#halloween fic 2022 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

preciouslandmermaid · 7 months

Text

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

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glimmeringtwilight · 2 years

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Hide and Seek | Demon!Kaeya x Reader

Hello hello! This is the first halloween fic with some demon Kaeya for you all :] happy spooky month!!

Word Count: 4.2k

CW: AFAB READER, NSFT, noncon, "sweetheart" as a nickname (no explicitly gendered nicknames though), yandere themes, some blood, maybe implied voyeurism(up to the imagination really), unprotected sex, slight religious themes, probably inaccurate portrayal of ghost hunting.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

You roll your eyes, trying to not let the bored, infuriating drawl of your partner get under your skin. “Yes, Kaeya. We’ve done this at least a dozen times now. You don’t need to ask that every time.”

Technically, you don’t know what you’re doing, but you won’t say as much to him. You’ve just read dozens of articles, and this is the sort of thing you’ve seen and read about other paranormal investigators doing, so there’s got to be a reason for it, right?

Kaeya shrugs, moving from his lazy slouch against the dusty countertop closer to you. Air washes over the back of your neck and you bristle, turning over your shoulder to glare at him. He smiles. “What, am I not allowed to watch my partner work?”

Ignoring him, you light another candle.

“You know… I’ve got to hand it to you, I’ve never met someone as… zealous as you.” He continues after a minute of blissful silence. You try not to roll your eyes again.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ve been searching for-” he makes an exaggerated motion with his hands, pantomiming quotation marks, “-’ghosts’ and ‘ghouls’ and-” he laughs; cynical, cracking laughter- “demons... And after all these months of nothing but boring, dusty houses, you’re still convinced there’s something out there.”

“Okay.”

He laughs again at your lackluster response, this one more mirthful than cynical, and you purse your lips to suppress the smile you feel creeping up. Bastard doesn’t deserve it. You light the last candle, blowing out the match and setting it on the floor next to the rest of your supplies.

“No offense, but don’t demons like blood? I don’t think red chalk and soy wax candles are going to summon a demon.” Kaeya leans forward to inspect your handiwork over your shoulder, clicking his tongue. “Maybe that’s why we haven’t seen a demon yet. Not enough blood offerings.”

You smile despite yourself. “And are you willing to use your blood, then, Mr. Skeptic?”

“No can do, sweetheart. Demons don’t like my blood type.”

“And what’s your blood type?”

“Whichever one demons dislike the most.”

That earns a laugh out of you, and you swat him away when he preens a little too much at finally wrangling a laugh out of you. “Go make yourself useful, then, and get the salt from the van.”

Kaeya rocks back onto his heels in a languid stretch, rolling his eyes– well. Eye. You never did ask him about the eyepatch– before turning to go fetch the requested item. “I don’t think demons are allergic to the most boring seasoning, but if it so pleases you…”

“If they’re allergic to you then they’re surely allergic to salt,” You fire back, cleaning up one of the chalk lines with your thumb.

“Hurtful!” He calls back from down the hall. You hear the front door slam shut a second later.

Shaking your head, you turn back to the task at hand. Admittedly, you’re not sure this will work. It’s not an exact science, but you’re willing to try anything at least a dozen times before ruling it out, and maybe this time will be different.

While you wait, you dig the ouija board out of your bag, balancing it on your knees, and set the planchette on the center of it.

Never use a ouija board alone, the woman you’d bought it from had told you sternly. At the time, you’d never even considered it. Using it alone seemed like a bad idea anyways– an invitation for bad things, but…

Whenever you’ve used it with Kaeya– on the rare occasion he wouldn’t use it as an opportunity to mess with you by purposefully dragging the planchette around the board– nothing would happen. You’re beginning to wonder if he’s bad luck– maybe the kinds of paranormal things you investigate just don’t like talking to a smartass.

So… Just this once can’t hurt, right?

“Hello. Is anyone there?” You try, resting a few fingers on the planchette.

No response.

“If… If there’s someone here, please make yourself known.” You try again. The sound of your voice bouncing off the walls is unnerving– the bareness of the house you’re in is somehow more unsettling than the homes you’ve been in with plastic covered furniture, buried under thick layers of dust.

Nothing still.

You’re about to give up, say goodbye and put the board away before Kaeya returns from the van and starts pestering you again, but there’s a sudden tug on the planchette– firm enough it’s almost ripped out from beneath your fingers.

“YES.”

You stare, wide-eyed, down at the board. Your heart begins to pound. “...Hi.”

The planchette shifts again. “HELLO.”

“Hi,” You parrot again, a small, nervous laugh cracking from your chest. Your hand trembles, but you keep it on the planchette. “Uh, hah- Um. How… are you?”

This time, it starts to spell a word. Each letter makes your heart rate spike. “SCARED,” it says.

“...Why?”

“THAT THING.”

“The… The candles?”

“NO.”

You’re about to ask another question– maybe the chalk? Maybe you drew the wrong sigils– but the planchette moves again on its own accord, frantically darting from letter to letter. It’s hard to keep up; you’re so busy trying to keep ahold of the planchette with how fast it moves across the board you almost forget to pay attention to the word, processing it a few moments after it’s stopped:

“DEMON.”

“Where?” You press, glancing around to the darkened corners of the room, cold shivers prickling your spine at the thought. It’s messing with you. It has to be, right…?

“NO.” A pause, to be sure you’re paying attention, then it drags across the board hurriedly, like it’s afraid of being caught, “WHO.”

“Who…? I don’t-”

Wood scrapes harshly against wood, the sound grating on your ears, screeching. It’s spelling something new now. A name.

“K A E Y-”

“Sorry I took so long! I couldn’t find the salt.” You hear your partner call from down the hall, footsteps echoing through the empty space.

You stare blankly at the board as the planchette slips from beneath your fingers, ending on the “GOODBYE.”

Kaeya stops at the entryway, container of salt in hand, “Damn thing rolled under the– Oh, woah, what’s with that face?”

It’s hard to force yourself to calm, balling your hand into a fist and setting it in your lap. You force a shaky smile, trying not to shudder at the look of disdain on his face when his eye flits to the board still sitting in your lap.

“Without me?” He says, striding over and plopping down a bit too quickly. He laughs when you flinch. “I’m wounded.”

You swallow harshly, smile at him with more teeth than you should, and try to choke back the anxiety bubbling in your chest. Why was it spelling his name? “Sorry,” You breathe, clearing your throat when the reply comes out reedy, “I should’ve waited.”

“Spook yourself?” Kaeya asks, leaning in. His eye glints in the candlelight. When you lean away he smiles, all teeth. “You’re shaking.”

You are. But this is your partner, right? The same skeptic that’s tormented you and been a thorn in your side for months. The same smartass that tries to scare you whenever you have to turn out your light, the same one that teases you for jumping at every little creak and noise when you explore abandoned buildings together.

“Yeah.” Has his eye always been that bright? “Sorry. I thought it worked this time.”

You don’t quite know why you’re lying. Something in your gut tells you to.

Kaeya pouts, pulling away from you to lean back against his palms. “Aw. Well, that’s a shame. Did it tell you anything fun?”

“Uh-” You clear your throat again, voice pitching. “Nothing. Just… Gibberish.”

“Gibberish?” He parrots back, turning his attention to the candles. You can’t see his face now, dim in the scarce light. The candlelight catches on the ends of his hair– almost beautiful. But your heart hasn’t stopped pounding, the image of the board’s last message replaying in your mind.

“Y-yeah. I thought it was spelling something, but… nothing.” You tear your eyes away from him to the flickering candles as well, trying to suppress the tremors of adrenaline. It’s just a board. Whatever was speaking to you was probably just fucking with you.

“Mmmhm.”

A tense silence follows, with your partner drumming his fingers against dusty floorboards. The sound cracks against your ears, too sharp and loud in the quiet house you occupy to block out.

“I have an idea.” He starts, not commenting on the little, frightful jump you give when he breaks the silence. “Let’s play a game.”

“A game?”

“Yeah. A game,” He reaches forward, pinching the wick of one of the candles and snuffing it out. He quickly moves on to the next, snuffing out the circle of candles you lit one by one, each sizzling loudly between his fingers. A scent like burnt flesh hits your nose and you recoil, a hand flying up to cover your mouth and nose.

“Kaeya, what–”

“Hide and seek, to be precise,” He interrupts, unbothered. Without the guide of candlelight you can barely see him, just the vague shadow of a man you think you know. “I’ll seek.”

“Kaeya?”

That shadow turns to look at you. “You have thirty seconds to hide, and I have sixty seconds to find you. Sound fair?”

