of the bedside lamp. You are achingly lovely, and clever, and stupidly determined. Your golden lion heart will be his ruin. Your eyelashes flutter in a dream. He hopes it’s a good, happy dream. He hopes you aren’t plagued by nightmares like he is.

He draws the covers up to your chin. The back of his knuckles caress your cheek in a lingering and lonely farewell.

*********

Someone knocking on your door is what wakes you. Not your phone alarm. Not the muted, cloud-struck sunlight bleeding through the big windows. You grumble and make a noise that sounds like “come in.”

You blink in confusion at Bruce standing in the doorway. You were expecting Alfred or Dory. His dark hair lays flat against his scalp and little droplets drip from his earlobes onto his gray t-shirt. Fondly, he reminds you of a drowned rat. You smile.

“Hi.”

Bruce takes that as an invitation to walk in. Your shirt reaches an inch or so above your knee, but when sitting, it’s basically useless to cover below your waist. You adjust the bedsheets to ensure he can’t see your nakedness. You have no clue what Batman did with your shorts and underwear. Did he keep them? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, you think, for a guy who dresses up like a bat to fight crime.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

He fidgets with a bulky wash towel in his hands. He meets your gaze, then avoids it, strangely skittish for the man who shoved his tongue in your mouth in a public hospital room. You open your mouth to comment on it—but he speaks before you can.

“Can I see your shoulder?” says Bruce. Your mouth snaps shut with a comical clack of your teeth. How did he know about that? Then you remember Dory. On your first night, she—due to doctor instruction—waited outside the bathroom when you showered. Her thin, wrinkled mouth pursed when she saw your bruises, but she didn’t say anything. She must’ve reported back to Bruce. You couldn’t be upset with her, though. You liked her too much.

You grin, your tone playful, “what? You want me to take my top off?”

Bruce smirks and looks away from you, sighing indulgently. Your heart melts.

You poke his thigh, “close your eyes.” You immediately register the muscled tenseness of his leg but brush it off. He’s a billionaire hermit who doesn’t skip leg day. Who would’ve guessed.  

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

He bites his lower lip, briefly, before shutting his eyes. You wince when you pull your old shirt over your head, but you manage without difficulty. You take the sheets pooled around your waist and tuck them under your armpits. In full light, in full view, the bruises follow the curve of your shoulder and into your collarbone. You take a minute to wonder if Falcone’s prototype drug affects blood thinness. You file the thought away for when you’ve got your results in hand.

“Okay.”

Bruce’s breath snags in his mouth. His nostrils flare. Under his scrutiny, his desperate gaze, your skin throbs dully with pain. You swallow roughly as Bruce’s fingers come close to your skin, but don’t touch you. He traces the mottled landscape with his eyes. His sooty eyelashes flutter, blinking away some errant thought, and he peers at you through his wet hair.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

You say, “I only notice it only if I’m moving that arm.”

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

Bruce lifts the washcloth from his lap, “lucky for you, I brought some ice with me.” His hand hovers over the worst bruise, the part of your body that took the full, animalistic force of the door. He looks at you in silent askance. You don’t even need to think about it. You trust him. You bite your lower lip and nod.

He gently, oh-so-delicately, applies the cold compress to your injury and you inhale sharply. His gaze snaps away from your shoulder to your face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s cold.” You press your lips together.

He smiles faintly, ducking his head, and hiding the full sight of his smile from you.

“That’s the point, Silver.” He cradles your elbow in his other hand and methodically places the cold compress on the injury for a few minutes before moving to another section of your skin. His eyes remain focused on his task, only looking at you when you make a sound of discomfort. A prickle of goosebumps flush across your skin.

When the compress comes to your collarbone above your breasts, you lift your eyes to the ceiling, and the cold sensation radiates outward. You shouldn’t feel warm while Bruce is tending to your injuries. Yet, your body – treacherous as it is – hums with warmth and slow, deep throbs of desire.

Even after your…adventure…with Batman last night. It can’t erase how you feel about Bruce. He’s etched into you like the lines on your palms. Your heart has his fingerprints all over of it.  

You try to focus on other thoughts, like Falcone, or the Arkham project, but holding onto your thoughts is impossible. It’s like holding tendrils of condensation that puff in front of your face in cold mornings. It all circles back to him. His gentle hands. The smell of his shampoo. The water dripping into his eyes. The length of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. His steady inhale-exhale.

Bruce asks quietly, “will you tell me how it happened?”

Your brow wrinkles, and something akin to grief crawls into your throat, “it’s not a happy story, Bruce.”

His hand, chilly and familiar, caresses your throat. His thumb grazes across your pulse. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Okay…” you take a deep breath, “it all started when I noticed a pattern of girls from the same age group going missing…”

Bruce listens to all of it. Your dead-ends at other bars and clubs. The connections you made about the girl’s being runaways or estranged from their families. The terrifying close calls with drug dealers, who either wanted to rob you or kill you, or the other criminals—who usually wanted to do worse. The little help you got from Gordon. Your eventual success in getting Falcone’s attention. The shipyard. The drugs. The hallucinations you saw, what you felt, all the terror and panic, and the worry.  

You omit the fact that Batman was there. And has been there since the beginning of your days as a freelance, reckless journalist.

You hate lying to Bruce, but the story is more believable if you say Gordon was following you and just called in the EMTs. That’s easier to explain that then ‘yeah, I work with Batman, and he installed a custom app in my phone to protect me.’

At the end of the story, he says,  “the drugs triggered what happened when we were kids.” And his words floor you. You haven’t thought about that in years. A lightbulb switches on inside your mind, bright and humming, and you gasp with delight and surprise. It wasn’t just a random hallucination. It was triggered by memory, by fear.

“Bruce! You’re a genius!” You grab your tossed aside shirt and awkwardly pull it over your head. If Bruce unintentionally sees a bit of skin, well, it won’t kill him.  

“I gotta call Gordon.” You grab Bruce’s face between your hands and plant a kiss square on his forehead. “Thank you!”

You clamber off the bed, feet nearly slipping on the hardwood, as you snatch your phone from its charging spot near the door.

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought it was over with Falcone.”

You shrug, then wince. “It’s not over for me until he’s behind bars.”

He slides from the bed, approaching you, and he pins you with his gaze. “But you’re not investigating him anymore, right?”

“I can’t leave this loose end untied.” You clutch your phone tightly between your hands. “I don’t…I don’t expect you…to understand. It’s…”

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

“It burns me up inside, Bruce.” You say fervently, “I can’t leave a job unfinished. Yes, the girls are safe. Yes, I’m safe. But Falcone and his associates remain at large. The drugs’ location and his supplier are unknown. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

You pause, and consider another angle, “I promise I’ll still have time for the Arkham article.”

He holds the side of your face, his expression pained, “you think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I don’t…” You trail off, searching his eyes, and your mouth goes dry. When did Bruce start looking at you like you were the first sight of land after days lost at sea?

“Let Gordon and the PD handle Falcone.” He whispers.

“But this is important!” You argue, clutching the front of Bruce’s soft shirt, “Gordon needs to know what the drug actually triggered.”

“Fine.” His gaze hardens but raw concern is etched across his face, “you’re going to get hurt if you keep chasing Falcone.”

You smile to yourself. “Another friend of mine said the same thing.”

“I meant what I said in the hospital, Silver.” His thumb crests over the delicate space below your eye. “I care about you. I – I don’t know what I’d do if…if….”

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you should know the feeling is mutual.” Your lip quivers. “But lucky for me, you’re a vitamin D deficient shut-in who is best friends with a sixty-year-old man.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

You laugh softly and it breaks some of the tension in Bruce’s shoulders.

“I know it looks easy from the outside. I could get a different job. I could work the Arkham article for ten years and drain the Wayne bank account dry.” You smirk, then control your expression into one of seriousness. If Bruce wants any semblance of a relationship with you, then he needs to know this. This is your non-negotiable standpoint.

You say slowly, “but…for me…this is it. This is who I am.”

“A journalist with a death wish?” There is the barest hint of dry humor in his voice.

“A journalist who believes Gotham can change. All the crime and corruption doesn’t have to be the status quo.”

Bruce sighs softly and you know you have him. He can’t argue against your valiant, golden hope for a better Gotham. A safer Gotham. You believe in this truth and nothing, not even the man who holds your heart, can shake you from that conviction.

You lean forward and nuzzle your nose along his. “Be thankful I’m not dressing up and fighting crime.”

“There’s still time.” He murmurs good-naturedly.

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Maybe next year.”

Your lips ghost over his, “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” you mutter.

“Is it?” He guides your face to tilt to the side.

“Mhm.”

Bruce kisses you slowly. There is a lazy Sunday afternoon, bathed in golden light, hidden somewhere inside the kiss he gives you. You’re not sure if that afternoon is the near future or the very distant. But you want to discover it. You want to hold it tenderly in your hands, the same way you are holding Bruce’s jaw, and nurture it until it blossoms into a thousand, bright orange butterflies that carry hope with each flutter of their wings.

When you pull your mouth away from his, he asks a simple, modest request, “stay.”

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

*************************

((tag list:  @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid ))

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #battison x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #batman x fem!reader #battison x you #dc fic #the batman fanfic #fic: from above gotham glows

[acapelladitty]

Scarecrow & Doc Ock: Glow (fic)

(the art above is by the amazing @hermannco who is my partner in crime for this cheeky little self-indulgent endeavour)

Unexpected visitors were an unfortunate regularity in the life of any career criminal but, as Crane observed the man who stood merely a few feet from his own position, he had to admit that this visitor was decidedly more interesting than most.

Doctor Otto Octavius, alias, Doc Ock.

A man who had not been sighted in Gotham since before the new millennium.

A man who had he once shared a university campus with.

A man who had four extra limbs that one might consider slightly unnatural.

But as his eyes roved over the metal arms which were floating casually behind Octavius’ back, their calculated movements clearly collecting data for their AI based on video observation, Crane could admire the sheer technical prowess which went into creating such things.

“I was not too surprised to hear of your exploits, Doctor Crane.” His goggles pushed back into his hairline to expose a handsome face, Octavius tilted his head as he took another small draw of his cigar, “I have distinct memories of a young man barely scraping by his ethics class due to his controversial opinions. Or do you prefer to be known as Scarecrow these days?” His words trailed off into a thoughtful hum

“Doctor Crane is sufficient, but I must confess that I cannot share the same sentiments for you, Doctor Octavius.”

Matching the casual tone of the conversation, Crane’s words were laced with ice as he responded. Within his pocket was a small vial of toxin but, should this encounter take a turn, he felt woefully unprepared for a fight.

So, he settled on diplomacy as he continued.

“I followed your accident and subsequent rebirth into the guise of Doctor Octopus with some interest. It is not everyday that a man develops limbs which possess their own consciousness, and I say that as a man who spends his days working alongside human-crocodile hybrids and men who depends on sub-zero temperatures to survive.”

“How strange the world we live in.”

Speaking freely as though catching up with an old friend over coffee, Octavius focused his attention on the high collar of his coat as he smoothed it out against his neck, his fingers brushing against the useless chip still implanted into his skin as he spoke again.

“I am here because we both have a problem with pest control, and I would appreciate some assistance.”

A low, cold laugh broke free of Crane’s throat before he could prevent it.

“Your pest is a mere child,” he offered dismissively, “and I think you will find that my pest is being very well managed at the moment by an onslaught from the clown, or perhaps you haven’t been following the Gotham news?”

The scent of smoke wafting from Octavius was subtle in the air but it was enough to move Crane’s hands to his inner pocket as he pulled free a pack of cigarettes. Plucking one from the pack, he held it still between his teeth as he dropped the pack back in his pocket. His hands lowered to pat at the outer pockets of his lab coat but a frown of irritation was quick to marr his forehead as they came up empty.

A huff of annoyance, slightly muffled by the cigarette clenched between his teeth, escaped him.

“Allow me.”

Stepping forward with clear purpose, Octavius crossed the short space between them as he slipped into Crane’s personal space. One of his actuators dipped within the side pocket of his leather trench coat with obvious dexterity and pulled free a small box of matches, dropping them into his outstretched palm.

Crane, to his credit, did not flinch as he was openly challenged by the other scientist.

To flinch or take a step back would show weakness and he would not allow it.

While his impressive height usually gave him some advantage of intimidation, the sheer physicality which Octavius exuded, his wide body pairing with the obvious threat of his impressive metal arms, made it quite clear who would win in a physical bout.