“L-Look, Kaeya, I don’t-”

“Thirty.”

“Kaeya-”

“Twenty-nine.”

Your stomach lurches. You scramble to your feet, hesitating briefly as the blood rushes to your head from the sudden movement. His eye catches in the bare moonlight that filters in from one of the broken windows, staring straight at you.

“The previous homeowners left everything that was in their attic. Plenty of places to hide, up there.” He tells you, voice low and conspiratory. You can hear the smile in it; catch a glimpse of teeth. “...But you didn’t hear that from me. Twenty-eight.”

You run for the attic. Kaeya’s voice follows you down the hall, almost sing-song as he counts down.

Tearing through the rooms, the drone of his voice is drowned out by the sound of your footsteps echoing through the halls. Every room you peer into is completely bare, and you come to the sinking realization that Kaeya was telling the truth– you can’t hide in any of these rooms, it’d take only a quick glance to find you.

You try to slip up the stairs to the attic as quietly as you can manage, each groaning step making your heart sink further.

By the time you’re at the top of the steps, you can’t hear Kaeya’s voice anymore. Is he still counting?

The attic is dark, but filled with old, dusty furniture and water-stained cardboard boxes. Sheets cover some of the furniture, moth-eaten and filthy. You stumble through the dark, further into the room.

“Ready or not, here I come!” Kaeya calls from further in the house.

Shit.

There’s a large wardrobe in the corner, turned on its side and partially covered with a sheet like much of the other furniture in the space. It’s better than nothing. The handle sticks when you tug on it, but the door eventually swings awkwardly open– and blessedly quiet– and you’re able to clamber inside the cramped space.

You shut the door quietly behind you, huddling uncomfortably against the back of it. You can hear the steps to the attic groaning under Kaeya’s weight, then silence.

Blood rushes in your ears, and you strain to hear over the thrum of your own heart. There’s footsteps meandering around the room now, and you can hear your partner humming lackadaisically as he searches.

He’s fucking with you. He’s got to be. He saw how spooked you were from the ouija board and he decided that now was the best time for this. Once he’s done with his game you’ll come out and tell him what actually happened with the board.

…It’s what you want to believe, but terror still graws at your throat, suffocating as you listen to Kaeya tossing heavy objects about the room in his search. It’s been more than sixty seconds by now, hasn’t it? You don’t know.

The rummaging stops a few feet away from the wardrobe you’re hiding in. You hold your breath, fishing out your phone and unlocking it.

He wouldn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t. He’s just trying to scare you.

Right?

You’re not given the time to dwell on it. The wardrobe door swings open, blue light from your phone screen illuminating Kaeya’s face. His one visible eye is wild, pupil blown wide and mouth stretched into a toothy grin.

“There you are.”

He’s just messing with you. He’s just messing with you, he’s just messing with you–

“O-Okay. Okay, you found me,” You croak, trying to smile despite the anxiety, sharp and sour like acid on your tongue, “Let- Let’s go back to the van, okay? I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

Kaeya pulls you out of the wardrobe by your arm, his grin settling down into something calmer, something more like what you’re used to seeing from him; teasing and playful. “Of course. But, ah, don’t you think I deserve a reward for winning?”

He doesn’t seem to care for a response, already settling down against the dusty hardwood and dragging you by the arm into him, “You know… I’m surprised it took you this long. I’ve been dropping hints for months– subtle ones, of course. Didn’t want to spoil the surprise too quickly.”

For months?

Fingers drum against your spine, staccato movements that send pinpricks of dread through you. “To think such a mousy little spirit would be the one to slip through my fingers and tell you… I guess I should have figured that hag’s warning wouldn’t deter you forever. I just didn’t think you’d have the guts to try the board on your own. Had I known, I would have found some excuse to drag you out with me to the van.”

He feigns an exasperated sigh. “I was enjoying our game, too. Oh well. It can’t be helped, I suppose.”

You think back on your time spent with him over the last few months. His oddities– he’d always vehemently refuse to touch any of the crucifixes, insisting you had to be the one to bring them into the building because the metal used in them is cheap and gives him hives.

Or how he’d always blaze on ahead of you to scope out a new building, long legs carrying him in quick strides you struggle to match. You’d eventually given up trying to match his pace and would just let him do his thing.

Or how, despite constantly insisting the sigils in your book were silly and wouldn’t defend against the boogeyman, he’d still correct you on the protection ones; or smudge the summoning ones with his shoe or with his thumb, smiling and swearing that he thought he saw a spider or a fly when you would catch him doing so.

Or how, even after all these months, you’ve never once seen him eat. Whenever you’d go out with him to a diner after spending the night in some abandoned building, he’d only ever order a coffee or a glass of water, Or if you were going out to dinner, he’d order something alcoholic and nothing more. In the past, you’d assumed that he ate at home after the two of you parted ways.

Kaeya’s always been the last one to fall asleep whenever you’d spend the night with him in sleeping bags beside each other in gutted, hollow homes. It used to comfort you, knowing that he’d stay awake for you, talk your ear off until exhaustion won out and you were no longer able to listen. But now…

“...What are you?” You whisper.

“I think you already know,” He replies, leaning down to dig his nose against your nape. His free hand coils around your throat, something sharp and cold dragging against your skin with the tips of his fingers that was definitely not there before.

You try to blindly fumble with your phone to dial an emergency number without looking at it– as inconspicuously as you can manage– but Kaeya shifts, unwinds his arm around you and tightens the hand around your throat, and plucks the phone out of your hand.

He jostles you in his grasp a little with the force he uses to throw it out of sight, far behind him, and you hear it shatter against the wall.

Ice congeals in your blood, but it doesn’t compare to the sudden frigid shock of his hand sliding underneath your shirt, pressing against your spine to push you closer to him. He feels like snow– absent of warmth and sapping all of your own from you, hungry and stealing.

“Don’t-” You start, protests tapering off into a pained whine when those sharp-tipped fingers start to dig into your skin, drawing patterns with enough force to leave blood beading in their wake. “Kaeya, that hurts-”

Kaeya shushes you, squeezing your throat tight enough to cut off your next words, “Hush. I’m almost done.”

There’s a building pressure in your chest, pins and needles spreading through your limbs , sensations dulling. You feel the sudden disconnect– the exact moment you’re forced into the backseat in your own body.

It’s less like the flip of a switch and more like the ice beneath your feet cracking, the sea suddenly and savagely swallowing you whole. Ice floods your veins, pervasive and engulfing– and you’re forced to watch, a prisoner in your skin, as Kaeya lays you on your back.

The room is freezing. You can see your own breath in front of you, but not Kaeya’s.

“You’re so soft,” He comments, hands sliding underneath your shirt. You try to bristle, to shove him off, to react in any way besides staring wide-eyed and terrified, but you can’t move.

Questing hands explore your prone form, hiking up your shirt, tugging down your pants. Kaeya’s eye glows faintly in the darkness of the room– a trick of the light or something else, you don’t know.

Your pants are tugged fully off you in a hasty motion, cold fingers ghosting over bare skin before Kaeya moves to kneel between your legs.

You feel the cold on your skin, a wash of equally-cold breath against your sex. It takes a second to register the sensation of cool lips wrapping around your clit and sucking, tongue laving so hard that it registers first as pain before shifting to razor-sharp pleasure.

Kaeya eats you like a man starved– teeth and tongue and firecracker bright. One arm hooks around your thigh, angling your hips upward. His free hand moves up your chest to tug at your nipples, pinching with enough force to pull whimpers from your mouth and send shocks down your spine.

It’s torture– being passenger in your own body, forced to endure the sensations. Shadows dance in your vision as you’re forced to stare blankly forward at the ceiling; your mind unable to see what’s in front of you in the pitch blackness and filling the gaps with shapes you don’t want to recognize.

Worse, still, is how cold it is. How cold his hands are, how cold the room has gotten. It rests just on the precipice of freezing– cold, but not cold enough to do more than wrack your body with shivers and raise gooseflesh. Uncomfortable, but not deadly in the way his hands are.

The hand playing with your chest slides down between your legs, and he takes advantage of the arousal that’s started to leak from your entrance, sliding two cold fingers into you.

Thankfully, those sharp-tipped nails are blunt once more as he presses them inside you. You almost wish they weren’t, however, when they immediately curl inside of you, abusing a spot that has you shuddering and clenching unwillingly around him. The heat that builds inside of you hurts almost the same, too fast and too sudden with the sensation that Kaeya forces from you.