Luckily, that was something Crane had no interest in and his skills in avoiding unnecessary combat were tuned like a fine guitar after years of experience.

Opening the small box of matches, Octavius was quick to strike the match and allow the bloom of fire to briefly add some illumination to his face; showcasing the focus in his eyes and the slight smirk which graced his lips. The match remained in his fingers for only a second before being plucked free by the metal arm once again as it was held in the space between them.

Steeling his spine, Crane allowed a sour smile to tug at the corners of his lips.

“My thanks.”

Crane was careful as he dipped his head, ensuring that the tip of his cigarette was lain against the match with enough pressure to ignite. Their faces now mere inches away, Crane focused his attention on Octavius’ cigar, glowing away as it lay pinned leisurely between his white teeth, and Crane felt the sudden itch of unwanted observation as the deep, brown eyes refused to leave his own

Only when the glow of the tip of his cigarette was certain did he pull back and inhale softly.

Holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment, he exhaled slowly and watched as the plume of cigarette smoke dissipated quickly in the dim lighting of the room.

“What do you want from me?”

“Your value as a distraction.”

“I have no interest in playing with the child you have the shame to call your enemy. I am nearing a breakthrough in my own work.”

“Help me,” voice lowering a notch, Octavius spoke with a honeyed tone, “and I will open up fresh networks of contact with my associates and their impressive resources.”

“You want me as a distraction, but know this Octavius, if you pit me against that child then I will kill him. Morality still beats at your heart while mine has long since ceased and I do not temper my toxin for the young. He possesses no immunities to my chemicals and he will die experiencing his greatest fears and screaming for all New York to see.”

For the first time since he had entered into this little exchange, something akin to uncertainty shone within Octavius’ eyes as he listened to Crane’s words.

“Are you surprised?” Picking up on the change, Crane honed in on the weakness like a shark.

“No.”

“Then why are you hesitating to accept?” Feeling bolstered, Crane took a long draw of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and stubbing it out with the heel of his shoe, “May I indulge myself in some home truths?”

Without giving Octavius time to respond, Crane ploughed on.

“Your contacts within Gotham are limited and so you seek me out to assist you, not realising that the man you knew briefly in college is long-since dead and the creature that inhabits his body has long since lost any petty humanity which would hold him back from his goals.”

His fingers closed around the vial of toxin in his pocket, preparing for the possible outcome of his next words.

“You left this city to experience success; a fully funded project to save this planet from itself and a beautiful wife making you content with your life. Both of which were then lost to you to, leaving you trapped in a body which is barely your own.” A grin of malice stretched his lips. “The sheer amount of fear which must now guide your life is intoxicating to me, tell me, what do you fear more; the knowledge that you are responsible for your fate in this life or the fear that one day you will lose yourself fully to the AI and becomes the monster that you already suspect you are?”

As his words continued, a mottled flush of rage appeared on Octavius’ face and his metal arms bristled in position, twitching angrily as they prepared to attack. Through gritted teeth, fury flashed in Octavius’ eyes as he spoke.

“I’ll kill you.”

Having anticipated such a move, Crane pulled free the vial of toxin and ensured that it was clear in the low lighting.

“Move against me and we will find out, first-hand, which of those fears is truly the one which knocks at your soul. I am not the solution to your current problem. You may come back to me when you need something greater than a glorified babysitter.”

A crack of bone came from one of Octavius’ gloved hands as he tightened them into a fist.

“You will one day regret this, Crane.”

“Perhaps I will. We shall see about that.”

Knowing when a cause was lost, an aggravated snarl escaped Octavius as he turned on his heel and made a swift exit from the failed exchange. As a final insult he dropped the cigar which he had been holding within his fingers to the floor, the embers glowing subtly against the dark ground as the heavy footsteps of their owner grew fainter with every moment.

In the sudden quiet of his lair, Crane exhaled deeply as adrenaline continued to pump through his veins. Dropping the vial back into his pocket for safe keeping, his thoughts were piecemeal but the one which kept springing to the forefront of his mind involved his assessments of the handsome Doctor Octavius and his greatest fears.

Maybe he would agree to assist the scientist, if only to confirm his suspicions. It would break the monotony of the usual costumed rogues he subjected to his whims and provide some interesting data on how, or if, his compounds influenced artificial intelligences.

Anything for his beloved toxin.

#otto octavius #doc ock #Jonathan crane #scarecrow #gotham rogues #spiderman

[nightlychaotic]

Silver Strings

Thanks to @eggadoodle for helping me brainstorm and scheme for this fic!!!!

CW: Mind Control

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air felt thick as he rounded the corner finding himself in one of the nicer alleys in Gotham. The dim light almost hid the figure moving quickly and confidently as they balanced on the ledge above.

“Marinette!”

She froze, turning back to look at him, angelic looking as the light seemed to form a halo around her.

“Hello, Dick.”

“What happened to you?”

She tilted her head to the side slowly as he asked that.

“They took me. Tied me down. Experimented on me. Pulled apart and spun together again,” she said softly, bringing her hands together before pulling them apart, silver strings spinning into existence in the air between her fingers as she spoke. “I think- I think I died. But I’ve always had an affinity for magic. That’s why I was the Guardian for so long. That doesn’t hold me back anymore.”

She threw a hand out, the silver string dancing through the air as it wove its way around Dick, they floated in the air, not touching him, but hovering just off of him.

“This- isn’t you, Marinette. Who are they? Are they controlling you?”

“A puppet pulls on silver strings, but know that I? Am no such thing. You’ll be the one dancing for me.”

She laughed softly, hopping down from her perch. Her eyes glowing an unnatural icy blue as she circled around him, her long braid reminiscent of her time as Lady Noire trailing behind, more silver strings woven into the braid catching the dim light as it almost seemed to float around him as she studied him.

She reached out and gently plucked a string out of the air, her light touch breaking the barrier as the strings constricted around him, pulling him down onto his knees as they tightened and anchored themselves to the ground.

“Marinette- please. Let me help you. Something’s not right. We can fix it-”

“Look at you, so frail and fragile. Poor and pathetic, it’s laughable. I've got you begging on your knees.”

Dick squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as the world seemed to tilt and sway violently around him. The soft touch of her finger hooking underneath his chin as she brought his face up to meet hers. The world seemed to right itself as her eyes met his.

He focused on her eyes, losing himself in the relief they brought. The warmth that used to live in her eyes was gone, replaced with a cold frosty glow. The ground seemed to roll underneath him as she tilted her head to the side, a sharp grin growing as she stared at him.

“And you’re feeling dizzy, but it’s a high. Uncertainty if you’ll come out alive. Breathe it in, I’m just beginning. You’ve got me grinning, God, I love winning.”

Her laughter, far colder than he remembered, closer to his own cackle then her typical light laughter, seemed to echo as she pulled away, pulsating with the tilting world as the dizziness returned worse than it was originally as she pulled away. The laughter growing fainter as his vision grew black, the last thing he heard before losing consciousness.

—----------------------------

Dick woke up, tucked into a large bed, light filtering from a high window somewhere.

Marinette lay on the couch, her brain undone, long hair fanned out around her as she slept.

He crept through, looking around the space. They were clearly in a warehouse. One that had been adapted to live in. He quickly noted where it was as he made his way back to the manor.

He’d barely walked into the Manor when Jason walked by and yanked on his hair.

“Ow!” he cried, rubbing the back of his head. “What was that for?”

Jason stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “I pulled a piece of string out of your hair. No need for the dramatics,” he shot back waving a short silver string in front of him. “You good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I saw Marinette.”

“Dick- she’s gone. I know you miss her but she’s long gone.”

“No, she's back. She’s different but it’s her. It’s, I think it’s some sort of madness, like you had with the Pit when you first came back.”

“That would mean-”

“She said she died.”

“Fuck. Where is she?”

—----------------------------

They’d barely stepped into the warehouse before a string wrapped around Jason’s ankle, with a quick, pulling motion swept him off his feet and onto the ground hard, before unwrapping and vanishing as Marinette stepped out to see them.

She studied the two, her focus lingering on Jason a moment longer as her eyes narrowed, the icy blue glow more intense as she stared down Jason, who’s own eyes had the start of green glow fighting to make itself known. “Interesting. Dead and revived. Warring states. I’m not the only one. You never told me. That would have been nice to know.”

She flicked her wrist sending one of the strings at Dick. It wrapped around his wrist, the ground lurching slightly beneath his feet, as he struggled to fight the string pulling his arm towards the wall, away from Jason and Marinette.

He watched as Marinette went after Jason without mercy. Gritting his teeth as he fought against the string keeping him away from two.

“Marinette! Stop, please. We just want to help. A friendly talk. Please.”

Her eyes flicked over to him, allowing for Jason to get a bit closer as she gave a small flick of her wrist towards him before refocusing on Jason.

He felt the delicate pressure as another string coiled itself around his neck. The faint pressure pulled him back towards the wall, choking him slightly and stopping him in his tracks allowing for a third string to tie itself around his other wrist. The strings pulling him back, against the wall, hands above his head holding him to the wall.

He grit his teeth as he struggled to pull away from the wall, pulling each wrist away with a sharp snap as they came unstuck from whatever attachment they had with the wall. He moved trying to put distance between him and the wall, pulling at the string around his neck, the world spinning as he tugged. He dropped to a knee, head starting to feel fuzzy as he shut his eyes, the spinning and tilting room throwing him wildly off balance.

“Dizzy?” she asked, her voice cutting through the fog surrounding his mind. “Look at you. You haven’t learned a thing have you?” she asked, laughter tinting her question.

She idly spun more strings out of thin air, playing with them, two of them breaking away from the group, coiling around his ankles, and anchoring him to the ground. He touched his fingertips to the floor, grounding himself on the deceivingly unmoving floor as a wave of lightheadedness hit.

He focused on the ground between his hands, taking a deep breath as he heard a heavy thunk followed by a groan. Jason. He pushed himself upright, spotting the silver net wrapped tight around his brother. He tried to stand, his treacherous legs refusing to move from the string anchors to the floor. He twisted, trying to untie or remove the string from his ankles, looking up as he heard Marinette’s soft cackle. The room resumed its tilt-a-whirl of motion once more until she fixed her gaze on him, the world immediately righting itself as her eyes bore into his.

“Why are you trying to fight it? You could give in. Let me pull the strings. Wouldn’t that be simpler? Not have to worry about anything anymore. Just give in. Give in to me. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Yes, a part of him whispered. Take me. I want to be yours. Please. I want-no no nononono this isn’t Marinette. This isn’t right. What-. She’s twisting my thoughts. I do- I don’t want this.

He shut his eyes, shaking his head. This was new. He hadn’t dealt with this foggy feeling in his head in the alley way, though he hadn’t been exposed to the strings for quite as long.

“No. No, I don’t. I wouldn’t like that.”

She tilted her head, the room lurching in the opposite direction as she did. The gentle caress of her hand cleared the fog,as a feeling of this is right washed over him as she tilted his head up towards her. He squeezed his eyes shut harder fighting the instinct screaming at him to lean into her touch, refusing to lose himself to her as easily as he did in the alley way.

“Don’t be like that,” she cooed. “I thought you loved me? Or was that a lie? Don’t you want to be with me?”

“Not like this. I do want to be with you but this isn’t you, Marinette.”

“Why do you say that? Of course this is me.”

“No it’s not.”

What was the reason for the fog in his mind? Was he the reason? Was she the reason? Were they both the reason? A way to keep him in check when fighting back against Marinette’s control? Slowing him down. Confusing him. Or was it him protecting himself from the control, a final line of defense. But if that was the case why was she able to cut through it and make everything feel right with a touch.

"Come back to me, please. Marinette-"

“Dance with me," she interrupted, holding out a hand for him to take. "One last time.”

Dick didn't fight the strings as they helped pull him to standing. She stepped forwards, delicately wrapping her arms around his neck. The world around them seemed to snap to attention at her touch, the heavy fog clouding his thoughts evaporating in an instant.

She led him around the warehouse, worries and cares slipping away as they moved, covering as much ground as they could before slowing down and just swaying. She smiled as she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

The room melted away as she ran her fingers through his hair, combing and twisting, her pale fingers curling in his dark hair

The unspoken command to go with her was clear and so Dick followed, a soft smile growing as she led him away, past Jason pinned underneath the net. Jason.