Nails dig into your thigh, drawing blood, and Kaeya sucks harder than before. An orgasm is ripped so suddenly from you it hurts. It’s wrong. It hurts. Your vision whites out anyway. You cry out through closed lips, unable to properly scream.

Kaeya doesn’t nurse you through it. Doesn’t try to gently ease you back to earth. Instead, you hear him take a sharp intake of breath– does he even need to breathe?– and then his mouth is back on you, as fervent as it was before.

It burns– too much sensation at once. You struggle to breathe, struggle to regain control of your body to twist away from him. The most you can manage is a twitch of your fingers.

Another orgasm rips through you like a bullet., half overstimulated pain and half pleasure. You black out.

When you come to, Kaeya’s moved up to hover over you, hands cupping your cheeks in a way that’s so tender it makes you sick.

There’s a smile on his face that matches the aching emptiness in your chest. You tear your eyes away, looking back towards the ceiling instead. There’s a small hole in the roof, you realize– one you didn’t notice before, but there’s light starting to filter through it now, the morning beginning to crack open its eyes for a new day.

“Do you believe in god?” He asks, dragging your attention away from the dawnlight beginning to pour into the room with a firm grip on your chin.

When you don’t answer, his smile widens into something sickening and self-satisfied. He leans in, whispering fervently against your mouth– “That’s alright. I can be your god.”

You close your eyes, if only to not have to see his face as he kisses you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he forces it past your slack lips.

He kisses you long and slow, stealing the breath from your lungs like he steals the warmth from your skin. When he pulls away, his thumb takes the place of his tongue– invasive and vile and unwelcome. You fight against the paralysis as much as you can, trying to muster the strength to do anything more than lie there.

Kaeya grins at the weak press of teeth against his thumb, cooing patronizingly when you can’t manage to bite down any harder. He doesn’t remove his thumb, just presses further into your mouth until you gag around him and holds it there.

He shuffles a bit, free hand pressing your thigh against the floor as something presses against your entrance. It’s the only warning you get– a sharp intake of air before he’s pressing inside of you like a knife; cold and unforgiving and so, so wrong.

“Cute,” He says, when you try to beg around the thumb in your mouth. “Cute,” He reiterates, when you try again to bite, when you force a trembling hand up and try to pry his hand from your mouth.

Pins and needles lance through your arm, your grip weak. You can barely curl your fingers around his wrist with how heavy your limbs feel.

Kaeya pulls out, thrusting back in and jostling your body against the ground, and your arm falls slack against your chest. He sets a slow pace, unlike the way he did with his mouth. It's worse. It’s so, so much worse; feeling the way your body betrays you instead of the overwhelming burn of sensation like before.

He looks at your face the entire time, gauging the way you bite his thumb and stifle whimpers. One particularly harsh thrust has your eyebrows furrowing, expression betraying the sharp bolt of pleasure that lances through you, and he smiles.

The thumb is pulled from between your lips and replaced with his tongue once more as he leans back down to kiss you. You try to be impassive, to be as unresponsive as possible, but each harsh thrust of his cock cracks another whimper from your lips against his. He swallows each one, thumb moving to rub deep circles into your clit.

You wonder what became of whoever it was that warned you– are they still here? Are they watching? But the room is quiet save for your quest gasps and whimpers– the sound of skin on skin as Kaeya presses into you– and you've never felt more alone.

“Stop,” You gasp against his mouth. It’s too much– the building heat, the coiling pleasure. You won’t, you can’t– “Stop-”

“It’s okay,” He bites your lip, digs his nails into your thigh. You feel blood drip onto the floor but it’s drowned out by the incoming peak you try to stave off. “You’re okay. Let go.”

You sob against his mouth, clenching down on his cock as he forces another orgasm out of you. It hurts in a different way this time, cold as you come back down from it. This time, the cold takes root; sinks into your bones and into your lungs, threading between ribs and vertebrae.

Distantly, you hear him groan– feel him shudder and release inside you. You turn your gaze to the ceiling, where morning light pours in to wash over the two of you.

He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t move away, just pulls you close and into him, stealing the warmth from your chest. It’s like being cradled by snow. And when he brushes the hair from your face– smiles another hollow, empty smile– you wonder if, perhaps, he is.

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ablatheringblatherskite · 7 months

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Summary:

After a difficult first year at Nevermore, Wednesday agrees to attend the Halloween Ball with Tyler.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Additional Tags: Halloween, WydayThe13th, Phantom of the Opera references, Soft Wednesday Addams, Wednesday Addams is Soft for Tyler Galpin, Wednesday Addams is Trying, Hyde Tyler Galpin, Soft Tyler Galpin, Tyler Galpin Needs a Hug, Minor Ajax Petropolus/Enid Sinclair, Fluff, Comfort, Cheesy, Musical References, Oneshot, Author is a Tyler Galpin Apologist

SO I FINALLY FINISHED IT!! I honestly feel like i kind of hyped it up too much LOL but i'm just so happy and grateful I wrote it all, especially since I've been having a writer's block for months now. Thank the fact that I've been looping Phantom of the Opera for days now for the existence of this fic! I admit I might be a little out of practice writing Wednesday and the other chars, but better a little OOC than nothing imo!

Also I hope u don't mind how cheesy it gets LOL. It is a fluff fic after all!

Thank you again @bithablu for organizing this!! It was so much fun to join even if I was really late LMAO. Thank you @nouklea, @thee-antler-queen, @wednesdayandherhyde, @nonamemanga, @broken-everlark, @gardenoblues and @rhysthomas02 for encouraging me as well!! (whether it be directly or through likes LOL)

Also if anyone wants to draw Tyler and Wednesday in their costumes (or even Ajax and Enid) pls feel free and pls tag me if u do it would be so beautiful

#wydaythe13th #my writing #partially inspired by me listening to Phantom of the Opera on repeat #wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday 2022 #wednesday addams #tyler galpin #wyler #weyler #wyler fic #weyler fic #wyler fanfic #weyler fanfic #fanfiction #halloween 2023 #netflix wednesday

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onlyshestandsthere · 5 months

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Title: these walls come tumbling down

Chapter: 4/?

Pairing: Jade Claymore/Kit Tanthalos

Tags: Werepanther!Kit//Vet!Jade//Jade brings an injured cat home and it never leaves//This is my hallmark fic//Only a little bit of angst I swear//Kit/Cardboard box OTP

Summary:

Veterinarian Jade Claymore hits a panther with her truck one night, only for the panther to turn out to be a very attractive girl who needs medical attention, a place to stay, and maybe something more.

#Tanthamore #Tanthamore Fic #Jade Claymore #Kit Tanthalos #Willow #Willow 2022 #Hallmark fic is back #It's still Halloween but the Christmas vibes will be there eventually

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yourlocalcryingcryptid · 2 years

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!!!!Technically Not Really Halloween Ends Spoilers!!!!

I have so many thoughts on this movie but DAMNNNNNNN COREY IS FINNNEEEE

I went in with one bloody crush and left with two sweet jesus ♡

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make-me-imagine · 2 years

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Locked In

13 Days of Halloween: Day 7

Plot: When you and Malcolm agree to help Jessica prepare for her Halloween party, the two of you end up getting locked in the creepy attic together.

Pairing: Malcolm Bright x Gn!reader

Warnings: None~ (except for a somewhat heated kiss towards the end)

Words: 2.5k

A/N: I saw the prompt 'Person A and Person B get locked in a creepy attic together on Halloween.' on a list by @olicitytropes and it inspired this; hope you don't mind me using it~

You looked around the large familiar house, noting the change in curtains and flowers to match the holiday, and Jessica's upcoming Halloween fundraiser party.

"Y/n, Malcolm! I'm glad you could make it!" Jessica said cheerfully as she met you and Malcolm in the foyer.

"I didn't think I had a choice." Malcolm said with light sarcasm.

"You didn't dear. But Y/n did." She said with a big smile as she looped her arm through yours "Which makes them my favorite, because they chose to come anyway."

You smiled at Malcolm over your shoulder and stuck your tongue out at him, as you walked further into the house. Malcolm shook his head in amusement as he followed.

"Ainsley is already here, which means she gets to come with me to the store. You two are on attic duty."

"Attic duty?" Malcolm asked, a change in his tone obvious.

"Yes, that's where the boxes of Halloween decorations are."

You looked up "I guess it makes since this place has an attic, I just never thought about it." You said softly before looking over at Malcolm.

"I never go in there, it's creepy." He said motioning is hands.

"Well you have no choice now." Ainsley said as she walked into the room. She met your eyes "Though I do feel bad for you having to go up there."

"Attics don't bother me as much as basements" You commented casually.