He stopped, shaking his head before backtracking, the fog slowly starting to settle again as he pulled the net off of Jason, ignoring how easily it came off of Jason and yet seemed to stick and cling to him. He threw it off quickly, taking a few steps away as he ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He froze as his fingers met the cool, unnatural texture of the silver strings entwined with his hair.

The soft laugh behind him caused the breath to catch in his throat as he felt her lightly rest her hand on his shoulder.

“You’re stronger than I gave you credit for,” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear as she spoke, circling around him, one hand lightly trailing an ethereal silver string, barely hovering over him as she dragged it over his chest, tracing patterns with the thread as it settled delicately on him. His body felt leaden, his feet rooted to the ground as Marinette studied him, a small grin

Move. I need to move. Run? I need to get out of here before she- before she- before- before she whats? Why do I need to move? Run. There’s no danger here. Jason- Jason’s somewhere. He’s fine. He can take care of himself. There’s no danger here. I’m fine. I don’t need to move. There’s Marinette. Marinette. Why would I want to run away from Marinette? I love her. She’s safe- NO No nono she- she’s safe. She’s amazing. I’m hers.

“You look so pretty in my silver strings.”

His eyes snapped to meet her, heart racing as she spoke. She beckoned him with a couple fingers, he moved involuntarily though not quite unwillingly, compelled to close the short distance between them as she took his hands with hers, intertwining their fingers as she leaned up, gently catching his lips with her own.

He was gone as soon as their lips met. Everything snapped into place. This is right. This is exactly where I should be. Why did I want to leave? Run away? What was I thinking?

He leaned forward slightly as she pulled away, not ready for the kiss to end chasing after it as she broke it, her laugh hanging in the air and silver strings forming between their hands as she pulled away, they hung in the air, shimmering for a moment before moving, wrapping, coiling, and weaving their way up his arms.

“That’s better, isn't it?”

“Much.”

She grinned, tilting her head slightly as she caused the door to slam shut and lock itself.

“Shame your brother got away but at least I have you.”

—----------------------------

“Hiding away, Love?” Dick asked as he wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her cheek, smiling at the small hum of acknowledgement she gave as she glanced at him smiling, before continuing to do the dishes.

He ran his fingers through her hair, gently combing it out, separating the hair into several strands before braiding them together. Taking his time as she washed and he braided her hair, pulling a hair tie off his wrist to tie off the braid as she finished, shutting the water off.

She’d barely had the time to dry her hands before breaking into laughter as Dick scooped her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck quickly in her surprise, before laughing as he moved into the living room area, falling back onto the couch.

“Let go of me!”

“Nope!”

She twisted in his arms, running her fingers through his hair as they laid there in comfortable silence. Marinette eventually drifted off on top of him, a small smile as she slept. He lightly traced the faint silver lines that twined and wove their way up her arms and down her back. Humming softly as he did so, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head before drifting away himself.

Their eyes snapped open at the same time as a small creak of the warehouse door opening. Marinette stood, playing with the air, weaving a knife before catching it by the blade and holding it out to hilt first to him.

“Careful my love. Just because it’s woven from my strings doesn’t mean it won’t cut you,” she murmured, before whisking away leaving him to go around to find the intruder from the other side.

He moved quickly and quietly, listening as Marinette found them.

“Baby bird all alone?”

“What did you do to my brother, Witch?”

“I thought we were friends.”

“I am not friends with whatever twisted creature designs to take your form and twists and toy with my family’s feelings.”

“Oh, you wound me,” she said softly with a cold smile as her eyes met with Dick’s.

Dick moved, the unspoken command of what Marinette needed done rang throughout as he moved to carry out her wishes, driving the knife through the intruder’s back, twisting the knife slowly before pulling it out.

The cry of pain from the intruder as they arched away from the blade too late seemed achingly familiar to him before they turned, the look of hurt and betrayal on their face as they collapsed striking Dick in his core. The room started tilting from side to side as he shook his head.

Damian. Damian. I- I just stabbed my baby brother. She just made me stab my brother.

He dropped the knife, barely seeing it unweave itself and disappear into thin air as it fell, while he took a few steps back, choking back a sob. He took a few deep breaths before picking Damian up, careful of the wound he’d made, trying to keep pressure on it. Out. They had to get out if he was going to have any hope. Out and away. He’d barely managed to make it halfway to the door before his whole body froze against his will.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Marinette’s quiet voice ringing out through the warehouse.

“Damian needs help. We’re going home.”

“You are home.”

Home. This is my home. Here with Marinet- NO no no. This is not my home. She’s- home-twisting me-safe-Damian. Damian needs help.

His body refused to move as silver strings wrapped themselves around Damian and pulled him out of his arms, carrying him out the warehouse door at a surprising speed.

“You can relax, my love,” she said softly, giving his shoulders a soft squeeze. The treacherous wave of relief at hearing her say that as he melted at her touch, relaxing despite his trying to stay on guard and alert to escape. She cut through his defenses effortlessly. “He’ll be at the Manor in a minute. Faster than you could have gotten there. So don’t worry.”

Marinette is good. She’s helpful taking care of Damian for me-NO She made me stab him. She’s not-she is- she-She-

His heart pounded as his mind raced, the faint layer of fog growing as he tried to think, muddling his racing thoughts.

“You continue to surprise me. I thought you were completely and utterly mine.”

I am. I was. I used to be before- I am. I’m yours. Take me. No- not again- I want to go home. I am home. Why would I- Damian. Damian needs me. I don't want to be here- I want to be by your side. This is-

He squeezed his eyes shut as he shook his head.

“I’m impressed with the amount of fight you have, but regardless of how much you struggle,” she said, coming around the front of him.Her nail scraped lightly against his neck as she hooked the string coiled there, gently plucking at the string, his knees going weak, sinking to the floor, she kneeled in front of him, as she finished her thought.

“You’re still mine,” she whispered, cupping his cheek, grinning as he leaned into her touch as she caressed the side of his face, leaning into the soft pleasure the feeling of content enveloping him, before freezing. She laughed as he stopped, catching his chin as he tried to turn away.

“None of that now, my love. Look at me. Show me your beautiful blue eyes.”

He tried to squeeze them shut even harder as her command sunk in, his eyes fluttering open slowly at her request. The moment they met hers he froze, unable to look away or blink. Statue still as she smiled softly, standing as she directed his head up, maintaining eye contact the whole time while she drew back her hand, releasing his chin.

“Good boy.”