"Good! Don't worry, the attic isn't that creepy, Malcolm just doesn't like it because he got locked in there once when he was a kid. Tried to blame it on a ghost."

You looked over at Malcolm who nodded "The door closed by itself. And I was left in there for seven hours."

"Seven hours?" You asked with widened eyes.

He walked up to you, lowering his voice "No one can hear you scream up there."

Jessica smacked him on the arm before she looked over at you "It's fine, just make sure you keep the door propped open!"

"Right. Just keep the door propped open."

"Exactly!"

You looked over at Malcolm who just smiled and shook his head softly. Not long later, the two of you made your way upstairs as Jessica and Ainsley left the house.

"Do I even want to know how many boxes we're gonna have to drag all the way down here?"

"Probably not." He replied as you stopped beneath the attic stairwell.

Looking up the small darkened staircase at the red door, you hummed. "Never mind, that is very creepy."

Slowly making your way into the attic, you let out a small breath of relief as you looked around the fairly clean room. There was only one small, tinted window that let in very little light, leaving most of the room in darkness.

Malcolm pushed a small doorstop underneath the door before he turned to look into the attic. "Smaller than I remember."

"Most things are after you grow up." You commented softly as you flipped the light switch on.

The old light-bulb buzzed on, and sent a yellow-orange glow throughout the room.

Walking over to some boxes that had 'HALLOWEEN' written on it, you patted them.

"At least we don't have to search for them."

Malcolm walked over to the other side of the attic, and tapped some more "There are at least twenty in here"

"Its a big house."

"And she insists every room must have some form of decoration for her parties."

Picking up a mildly heavy box you turned towards Malcolm "I better get an invite if I have to do all this."

He smirked "You want to attend a Halloween party with a bunch of rich lawyers, accountants and white-collar criminals?"

You paused for a moment "Will there be food?"

He chuckled "Yeah, a lot."

You hummed as you left the attic "Might be worth it then."

-----

Letting out a sigh as you stomped back up the stairs into the attic for the fifth time, you looked at the dozen boxes still left.

"Never mind, invite or not, this is not worth it."

Malcolm stopped beside you as he nodded his head and let out a breath. Making your way back towards the boxes, you stopped as you heard a scratching sound. Looking at each other, you heard a loud creaking, you both recognized to be the sound of a door.

Your eyes widened in sync as you both spun around, to see the attic door quickly sliding closed.

You and Malcolm both rushed as fast as you could to catch it. But it slammed closed, just before you reached it. From the other side, you heard the doorstop bounce down the steps.

Malcolm grabbed the door handle, twisting and turning the knob as he pushed and pulled. As the door refused the budge, he looked back at you and shook his head.

You let out a sigh "Your mom and Ainsely wont be gone long right?"

"They went shopping. They could be gone for days." He said with a deafeated tone.

"Well, I know something you probably didn't have when you got locked in here the first time." He rose his brow as you reached into your pocket. "A phone."

Malcolm nodded his head in realization as he also took his out. You frowned as you read 'no signal'. Trying to use your data, but failing, you looked over a Malcolm. Meeting your gaze he shook his head.

"What is the attic made out of, layers of steal? Even my data isn't working."

Malcolm sighed as he walked over to the widow, trying to open it, before attempting to use his phone again. "Nothing. There must be something up here interfering with it."

"Great...so what do we do now?"

"We could talk about the fact that the door should not have closed, and that this is the second time that has happened!"

"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts?"

He lifted his arms up in defeat "Well I might now."

You let out a chuckle as you sat down on an old chair. "Or it's an old, heavy door Malcolm."

Malcolm shrugged his head as he walked over and sat down in the chair beside you. "Old door or ghosts, we're stuck."

You sighed and nodded your head. "Yup."

As an hour turned into two, and longer, you rifled through another box of decorations out of boredom, you pulled out a large fake spider. Turning it over, you saw a switch. Getting an idea, you glanced over at Malcolm, who was staring down at his phone, and set the spider on the ground. Silently, you switched it on, and watched as the large spider ran towards Malcolm.

Hearing the noise, Malcolm glanced over, letting out a yelp of surprise as he almost fell out of his chair.

As you began to laugh, Malcolm let out a deep breath and shook his head as he attempted to repress his own smile. "Very funny."

"Thank you, thank you." You said with a soft chuckle and fake bow.

Malcolm picked up the spider and turned it off, shaking his head. "I'm pretty sure this is the same thing Ainsley used to put in my bed to scare me."

You grinned at this as you began looking through the box some more.

Suddenly hearing a loud bang on the opposite wall, you flinched, as your head snapped towards the sound. Glancing at Malcolm, who looked alarmed as well, turned to meet your gaze.

"Rat?" You asked.

He shrugged his head "Maybe."

Hearing a scraping sound, following by a thud, the two of you stared at the part of the attic engulfed in darkness.

Slowly, Malcolm made his way over, shining his phone into the darkness. You watched in anticipation as he reached behind a box before lifting up an old photo frame.

"Yeah, that's not creepy at all."

Setting it back down he began walking over to you, but stopped when the attic light flickered off.

There was an almost deafening silence for a moment before you stood up. Turning on his phone again, Malcolm walked to the light switch, flicking it up and down, but the light stayed out.

"That's just a creepy coincidence right?"

Walking back over to you, you could just see Malcolm's expression as he nodded "Yeah. Just a creepy coincidence."

As he stopped in front of you, a loud clattered bang came from the dark side of the attic again, as a box toppled over. Gasping as you gripped onto Malcolm's arm, you turned towards the noise.

Malcolm, quickly turning on his phones flashlight, shined the light at the box, and then around the attic.

"Okay. Maybe the attic is haunted." You said in a whisper.

"Told you." He whispered back.

Walking over to the box, you stayed latched onto his arm. Attempting to push the box with his foot, he shook his head "That's way to heavy for a rat to knock over."

You tugged on his arm "Let's go sit by the window where there's some light."

Malcolm glanced over at you, just now realizing how close you were. "Alright." He said softly as you made your way to the window.

You both sat down in your chairs, eyes darting around the attic, both of you expecting something else to happen.

"Talk." You mumbled.

Malcolm looked over at you "What?"

"Talk, so I don't freak out."

"Oh. Okay, uhm....the first year I was allowed to pick my own costume, I wanted to dress as Seymour Krelborn."

You paused for a moment "The guy from Little Shop of Horrors?"

"Yeah. And I tried to convince my parents to dress Ainsley as Audrey II"

"Audrey....the giant plant monster?"

"Yeah.."

You let out a soft chuckle "Did they?"

He nodded and smiled "My mom refused at first, but I finally got my way."

You smiled at him and shook your head as you peered around the attic, still weary. Malcolm continued to watch you.

The two of you were seated next to each other, knee's touching. You were no longer holding onto him out of fear, but your hands were close. He was tempted to take yours in his.

As a car horn sounded outside on the street, you flinched lightly, barely enough to notice. But he did.

"How is such a bad-ass cop so afraid right now?" He asked with a hint of amusement.

You looked over at him "I don't do ghosts. Ghosts aren't tangible like people, I can't shoot them if they're trying to hurt me."

Malcolm chuckled "I'll protect you from the ghost."

You rolled your eye's lightly "Oh yeah, how would you do that?"

"Well. I believe that if ghosts are real, they only have power you give them through being afraid and wanting, or expecting them to show their presence."

"Sooo, you're saying, if I'm not afraid or don't think about them being real, they can't hurt me?"

"Right."

"Well. It was you who put the idea of ghosts in the attic in my head in the first place. So, really, this is your fault?"

Malcolm paused for a moment as a slow smile crossed his face "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Well then, the least you can do is distract me so I stop being afraid."

Your eyes were locked with his, as you smiled, he smiled in return, his eyes flicking down to your lips for a split second.

Hearing a loud thud, you let out a soft gasp. But before you could turn your head to investigate the sound of the noise, you felt Malcolm's hands grasp your face, before his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss seemed eager and rushed, before it became soft and gentle, and then it was over.

As Malcolm pulled away from you, you met his eyes. You were clearly still bewildered, as you muttered out.

"Why did you do that?"

"I was distracting you."

"From the ghosts?"

"Yes."

Malcolm's hands were still on your face as he spoke softly. He had a faint smile on his lips, and he couldn't seem to stop his eyes from flicking to your lips again.

"Sorry. I should have asked first." He said softly as he pulled his hands away.

Your heart was racing, and your ears were burning hot. You shook your head lightly.

"It's okay. It worked, you distracted me." You laughed lightly. "And besides, I- I would have said yes, if you'd asked." Your voice got a little quieter as you spoke, your ears burning.

Malcolm repressed a grin "You would have?"

You nodded and met his eyes "Yeah."

Leaning in a little closer, his eyes fell to your lips briefly. "Then, can I kiss you again?"

You smiled softly as you leaned in a bit as well "Yeah."

Meeting in a soft kiss, Malcolm's hand cupped your face again as you brought your own hand up to his face as well.

Suddenly, hearing a rough bang, as the attic door shook violently, you and Malcolm pulled away from each other with alarmed gasps.

Another bang against the door was followed by the door swinging opening with a loud creaking groan.

Seeing Gil stumble into the room, having forced the door open with his shoulder, you and Malcolm stared at him in confusion.

"Gil?" Malcolm asked with breathy bewilderment.

He nodded at the two of you as he looked around the attic "Hey."

"Hi." You and Malcolm said in unison, as Jessica came into the attic as well.

"Oh thank God, are you two alright? Why didn't you answer any of my messages or calls."

You and Malcolm lifted your phones up a the same time as he spoke "No signal up here."

"Oh. Well, what happened to keeping the door propped open?"

"I'm guessing they tried." Ainsley's voice cold be heard as she appeared a moment later behind Jessica, doorstop in hand.

"Heavy door." You said, glancing at Malcolm briefly.

"Well, I'm glad you two are okay. Once we got back, I saw the boxes down stairs, I thought you two must have finished and gone somewhere, then I couldn't get a hold of you."

"So you called Gil."

"Yes." They said in unison.

"Well, now that that's all over-" Jessica turned and patted Gil's shoulder "You can finish helping with the boxes."

"Wait, what? I'm on duty Jessica, I'm not here-" His voice was perplexed as he began to follow her and Ainsley out, their voices fading as they left.

As the door began to close, you and Malcolm both rushed forward, grabbing it before you got locked in again. Your eyes locked as you smiled in amusement.

After closing the attic door lightly, you left together, heading down the stairs. Halfway down, Malcolm slipped his hand into yours, looking over at him, you shared knowing looks and smiles.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you both stopped dead in your tracks as you heard three loud knocks on the attic door. Your eyes locked before you turned and looked back up the stairs at the closed door.

Malcolm squeezed your hand lightly before you both raced away as fast as you could, knowing neither of you were going back in that room.

xx End xx

General Taglist: @criminaly-supernatural, @caswinchester2000, @onuen, @rexit-mo, @imaginesfire, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry

Prodigal Son/Malcolm Taglists: @spuffyfan394, @locke-writes, @malindacath, @cosplayingwitch, @starship-argo

Requested Taglist: @le-green-lion

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cabinofimagines · 2 years

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The Haunting of Camp-Halfblood, part one

Do you sometimes send “Poly!Solangelo ghost hunting” as a joke to your fellow admin bcus you hadn’t planned any Halloween fics yet and didn’t want to leave the first week empty? No? Well I did and it was a mistake on my part, because it started as a fun haha and now I have already written 3k words and am making it a two parter instead.

Pairing: Poly!Solangelo x reader, Will Solace x Gn!Reader x Nico di Angelo Request: No, expect by my inner demons. Warnings: Spoopy vibes, but not too scary? There are ghosts so ye Word Count: 2.1k

mlist - next >

-Asnyox

When Chiron summoned Nico to the Big House, Will and you were anxiously awaiting Nico’s return. You had asked Nico to teach the both of you some Mythomagic so you could play together and were rudely interrupted by Austin taking Nico away. Will was just talking to you about how it was unfair that his dad only had an advantage against flying opponents as Nico ran up to you, holding his sword and a purple pouch in his hands.

“Camp is haunted.” He heaved, taking a second to catch his breath.“What do you mean Camp is haunted?” You exclaimed as Nico grabbed both your and Will’s hands.“Camp is haunted!” And everything went black.

──────────────────────

As your senses returned to you, you noticed you were in Rachel’s cave, right outside the border of camp. You blinked a few times, before you noticed both your boyfriends were already checking up on you.

“How are you doing? Feeling alright?” Will asked as he softly cupped your cheek and looked you in the eyes. You nodded, leaning into his touch as he nodded in response. You looked over at Nico, seeing distress on his face.

“Sorry, I know you don’t like shadow travel, but we had to be quick.” He apologized and you stood up and put a hand on his arm.

“It’s alright, what’s going on?” you asked, and Nico relaxed a bit.

“Long story short, Alabaster and Paolo had found these crystals,” he held up a purple bag with a green string, “while they were out of camp, and using a spell of some sorts they accidentally let out the souls these crystals were holding.” You slowly nodded your head, urging Nico to go on, “So, this resulted in camp being haunted, and as they were explaining this to me, the ghosts took a hold of their bodies- which honestly I did not think ghosts could do anymore, but I suppose that’s why these particular ones were in these crystals.”

“They got possessed?” Will asked and Nico sighed as he nodded.

“Cool!” You exclaimed, “Sucks, but still cool.” You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood a bit, “Anyways, how do we fix it?” you asked, “I am assuming we can’t leave camp haunted, right?”

“Can’t we? I don’t think it would make much of a difference as to how it is now” Nico joked, “It would be easier if anything.” You laughed but Will did not join in on the jokes, however.

“I think we have a serious issue right now, loves.” He sighed, being unable to hold back his smile, “I am assuming there is a strategy to this?” Nico nodded.

“We can get the ghosts back into the crystals simply by touching them with it, and if I can trust the package it came in it should seal them back into the crystals for good by using the code word ‘sigillum’, however,” Nico grimaced, “We need to first remove them from their hosts.”

───────────

By the time you had come up with some sort of strategy, it was already turning dark. Nico had listed the pros and cons of starting the rescue when it’s dark, the most important pro being that the ghosts would be more visible once they were outside of their hosts. The sun was setting slowly, and it was still a few hours before curfew. You had to try and be done before then, because with the harpies on your back you could kiss your victory goodbye. With this in mind, you and Will divided the crystals between the two of you, 3 crystals each. You felt nerves creep up as a fluttering in your chest. Will quickly squeezed your arm as the both of you split apart.

You would have liked to say that the plan was simple, but a big part of it was built around assumptions and luck. Although, arguably most of demigod life was built around those two aspects. The first part of the plan had been sealing the borders around camp. At one point, with Nico losing control sometimes when he is upset, you had Alabaster teach you some easy sealing spells, to trap any undead in a temporary prison. At the time, you had feared how Nico would take it. You didn’t want him to think you feared him, so as you nervously told him you did not meet his eyes. Instead of him getting angry, he softly grabbed your hand, cupped your cheek and thanked you, a small smile on his face and a bit red in the cheeks.

However, neither of you had thought it would come handy like this. Doing the spell this big did tire you, and you were nervous about whether it worked, but you had to at least hope it contained the ghosts within camp. You couldn’t have them possessing innocent mortals.

The second part of the plan depended on separating the ghosts so you would tackle one at a time- trying to not have Nico overexert himself as he will need to pull the ghosts out of their hosts, before both Will and you try to catch it in a crystal as quickly as possible. However, entering camp was dangerous because Nico only knew of two possessions: Alabaster and Paolo. He had run as soon as he noticed two souls in each of their bodies, but he was not sure about whether the ghosts could possess Chiron or not. You all had hoped not, for that would be a tough one to take on.

The other four ghosts could still be looking for hosts and although you rather not have anyone possessed, you hoped they had found four other campers already. If you knew the body in which the ghost was, you could at least be sure it would need to expose itself before being able to possess one of you three, giving you a small opportunity to capture the ghosts. You weren’t sure how hard it was for the ghosts to jump bodies, so you could not possibly know who was on your side. The three of you were each walking near each other, scanning the camp for any movement.

The Big House was near the camp border, and although it was a place that most definitely held a ghost, it also held your only option as to get rid of your curfew deadline. It was a gamble, but you really hoped that they only left one person to guard the Big House.

As you made your way onto the deck, you crouched down, slowly walking towards a window in hopes of peaking in. Nico sat against the wall, waiting for a sign, as Will tried checking the other window for any signals of life. Will had not expected to be faced with Paolo however, and he let out a yelp as he scrambled away, just before a hand wrapped in green punched through the window.

Immediately you were on your feet, running past Nico as you grabbed your sword and held it in front of you. Will sprung on his feet behind you. You shot Nico a quick look, and he nodded. Your hand went to your pocket as you grabbed a crystal, ready for whatever was to come. Paolo stepped out of the window, breathing heavily.