He relaxed, feeling almost as if he were floating as she said that, all the fight draining from him at those words. He could barely hear the small voice in the back of his head, protesting, trying to say that something wasn’t right. It was drowned out by the bliss and content he felt in her presence. Doing what she wanted.

“How does that feel?”

“Better.”

She frowned at that answer.

“Only better?”

She spun a few strings, playing with them as she looked at him, a few floating and delicately draping themselves in swirling patterns before weaving themselves into the already existing patterns of her strings.

She gave a soft tut as he looked away to watch the threads. “Eyes on me, my love,” she said, bending so she was eye level with him.She grinned, tilting his face up to meet hers, the euphoric feeling washing over himself as he fully lost himself to her as their lips met.

“How do you feel now?” she asked quietly, pulling away to rest her forehead against his.

“Perfect.”

—----------------------------

Dick squinted eyes against the harsh light as he turned, the hard ground was cold as he moved. His head swam as he tried to sit up. A pair of hands steadying him.

“Whoa there Big Bird. Take a second before getting up. She had you wrapped around her little finger. Tightly at that.”

Dick swallowed as he tried to remember everything despite the fact everything was a bit hazy.

“Damian? Is he- is he okay?”

“He’ll be fine. Alfred has him on a pretty strict bed rest. That’s the only reason he’s not here right now. Believe me, the demon wants his revenge on her.”

Dick let out a breath of relief. “Is he mad?”

“At you? Not really. He’s hurt might be on thin ice with you for a bit but he understands you weren’t in control. We’re going to need to keep him away from Marinette for a long while.”

“Keep away?”

“Old man wants you both to stay at the Manor for a while. Figure out what’s going on and happening with her and make sure you’re square and set. Before you run back to your shared apartment. If you even keep it.” Dick nodded as Jason finished pulling the now dull threads off of Dick, before helping Dick brush them out of his hair into the cloth bag Jason held out, the runes stitched in gold thread glaring at him.

“Constantine?”

“Thinks they might be some twisted Lasso of Truth or something that her magic made using residue from her time as a Mirculi user. He wanted the threads from you. Small price for helping the two of you.”

Dick looked over at her for the first time. She lay in a heap on the ground, her long hair loose and draped over her face. Her skin looked healthier, like it had regained some color, though the silver strings in her hair hadn’t fallen out like his.

“Her string hasn’t changed,” Dick observed holding up a strand woven in with her hair up next to a piece that he'd pulled off his head. Her’s still held the ethereal look and glow to it while the one he had turned a dull ironlike silver.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if that thread was a part of her. What’s keeping her alive A nice reminder. Her Lazarus Pit. However the hell you want to look at it. She shouldn’t be able to create them anymore. Her magic should be back to exactly what it was before.”

“Should be?”

“Apparently Miraculous users, Guardians even more so, are fucking tricky and hard to kill. And even trickier and harder to revive and put back together again. Their magic goes haywire. Becomes ‘untethered and bloody difficult to fucking control and predict what that might do. Could have the sweetest user. They’ll be twisted by the end, no doubt,’” Jason told him, mimicking Constantine as he said the last half. “He said that the doses he gave me should set her right as rain. Her twistedness might prove an obstacle, but if I can keep the pit at bay I'm sure she can do the same.”

“Dick?” Her voice was soft as she woke up, breaking into the conversation, pushing herself up, brushing the long hair from her face, blinking as she looked around. The two brothers noted that her eyes didn’t glow that icy hue any more, instead returned to their bright blue. “Jason?”

“How are you feeling, Pixie?”

“Like I was tossed off the Eiffel Tower then hit by a truck. Did I- did I reall-” she cut herself off as they nodded.

Jason shot Dick a look, checking if he was okay. Dick nodded, waving off Jason’s concern as he slid over towards her.

“Hey, Mari-” he said softly, reaching out towards her. She shook her head, scooching away from him as tears slowly started to fall.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Dick. I’m so sorry. I love you I should have neve- I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t even be near me. Or even want to see me again. I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling her into his arms as she cried, stroking her hair. “You weren’t yourself. I understand that. I’ve dealt with this type of stuff before with Jason. Think of it as just another bump in our relationship. We’ll overcome it.”

She nodded as he wiped her tears away.

“I’m sorry. For everything. I made you sta-”

“Don’t. Not now. We’ll sort through everything later. Once we’ve healed a bit more.”

She nodded, falling silent as he scooped her up, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder as he stood, oblivious from Jason trying to take her from him and Dick just shaking his head. Jason instead went ahead to open the large warehouse doors and get the car while Dick carried her out.

She ran her hand gently through Dick’s hair, grinning as several strands turned to silver string with her touch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inspired by this tiktok audio: https://vm.tiktok.com/TTPdk95sk3/

#maribat #dickinette #no beta this is war #mgicivilwar2022 #MGI Civil War 2022 #mind control

[storyshark2005]

Fic Excerpt - Tim/Kon in “East of Eden”

Little excerpt from my WIP “East of Eden”. Conner Luthor is visiting his newest friend Tim Drake in Gotham. The two take a break from studying-slash-Warcraft and venture outside. Teenage habits ensue. (No warnings, pre-Tim/Kon)

Alfred finally kicks them outside after two hours of Warcraft. And thank God they were both Alliance characters, because Conner had spent a hell of a lot of hours building up Aristos the Lightforged Draenei Paladin to level 120, and he just looked really cool, so all it took to get Aristos in the same Guild as Nyx Stormseeker the Night Elf Demon Hunter was a realm transfer and bam!, they were questing across Azeroth.

“No, no, that one goes in the red tab--” 

“But that’s where the red pole goes. Right?” 

“Well this one--” Tim frowns, staring down at the fiberglass tent pole in one hand. “Wait, there’s three red tabs.” 

“What the fuck,” Conner laughs, starting down at the pile of nylon. “Why would there be an odd number?” 

“No wait, here it is, it’s just not at a corner. It’s like a brow pole or something. See this goes under here, then over that one--” 

“That doesn’t look right.” Conner tilts his head to one side, then the other.

Tim groans, and throws the mess of nylon and poles down on the ground, flopping down into the grass. 

“Dude, I have no idea.” 

Conner follows him down into the grass, lacing his fingers behind his head. The autumn sun felt gloriously hot under the chilly breeze, baking hot patches of denim onto the tops of his knees and thighs.

“So when do we light the bonfire?”

“Probably not till it gets dark. We’ve got another hour.”

“What should we do till then?”

“Well...” Tim grins slow like syrup to the clouds, lifting his hips to dig his fingers into his back pocket.

“What?”

Tim shakes out a plastic baggie.

“Oh, you’re bad--” Conner laughs.

Tim pulls a pre-rolled joint and a lighter out of the baggie. “What can I say? I’m a rebellious child.” He clicks the lighter a few times. “My life be like-- ooh ahh!”

“Does Bruce know you smoke?”

“We both pretend he doesn’t.” The joint jumps between Tim’s lips. “This lighter sucks--”

“Give it here,” Conner gestures for the unlit joint. “Check this out.”

He sits up, making sure Tim is out of the line of fire, and stares at the end of the joint, keeping his gaze soft like Clark had taught him. The air shivers, and the end of the joint glows bright orange.

“Holy shit,” Tim breathes, eyes wide. “That is so cool--”

Conner lays back down, tucking an arm behind his head. He takes a pull, holding the smoke deep until his lungs burn.

“It was--” he hacks out a cough. “It was the first thing Clark taught me.”

Tim takes the passed joint. “What else can you do? Besides save people from falling seventeen stories with your mind.”

“I don’t know,” Conner closes his eyes, feeling the soft numb heat wash down from the crown of his head, his tongue going heavy and dry. “I can run really fast. I can jump really far. But I’m not strong like Clark, and I can’t fly.”

Tim blows smoke up into the yonder blue. “You’re gonna fly, Con.”

“Yeah?” Conner tips his head to the side, staring at the black-red ends of Tim’s curls.

Tim tips his head to Conner, so close that Conner can see the near-translucent layer of freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. He holds the joint aloft.

“Yeah,” he nods, sounding absolutely certain.

Conner takes the joint, cheeks tingling hot under the sun. He looks up to the clouds, wonders what it might be like to fly over and through them, what the world might look like from a mile above. If it would seem very big, or very small.

Or maybe both at once.

---------------------------------------

*The “ooh-ahhh”! moment inspired by this burquillos masterpiece:

 https://burquillos.tumblr.com/post/631867454580195328/kontober-day-13-this-is-my-favorite-conner-luthor 

#tim/kon #fanfiction #fanfic #fic excerpt #WIP #Clex #tim drake #conner luthor #conner kent #east of eden fic

[miracle-sham]

Long for Who You Could Have Been.

| {Jasonette July 2021, Week 4, Day 19: Mistakes} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [Spotify Playlist Link] |

———

| They might be monster hunters and that might mean their lives are fraught with chaos and danger. But there were moments in between the contracts and courts, fragile and wavering like the dying embers of a flame; where pasts, and hopes, and dreams were shared in the refuge of the campfire. |

| Word Count: 1,764. |

———

| A/N: So this is my second to last Jasonette July fic but the last to actually be posted in July since the other fic (Prompt: Loss) is taking longer than expected to write, whoops! Anyway here's a shorter Witcher au that's mostly fluff with a tinge of sadness here and there. Definitely feels weird to be using/needing so few tags for the first time in a long while! Lastly, thanks to my friend Saf whose reactions to the snippets I send her, absolutely fuel my will to write! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

———

The fire crackled gently, flames flickering in soft almost hypnotising patterns. The light and warmth were all that was keeping the chilling coastal mist at bay, from reaching their little makeshift camp.

Crescent moon and stars twinkled above, shining their silvery light down to mix with the ghostly mist below.

It was almost haunting, in the precious silence, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of waves against the cliff rocks not too far away. And the low hum of the local nocturnal bugs and other such creatures; the flap of bat wings, the cry of an owl, the flutter of moths and beetles, the scuttling of hedgehogs, mice, and foxes. The air was still, not even the faintest sea breeze and yet the fret rolled and crept and seeped into every nook and cranny outside of the protective glow of the campfire.

Jason sat on one side of the fire, on his bedroll and worked on cleaning his silver and steel swords with a rag, not quite humming as he quietly mouthed the words to a jaunty little tavern song, the Fishmonger's Daughter.

On the opposite side of the campfire, on her own bedroll, Marinette had a cloak splayed out across her knee with a needle and thread in hand. Tongue sticking out slightly, in concentration, carefully she darned away at the numerous little holes that had formed from walking through the thorny bush filled forest that their current contract had led them into entering.

With a huff, Jason threw the cleaning rag at the saddlebag on the ground beside him. He sheathed his swords and pulled out his favoured weapon, the crossbow with steel and silver-tipped bolts. Immediately he began checking the bolts for any potential damage and ensuring the shooting mechanism on the crossbow hadn't jammed.

“Something on your mind, Blue Jay?” Marinette asked, glancing up from her needlework for a moment.

He tipped his head back and sighed. “I've been thinking…”

“That's new.” She responded, mirth glinting obviously in her eyes and the bubble of laughter in her tone.

Jason gasped in faux offence, mindfully dropping his crossbow and scrambling for the cleaning rag just to throw it at her face.

Before it could hit her, Marinette plucked it out of the air with two fingers. She hummed mock-thoughtfully. “Your aim's off.”

“You take that back! My aim is impeccable. Alfred said so!” He argued back.

She snorted. “Alfred is biased because he's your grandfather figure. And I'll take it back next time we get through an entire contract without you missing a single shot.” To punctuate her point, she tossed the rag back at him.

He half-dived for it, grabbing it with both hands and with it safely in his grasp, placed the rag inside the saddlebag beside him. Throwing his arms up in mock-exasperation, Jason scowled playfully at her. “C'mon! That's not fair, you've never gone an entire contract without messing up or missing with your magic either!”

“Yeah,” Marinette agreed with a nod of her head and a smirk on her lips, “but I've never claimed to be perfect at magic!”

Her words caused him to falter slightly. “Right,” he swallowed a breath of air thickly, “That reminds me of what I was going to say before we got distracted.”

She frowned, furrowing her eyebrows and putting on a softer tone. “What is it? As much as we joke, I'd never actually judge you for missing shots or anything else, you know that right?”

“Yeah, I know… I just.” He huffed in frustration. Hesitantly, he held her gaze with his own but not a second later, winced and shifted his to stare down at the flickering embers of the campfire pit. Avoiding eye contact with her. He clenched his fists. “D'you ever, I don't know, feel like this was all… a mistake?”