“Paolo, if you are in there,” you gulped as he glared at you, his eyes filled with a void, “I am sorry if I hurt you.” you said as you stepped forward. You wanted to distract him, so Nico and Will could get him.You stepped closer to Paolo, but he barely seemed to care as he lurched for you. You quickly sidestepped and hit him with the blunt of your sword on his head, knocking him to the ground. Before he got the chance to get up, you jumped on him, holding him down with all your body weight, both of his hands restrained. You made eye contact with Nico.

“Go!” you urged him and a look of focus came on his face. As Paolo started to struggle against your hold, you let your sword drop, tightening your grip on his arms. You could see the ghost being pulled out of Paolo, there was a lack of facial features, yet you felt as if its grim smile had a hold on your body. You felt its cold non-corporeal form pass through your hands and into the air above you. As the ghost took shape before you, your arms weakened and your chest tightened. You should get away! Run! But- it was as if it was trying to suck out all your life-force, solely with the holes that should have held eyes.

The ghost disappeared, replaced with Will standing there, muttering ‘sigillum’. It was as if a soft wind blew over you, feeling yourself no longer restrained by whatever that was. You wanted to chalk it up to fear- you were just caught off guard right? This was the first ghost after all, so now you knew what to expect. You noticed how Paolo was passed out beneath you, as if in some kind of slumber. He would probably wake up in due time. You tried to get up looking unbothered by what just occurred, however there was still some remaining numbness in your limbs making you stumble.

“You alright?” Nico asked worriedly, he wanted to make sure that the ghosts didn’t hurt you too much. In his opinion you got way too close this time. You nodded and tried to send a reassuring smile. “It just caught me off guard,” you took a breath, “didn’t think the ghost would scare me that much? I’ll be fine, let’s see if we can find Chiron.” Will silently grabbed your hand and squeezed. Nico protectively stepped to your other side, as a guard. He was trying to give some sort of comfort as you made your way inside. He didn’t like that he didn’t manage to prevent the ghost from coming so close to you, but you had to keep Paolo down. Nico really hoped the other ghosts would be easier to catch, but he feared for the worse.

The three of you were on guard as you entered the Big House. You first passed through the infirmary, which was entirely empty (who was on infirmary duty today?), and as you made your way to Chiron’s office, nothing happened. The door was closed, and Will stepped forward to open it.

“Careful, we don’t know who’s in there.” you warned your boyfriend as he put his hand on the handle. “I only sense one soul in there, so I think there aren’t any ghosts in there,” Nico noted as he put his hand on your lower back, the gesture meant to calm you. You shot him a thankful look and focused back on the door, the pressure of Nico’s hand grounding you a little.

As Will opened the door, you were met with the sight of Chiron with tied up legs. “Ah, young Nico, I see you have come back.” Chiron greeted you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Nico seemed embarrassed. “I had my priorities,” he simply said as the three of you started working on untying Chiron. “I understand your partners are very important to you,” Chiron noted, “However, I have to ask how you defeated young Paolo? Or is he still possessed?”

“He’s down for the count, but we have the ghost in this crystal.” Will got the crystal out of his pocket, and shook it a little before showing it to Chiron. You noticed how by doing so, the shine in the crystal moved around. You imagined that this was the ghost, in its little house, being shaken around until it got sick. Payback for trying to fight you. Chiron inspected the crystal, and the centaur nodded in approval.

“So the three of you have a plan then,” Chiron looked at you, now freed from his bindings. “I would like to request you to get rid of this haunting. See it as a quest!” His tone feigned excitement as all three of you grimace. You weren’t too surprised by this, but that did not mean it sucked any less.

Chiron agreed to inform the harpies that they were off-duty tonight, giving you a bigger timeframe to find the ghosts in. Instead of a mere 4 hours, you were now in for a whole night of pain and fun!

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the-dragon-with-thegirl-tattoo · 7 months

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Is There A Ghost

Pairings : Elvis Presley x Austin Butler

Tags : Spooky, Halloween, Ghost sex

🎃👻❤️‍🔥

“Ouija: Mystifying Oracle,” Austin mumbled to himself with a chuckle that held far more annoyance than mirth, turning the box over in his hands, “two plus players.”

Well, if Austin had a ghost in his new house —Which he didn’t — he supposed there would be two players.

-or- Austin falls for the ghost haunting his house.

#elvis 2022 #elvis x austin #elvis presley x austin butler #halloween #spooky #spooktober #elvis presley #austin butler #my fic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction

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erzbethluna · 2 years

Text

“Come on, Snow, you can sleep on my couch. The wraiths don’t hang out in here.” - Carry On, Chapter 55.

Baz’s fangs first dropped while he was home for the summer. His family politely ignored the change, but the wraiths were less forgiving. - - - - - -

OMG GUYS I'm SO EXCITEDDDDDD!!!! This collab has been in the dark (lol) for sooooo long!!! I'm so happy is finally seeing the light (or the fire, I must say xD). This is the first of three illustrations I did for The Danse Macabre, an eerie spooky wonderful dark fic Demi had the amazing idea of writing. I was so thrilled by the snippet shared that I couldn't resist offering to make art for it. It was a challenge, because I'm not used to draw backgrounds, big spaces and horror in general, so I was terrified, but I can say I'm so happy with the result :D I'm so honored and humbled that Demi @hushed-chorus let me slip into her work, and I'm so thrilled that we could develop an amazing friendship from it :D Demi, I'm so proud of us!!!! You are an amazing person, writer and friend!!! This is definitely not the last time we work together :D To see the other two art pieces, please go read The Danse Macabre!! You'll love it as much as we do, guaranteed :) *pops the champagne*

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satashiiwrites · 2 years

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Eddie Diaz Ain’t ‘Fraid Of No Ghost, Chapter Three

Shorter chapter from Eddie’s POV.

Title: Eddie Diaz Ain’t ‘Fraid Of No Ghost, Chapter Three

Fandom: 911

Pairing: Buddie

Other tags/warnings: will have dubcon between Buck/ghost but not this part. Halloween fic 2022. Buck is being haunted. Buck whump.

Fic summary:

Eddie has long suffered his Abuela’s supersitions and practices. A fallen tortilla doesn’t mean someone’s coming to visit. Tuesdays are not inherently more unlucky because they fall on the thirteenth day of the month.

After this October, Eddie might have to be more careful about what he does and doesn’t believe. Especially if it’s hurting his best friend and partner.

Alternatively, Evan “Buck” Buckley’s Haunting. A Buddie Halloween fic for 2022.

Chapter summary: Eddie notes Buck isn’t sleeping and Chris is growing up way too fast.

Read Chapter Three here on AO3

#eddie diaz ain’t ‘fraid of no ghost #halloween fic #halloween fic 2022 #buck whump #eddie diaz #evan buckley #the haunting of evan ‘Buck’ buckley #buddie fic #buddie #911 fic #911 #chapter update #👻

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nildespirandum · 2 years

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Nora gets Loki out of Hell, the fun way.

18+ absolutely. This way to filth. Tags available on AO3.

I want to thank @caffiend-queen for listening to my whining about this chapter (which I am still doing, but on the inside) as well as giving me two lines to use as inspiration when I needed it :

These marks were unnecessary but they're here to remind you of who you belong to.

Couple that with a teenage-level sexual frustration...

The lemure, fallen souls, and lesser devils that made up Loki’s court now all turned their gaze to the witch where she again stood before Loki’s throne. He could see that they trembled and dripped and stifled whimpers of want by biting down on themselves or each other.

Over boundless time the pressure of his own punishment had turned them into a kind of extension of his own self. As he knew no satisfaction, as he was punished not so much for his betrayal of his fellow angels but for his contempt for the weakness of the flesh, they too, those who betrayed for lust, who harmed others for their own needs, were incapable of being satisfied.

Except…

Except there were rumors.

Rumors that the reason their Prince had not returned to rule them with the firmest hand and hardest cock was that somewhere, somehow, someone had mastered his ungovernable thirst, comforted the deep ache that sank from his balls to his heart, offered solace to the inconsolable grief that was the life of a devil, showered peace upon him, placed a cool hand upon his demonic fire and a warm touch on his angelic chill, and most of all, most impossibly, most terrifyingly, made him come.

They stared from the witch to Loki.

They stared from Loki to the witch.

Their Prince, his horns glowing black with heat, smiled at the witch, his forked tongue flickering out to scent the air, “I can taste you, even through the revolting miasma of these foul things, my witch. Salt and rosemary and wet cunt.”

He placed a long, taloned hand over his thigh, and drummed the tips of those claws along the seam of the suede leggings that tapered off where his goat’s leg started at the knee.

There was the silence of a held gasp. Each tap was terribly soft and clearly heard.

His phallus strained the thin leather, looking more naked for being barely covered. Each hard, irregular ridge of it was perfectly visible and several of the court were unable to restrain themselves. Crawling on their bellies, begging at his hooves.

Loki used them as he might a carpet, to not soil himself with the filthy stone floor, walking across their backs, his sinuous body moving impossibly, and he towered over the witch, having to lean down to stare into her eyes, smiling.

“You’ve come to fetch me home.” It was not a question.

“Yes.”

He stood to his full height, slowly rubbing circles on his flat belly with the pads of his fingers, “But I am soooo full of the lustful frustration of my darling court,” here he turned and ran the tip of a claw up the cheek of a grey-skinned female demon, drawing blood and making her fall to the ground, humping the air, “I fear I could not make the climb back to the human world.”

His touch circled lower and he teasingly brushed the head of his cock, so it jumped and strained and grew harder so that the very tip peaked from the waist of his trews and he slowly lapped up the blood from the demon’s face off his claw. Head falling back, Loki’s mouth opened in a wide grin as he pinched himself.

One black pearl of sperm rolled down the fingers of his pinching, teasing hand and splattered to the ground and five lemure fought over the right to lick it up.

The witch didn’t look away. Instead, she reached out and grabbed that pinching hand, opening it flat. On the palm was a scar, a thick curve, the opening to facing left, with a crossing piece near the top, all serifed, made by a devilish claw. The Enochian symbol that most closely translated to the Latin script N.

“Do you remember when you made this, husband? It was after all eight of the Erotes showed up to seduce you en mass, you carved this into your own hand so that no matter how many beautiful Greek love gods were fluttering around you with their dicks out you would remember. At the time I thought you were just being dramatic, that these marks were unnecessary but they're here to remind you of who you belong to. Me.”

The court all reared back, a rather maidenly gasp coming from them all at once. The rumors were true.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Nora knew where this was going.

It was going where everything went with Loki. This time it was going there on a bullet train, complete with other passengers

Even as she was surrounded by the demons, lost souls, and… other things that made up the prisoners of Loki’s little corner of hell it was as if they were alone together. That was their little trick, a trick that survived Loki’s newest shape change into an eight foot tall pure demon, that when they wanted to be alone they would be even in a crowd. Just her, and him, and who they were together.

She needed to believe that, otherwise she was going to be stuck in this little corner of Hell for hundreds of years with Loki and his toys and it was going to suck. In the bad way. Because everything here was bad. The smell, the decor, and couple that with a teenage-level sexual frustration that was the constant state of every creature who lived in the Abyss, and it was going to be very hard for even Nora to maintain her typical good nature and sense of humor.

There was nothing for it. She was going to have to fuck Loki right out of Hell, even if it was in front of an audience, which meant she had to be very much in control.

Looking at him, fully demon in a way that he could not manifest in the human world, Nora found herself trying to concentrate on that being in control business. Or on anything.

As he was, familiar and utterly alien at once, perfuming the air with musk-like incense, like himself, impossibly different, frightening in a way he had never been, never could be, when in the human world. Her husband and a stranger.

Beautiful and weird and disturbing and comforting.

Both of whom she could do anything she wanted to.

Nora wanted many things.

Her nipples were painfully tight, her cunt swollen to aching, her own frustration at the situation and at her desire to lower herself on that highly inhuman cock and rock back and forth as well as her annoyance at once again not being able to spend a quiet Halloween at home, and the heavy, yet racing beat of her heart timed with the same beat from between her legs made her want to bite something.

So she lifted the massive hand, with its long claws and its extra joints, sucked two of the fingers, still wet with black sperm that tasted of smoke and cardamom, her own eyes rolling back as they traced over her tongue and then bit. Hard. Hard enough to make Loki moan, hard enough to make a whining sound of frenzy and fury rise amongst his thralls, hard enough to draw blood that tasted like port wine and poison.

Hard enough that her husband fisted through her hair, lifted her so her legs found the place they longed to be wrapped about his waist, and stared into her eyes, his own glowing with a heat beyond red, beyond blue, burning with black Hellfire.

“Bad girl. I know you can bite harder.”

They were on his throne, and Loki was coiled about her, his long body letting him enwrap her entirely so she was being touched everywhere.

His arms had extra joints.

His new, extra-long arms had extra joints!

For whatever reason, that got into Nora’s head and wouldn’t stop repeating itself. The extra movement in the hips, the cloven hooves, even the new cock were within the realm of what she would expect from her Incubus, and certainly the fingers too. Loki was all about style and range of motion, and while yes - her brain spun as she felt his arms coil about her impossibly - this was an increased range of motion it was also too far beyond human for her vain husband.

The hand she wasn’t alternately sucking on and making a chew toy of entered her from the front, scratching its way between their bellies and then her legs, not teasing, not toying, thrusting in, his claws making his fingers like a spade, and had she not been ready it would have hurt, Nora knew that. But though it didn’t, it was invasive, unfamiliar because those fingers were now long and impossibly jointed to match his arms.

Using those unnatural joints and his already unnatural strength, he turned her, so she faced the crowd, his muscled thighs spreading her legs.

Enveloping black flames rolled down her body, turning her clothing, other than her boots, into ash. The fire took its time, stroking her with an unsatisfying thoroughness that left Nora humping his generous hand, unable to stop herself.

The crowd cooed and moaned and wailed.

Nora froze, and Loki made a hrumphing noise, then spoke calmly. “Set your faces silently to the earth.”

As one the assembled crowd of monsters, the damned, and demons all fell face down and didn’t move again.

“There, little witch,” and Nora did feel rather small, for if her Fallen Angel husband was tall, her Demon Lover was out of human proportion, “they can hear, they can smell, but they cannot see. Does that ease you?”

He crooned and nuzzled, and licked a fine line as he continued her undoing.

Enwrapped impossibly, she could not evade the other hand that now slithered from her mouth and wrapped about her neck from behind so the claws on that hand pricked the spot where his hoof had pierced the soft place under her chin.

At the same moment, the nails on the hand within her scratched gently, abrading across every especially tender spot in her cunt, so that she could feel it even after he had moved on to the next. Unable to stop herself she tried to jump, to squirm.

“Now, now, witch,” the hell-fire of his breath blew hot enough to be cold against her ear, “you will damage yourself if you don’t. Stay. Still.” His arms wrapped harder, anchoring her against him, his cock split her behind so it nestled hard against her, throbbing against her asshole, and his tail reaching about so the fine point of its tip stroked her clit softly and barely, like it was an irritable kitten it was hoping to gentle.

The wet dripped out of her, falling past his hand where it hissed on the hot ground. Nora felt far from gentle, being touched so little yet so insistently, unable to do anything to get more pressure or less, enduring as her muscles clenched and sweat soaked her, and him. The hair on his legs scratched and tickled, his tongue, forked and impossibly long, teased into her ears with a shallow fucking motion.

Turning her head, he kissed her, that tongue stroking the overly sensitive skin inside of her lips until it was unbearable and then snaked farther and farther until she was suckling on it as if it were as sweet as his cock.

His tail rewarded her with sharp, rhythmic taps that matched her suck.

Her one hand was free enough to dig into his side, with still enough fine salt dusting her fingers to hurt beautifully, making Loki hiss into her mouth, his tongue slithering away so he could speak.

“How many places shall I take you?”

Nora shook her head, hard. The delicious, overwhelming desire, need, hunger, drive, craving, wanting, starvation that Loki had always woven through her, through them, was weak fucking tea compared to what was going on now. Not merely because of the changes in his body, the overactive Incubus pheromones, or the resonance echoing from the ever-unfulfilled passions that made up his court.

Though none of that helped.

Biting down on her own lower lip until the salt of her blood filled her mouth, through which she whispered a few lines of a song from The Wave Pictures ( I used to be the most argumentative little man/ I used to be argumentative and I still am… ) as an incantation that gave her back enough brain to say -

“I’m the one taking.”

The words splattered a bit of her blood on his lovely face, with them her intent.

Loki was infinitely more powerful than she was, especially so in Hell. Or would have been, if not for that mark on his hand. The mark he’d insisted on, no doubt for fearing moments just like this.

He licked his lips clean of her blood, and the sigil on his hand flared with white fire and his back arched and his pupils dilated past his glowing red corneas, turning the whole of his eyes black with the need to see more of her. When his eyes were like that Nora was reasonably sure he could see her soul. His arms loosened just enough that she could turn, to straddle him, her knees digging painfully into the carved metal of his throne, her wet barely teasing the head of his cock.

Even seated, he was so tall that Nora had to reach up a little to grasp his horns. They scorched her hands, the pain breathtaking, making her cunt clench for want of anything to hold.

Loki’s talons sunk into the arms of his throne, the metal shrieking.

“Beg me,” Nora said. Or she thought she did. She couldn’t get enough air to speak.

Instead, Loki being as stubborn as she was, jerked his hips up and impaled her.

Now she truly didn’t have any air, all of it forced out of her as Loki’s hips, his unnatural muscles, caused his torso to ripple and wave, making his cock move impossibly within her. That cock, no longer the one she knew and had worshiped and played with and mastered over and over, already strangely shaped now seemed to…

It was…

It was reforming within her. Ridges and whorls and bumps forming in places where she hadn’t known she needed them, where she probably hadn’t needed until she came to his demesne. Growing to the point of being unbearable, thick enough that she was forced to spread impossibly wider, even as it pushed so deep she now rested on his thighs, holding on for dear life as he moved like a snake on meth.

And silent.

If there was no greater proof that he was altered it was that he’d been quiet for well over ten minutes. The demon in him was holding on for dear life.

This wasn’t either the melting pleasure or the fiery wildness they shared, or any of the other million variations between them. This was a lust that came from having nothing like satisfaction. Every stroke within her, deep or shallow, in an impossible rhythm, made her burn and writhe and the sound of their bodies together was obscene and violent.

Yet all of it not quite enough to get either of them off. As was the way of Hell.

His eyes stared off at some empty place that Nora knew was really inside of him.

In retaliation she ground down, her clit punishing itself on the silky hair and hard muscle above his cock, her mouth capturing his, kissing him hard, making him kiss her, not just fuck her mouth with that amazing tongue, making him look at her with those black eyes.

For a moment, she thought he couldn’t see her.

The pleasure rose within her, and rose and rose, growing to agony. By the gritting of his fangs and the spittal at the corner of his mouth, Loki wasn’t in much better shape. The only difference is it wouldn’t kill him.

She pulled his horns, which spat and sizzled with Hellfire, the sparks catching his hair which burned but did not char and when she whispered his name, with soft love and little desperation, he saw her. Once again, in those perfectly black eyes, she saw Loki.

“Nora…”

He saw her, too.

His tail snaked around both of them, wrapping them together over and over, a sweet bit of bondage made cheeky, made Loki by that hard tip finding a way to tease her nipples.

“I am going to take us home, my love,” each word was pushed out of her by the impact of his cock bottoming out in her, “now.”

With the words ‘us’ and ‘home’ and ‘my’ and ‘love’ Loki, demon prince, King of the Sex Demons, trembled. And that tremble, that sweet weakness that belonged to her alone, fluttered and juttered and throbbed through Nora and she ground down harder and completely and came, begging and babbling and all but falling off except they were so tightly bound.

Loki’s head whipped up, to stare at her with astonishment, the rarest thing from her jaded lover. A gasp, like the sound of wildfire, crossed through the members of his court, their faces still kissing the ground.

“That’s right,” she nodded to him, kissing him through the rest of her orgasm, while in that tiny space between them that allowed all but no motion she rode him, with implacable purpose and taking his face in her hands, staring at his beauty and his strangeness, Nora watched Loki give himself utter over to her.

When he finished, weak and smiling with an open mouth, Loki kissed her nose, and leaned his forehead to hers.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Like that they stayed, silent and smiling, forehead to forehead, as Pandemonium failed to ensue about them.

Loki gently rubbed his nose against Nora’s, and then her cheek, and down her neck, burying himself in the well of her shoulder as he every muscle unlock and soften, holding her closer, more tenderly and yet somehow, in one of those mysteries of love that he was still unable to understand, somehow more firmly for that tenderness.

Nora touched his cheek, “Say something.”

“What?”

“Anything, You aren’t you without running commentary.”

“My treasure, my sweet witch, are you saying that I talk too much? Because I can assure you that there have been Maharajahs who have begged for me to even clear my throat for them. Peter the Great once threatened to behead an entire village if I stopped reciting a five-thousand-stanza poem I wrote about stonemasonry. He was quite passionate on the topic. The High Priestess of Fallen Ur once walked barefoot through the desert to have me tell her every one of my thoughts and feelings on the best type of honey. And its best uses,” he dropped his voice, “of course.”

“Of course,” she laughed.

He pulled her closer, should closer have been possible.

Even as he did so, Loki was aware, around the sound of his own voice, that the Pandemonium had not merely failed to ensure, but something else was happening entirely. Peeking over Nora’s shoulder he saw that the members of his court were all still on the ground as he had ordered them, but they were no longer rock still, noses pressed to the filthy earth, trying to still their trembles of desire.

They were…

Asleep.

Every lost soul, demon, lemure, damned creature, and day-tripping Goth was sleeping.

With smiles of relief on their faces.

It was impossible. No one was allowed to sleep in Hell. More than that, for all intents and purposes sleep, or even rest, did not exist as achievable states within the Fiery Pit. His own torment meant Lucifer could not so much as close His burning eyes, let alone achieve a bit of comforting oblivion.

And if the Bossman didn’t sleep, neither could anyone else.

Loki was inclined to believe that the chief reason that the members of the Infernal Host didn’t mind being summoned by humans was that being in the Realms of Man meant they could catch 40 winks now and then. In his case, as one of the Fallen, he’d only been able to roll over and go to sleep since Nora, but he’s always enjoyed lounging about in bed despite that.

But now….

Oh now….

Not only were the members of his court blissfully snoring away - well, not actually snoring, since none of them breathed but the metaphor was good - but Loki was aware of how far the sleeping quiet stretched out. Far beyond the iron doors of his redoubt and deep into caverns of Dis and further.

“Uh, oh.”

“What?” Nora asked, turning to look, wincing slightly since he was still in her and she had to be raw.

“Do you remember when we fucked Chicago to a standstill?”

“Best snow day ever,” she said. Then she turned back to look at him, wide-eyed, “No!”

Loki looked into her bright brown eyes and nodded, knowing he should be concerned but not able to stop himself from smiling and nodding with pure arrogance, “Oh, yes. Yes, we did. Everyone is asleep, everyone is having a moment of rest. Of respite. Thanks to the dare I say halo effect from your magnificent cunt.”

“Oh, man…” carefully extricating herself from him with more winces and groans, Nora stood, her boots echoing loudly in the unnatural silence. “We better get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Loki wanted to laugh at that, but she was right, or rather, belatedly right. They were already in terrible trouble. For one, it was rather well past his expiration date for leaving Hell. He was stuck in his little corner of the Pit for nearly a millennium, maybe more. Even worse, asleep as the Damned and the Damners may be, there was one creature other than the two of them that was awake within Perdition.

“Gelusael.”

The voice was not loud, for it needed not to be. Had Loki blood in his veins rather than ichor it might have frozen solid or burned away to steam. Since the Fall only Nora had called him by his true name and hearing it in the voice of a fellow Angel was an agony that he refused to show.

“Is that… Lucifer?” Nora asked, not turning to look towards the now open door to his throne room, but covering herself with an arm across her breasts and a hand shielding her sex. Her short hair drifted in the cold winds that came from those opened doors and, debauched and smudged and covered in red marks and bruises from their attentions to each other, her eyes resolute, she was more beautiful than he could bear.

Loki flicked his eyes over her, dressing her in her favorite plain black dress and a witches hat with a brim broad enough to shield her from the sight of heaven, had it not been too late for that.

“I wish. Lucy’d be a piece of piss by comparison.”

Turning on his heel, and changing into a pine velvet court suit from the 18th century since it would best show off his cloven hooves - which he found he had rather missed once he had them back, though they did limit one’s choice of shoe - he took off his feather trimmed tricorn and executed a bow elaborate enough to be insulting.

“Welcome to Hell, Michael,” he said to his Brother Angel, “I haven’t seen you since you tossed me out of heaven. How was the trip?”

The Golden Favoritest Boy of their Father (after pretty Lucy had become such a disappointment) frowned mightily, “I have words for you Gelusael. Words that cannot be spoken in this place.”

Nora moved next to Loki, and took his hand.

Lifting his spear, he tapped the butt end down, the visible waves of sound echoing and echoing and echoing through the slumbering Caverns of Gahanna. And when they fell silent, they were standing in the living room of Nora’s little bungalow, having missed Halloween yet again.

Incubus!Loki and the rest of the Gang will be back in A Grimoire for the Holidays. See you then....

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