Scrunching up her face in confusion, she squinted at Jason. “What do you mean? As-as in taking the contract?”

“No! Well, yes but no. I mean…” He waved an arm, gesturing vaguely around them, “just everything. Becoming a Witcher. Or I guess in your case, a Sorceress. Do you regret it?”

When she didn't immediately respond, Jason huffed again, hunching his shoulders up and practically bristling like a particularly grumpy and grizzling moggy. “Look, never mind. Stupid question.”

“It's not stupid!” Marinette retorted, “I just… wasn't expecting a question like that at this moment.”

He stared at her expectantly. “Well?”

Tipping her head back slightly, she fiddled with the needle still in one hand and sighed. “I suppose I do, I know I shouldn't… but I miss the easy days. Like before I knew what I was capable of. Before I knew what horrors the world could bring. Back when my only worries were getting stitches right and not messing up when dealing with expensive materials. Or maybe having to worry if the Alderman's daughter was going to harass me at some point during the day.”

Marinette tilted her head forwards again, a frown gracing her lips, and shrugged. “What brings this up?”

There's not an immediate response, as Jason casts his gaze away from the fire—towards where the sea could be heard but not seen. His fingers twitched midair, almost as though plucking the strings of an instrument. “I never wanted to be a Witcher. I was a Child Surprise, dunno who was the one that offered the Law of Surprise though.”

“Ah, I sorta get that. I'm also a Child Surprise, didn't get to choose to be a Sorcerer either.” As she spoke, she nodded in solidarity.

Jason jolted, gaze immediately snapping up to stare at her, completely taken aback. “Wait seriously? You're a Child Surprise too? How'd that happen?”

“Well, my parents' bakery was attacked and Félix, y'know my mentor, saved them. He invoked the Law of Surprise, expecting to get bread or some other baked goods.” She snorted, “he was awfully surprised to end up getting me instead. And when I accidentally cast my first ever spell trying to escape the Alderman's daughter, I ended up teleporting to Félix.”

“So, wait Félix fucking invoked the Law of Surprise to get food? And got you instead. Holy fucking shit that's hilarious!” He wheezed, doubling over in raucous laughter.

Huffing, she cast a spell, causing a vine to sprout up out of the ground beside him and slap him on the knee. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!”

“Ouch! Hey, no fair!” Jason mock scowled, choking back any further laughter. Quickly, in retaliation, he cast a weak Aard.

The telekinetic wave knocked into Marinette, pushing her onto her back from the weakened force.

“Wha—! Oh, so the vine isn't fair but throwing me to the ground is!” She griped, crossing her arms (carefully as to not prick herself on the needle) but made no attempt to get up.

Half-shrugging and grinning smugly, he replied, “you started it!”

She made an exaggerated groaning noise in response before slowly shifting her position to push herself back up into sitting cross-legged. “Well, now you know how I became a Sorcerer. How'd being a Child Surprise tie into you ending up a Witcher, if you don't me asking?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged with both shoulders this time, “I tried to steal the infamous Bat of Gotham's horse, he asked me my name. Reluctantly and after some bribery of hot food, I told him. Didn't think to give a fake one, at the time. He made a face, invoked the Law of Surprise owed to him and dragged me back to the Bat Witcher school.”

“Huh,” Marinette responded, “so if you hadn't… what would you have done with your life?”

Jason raised an eyebrow at her. “Seriously? This is me we're talking about. I'd have gone to Bard College, obviously. I'd have written poems and shit. And books, I'd have written books.”

Scrunching up her face once more, Marinette glanced down at the needle in her hand. “We're by the coast.”

“What?” He asked incredulously, giving her a bemused and questioning look. “What does that have to do with poetry and books?”

In a rush of words, she rambled, “we could take a holiday. I could find out about the spell to disguise your eyes… and uh hair too. That way no one will know you're a Witcher. And we can go to the bard college-town that's down the coast from where we are. We can scavenge together enough gold for you to attend, and you can write your poetry and books.”

Jason stared at her in shock, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Softly, as though anything louder than a whisper would cause the offer to shatter like his childhood dreams once had. “Oh, oh, could you really?”

As warmly as the fire between them, Marinette smiled, “of course! I'd have to ask Félix first of course. But he fell in love with Bridgette and she was a Witcher and he came up with a spell to disguise her whenever they weren't doing contracts or courtly politics. So I don't see why he wouldn't show me how to do it!”

Shakily, he wiped his eyes and smiled back. “Fuck, I'd love that!”

“Okay then! I'll contact Félix on the xenovox tomorrow.” As she spoke, a yawn slipped past her lips. “I think I'm gonna head to sleep now. I'll see you in the morning!”

“Good night, Marinette. I'm gonna stretch my legs real quick first.” He answered, hefting himself up and stretching his arms. “Sleep well, though.”

“Be careful!” Marinette yawned again and packed away her needlework for the night. She then wriggled into her bedroll. “And I'll try, g'night!”

“Night,” he whispered once more.

Quietly, so as to not disturb her, Jason slipped away from camp. Following the direction of the fret, he made his way down the safest cliff path he could find in the dark until his boots hit the sand. Step by step, he walked across the beach until the sea spray spattered against his clothes. He's close enough that the waves gently lapped at the toes of his boots.

Clutching one hand to his chest, just over where his heart was, Jason sighed and gazed longingly at the mist-shrouded sea.

“I never thought I'd get to continue my dreams after becoming a Witcher.” He whispered to the wind. “And now I can, thanks to her.”

He sighs again, heart warmed. And silently in the quietude of the beach at night, he cries alone. For his heart is too full with the kindness of another to contain the feelings any longer.

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little fic! Comments, Likes, and Reblogs are much appreciated! |

| Also feel free to send me any comments with any questions you have regarding this fic, I’ll be more than happy to answer! |

| @jasonette-july-event |

#Maribat #MLB x DC #DC xMLB #Jasonette #Jasonette July #Jasonette July 2021 #JasonetteJuly2021 #JasMari #MariJay #Marinette x Jason #Jason x Marinette #Jasonette July Week 4 #Jasonette July Day 19 #Jasonette July Mistakes #Long for Who You Could Have Been #LfWYCHB #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics