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[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls' Night #9

With the arrival of the Court of Owls, the Clock Tower and Bat-Comms were the first to go dark. Bruce, Babs, and Tim worked tirelessly to bring everything back online, but no matter what they tried, the only signal that got through was the same ominous message, looping, repetitive, and mocking.

With her systems down and no access to her network, Barbara reluctantly stepped back, taking over Dick’s room at Titans Tower in Bludhaven, staying on call while Nightwing returned to Gotham’s front lines.

She wasn’t handling it well. For the first time in years, she felt truly useless.

There was only one solution Raven, M’gann, and Kori could think of: A GIRLS NIGHT.

Although the two extraterrestrials and the demon had adapted to Earth customs over the years, none of them really knew what a proper girls' night was, just the general concept.

So when they arrived in their idea of “comfort clothes,” things got…

Strange. 

Princess Koriand’r showed up in traditional Tamaranian sparring gear, heavily revealing and practically nude Raven dressed practcally the same as usual just in PJ pants. Having read up on Earth games often played during girls’ nights, Raven came fully prepared to summon lesser demons to help comfort Babs, since she’d learned about rituals like Bloody Mary and Stiff as a Board.

And M’gann, being a more recent addition to Earth, hadn’t even heard of a girls’ night before, but knew they were forming this gathering to cheer up Babs, so she prepared for a Martian mind-meld ritual where they could all confront this strife as one.

All of it was a bit... overwhelming for Barbara.

“This is… a little different than I expected when you said girls’ night,” Babs laughed nervously. “Usually, back in Gotham, it’d just be takeout, too much wine, and karaoke until someone cried. But this is really appreciated… I’ll give your version a shot,” she added, forcing a smile behind eyes that still ached.

“We will have you feeling better in no time, friend Barbara!” Korri exclaimed, swooping in with a sudden, crushing hug. Babs’ face turned bright red as it was pressed squarely between the Tamaranian’s barely-covered chest.

“I am so glad we can be here for you during your time of sorrow!”

Raven cleared her throat.

“So… when do we summon demons from a scrying mirror, sisters?” she asked flatly, testing the slang with clear uncertainty. “Is that an appropriate use of the term?”

With a flick of her wrist, she let her cloak fall open, revealing that underneath she donned soft flannel PJ pants and an oversized Wonder Woman shirt. From the folds of her cloak, she produced an assortment of ritual items: a black mirror, several candles, and a collection of small, carefully labeled vials.

“Yassss, sister. I haven’t played Bloody Mary since I was a kid…” Babs said with a slight smile, then paused, thinking it through.

“Wait. Is this actually going to work? You’re a legit sorceress with actual demon ties. I thought Bloody Mary was just, like… a way to scare your friends with a fake demon?!”

She was starting to panic.

“I assure you,” Raven replied with a proud smirk, “most humanoids will find these entities quite scary.”

Her eyes flashed black as the candles burst to life in sudden, piercing white flames.

“Shall we begin?”

“M-maybe we wait…” Babs stammered, holding up her hands. “Unless you all have your minds completely set on this.”

M’gann and Kori both clapped excitedly, cheering Raven on with wide, eager smiles.

It was already too late.

The vials began to swirl, their contents mixing into a red mist that poured onto the surface of the mirror. Raven muttered in tongues, her voice layered and unnatural, as the lights around them flickered violently.

Then, without warning, a clawed beast erupted from the glass, launching itself straight at Babs.

She let out a bloodcurdling scream, trying to roll away, but her chair tipped and crashed to the floor. Panic overtook her. The fear in her eyes welled into tears until the thing got close enough.

Acting on pure instinct, Babs swung with all her strength and punched the demon in the groin.

The creature collapsed to the ground with a groan.

“What the heck, dude,” it wheezed, clutching itself in pain.

As the lights turned back on, Korri, Raven, and M’gann began laughing. It was clear that there was no demon but simply Beast Boy in the form of a green version of the Kryptonian Flamebird that he had once seen on a Titan field trip to the Fortress of Solitude. He slowly retook the form of Garfield Logan as Raven and M’gann helped Babs back up in her chair, still laughing, 

“Sorry, Babs, but you said it yourself it was supposed to be a fake demon to scare your friends… we both know you wouldn’t of fell for Bloody Mary.”

Babs was still shaking, a little bit of tears still streaming, she slowly began laughing too. She was starting to have fun,

“I’ll admit that was pretty funny… next time, Garfield won’t be the only one getting hurt though… sorry B-Boy”

“It’s all cool Babs just… goddamn I forgot how good of a right hook you had… I’m going to go get some ice.” 

Babs, still regaining her center, chuckled nervously, “What comes next?”

“Pizza, wine, karaoke?” laughed Raven.

They comfortably partied through the night. Getting wasted, forgetting about the Court. For now.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

A return to Girls Night soon just need a break from writing slow existential dread. Court of Owls 4 will come out some time after Girls Night 9

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Court of Owls #3

Lucky enough, the others returned safely on their own at dawn.

The comms never came back online, but whatever they’d gone through was enough to nearly kill them.

The silence wasn’t peaceful, it was haunting.

Using footage from both trips into the cave, they slowly identified each statue. Uriah was the first, clearest by far, caught on camera when Damian broke his spear and used it as a bow staff.

To the right of Uriah’s statue: a man with four throwing knives, one in each hand.

The next: a woman, taller, with what the blurry footage made out as a flail.

Then came a much taller statue: thin, angular with a longbow slung over his back.

To his right stood a broader man, bulkier, with a Nathan Starr short sword at his side.

Each statue looked slightly newer than the last.

Then they saw it.

The final one.

The statue of a man holding two Francisca hatchets, unfinished. The details on the owl mask weren’t carved yet. Part of the legs were still just a block of stone, untouched.

It looked like someone had rushed out of there mid-sculpt, like something ancient had come back, and the artist ran before finishing the newest Talon.

It took hours, digging through old murder files and assassination reports, but Bruce and Constantine eventually pieced it together.

Bruce gathered the family.

“What you fought tonight was the first Talon,” Bruce said, eyes dark.

“Uriah Boone. Active during the early 1600s, possibly as far back as the 1580s.

A colonel of the Crown, stationed during Gotham’s first settlement.

Known confirmed kills: dozens.

Estimated kills: possibly thousands.”

He pulled up files, flipping through grainy scans, aged sketches, and court records.

“The other statues match other suspected Talons.

Ephraim Newhouse: 1660s. A street rat who somehow got rich. Made his kills with throwing knives. Quick. Clean. Deadly.

Patience Gordon: 1710s. Survived the witch trials. Saved from a hanging. Became infamous for brutal public executions in an owl mask. Her kills were slow. Vicious. There’s a real chance the witch rumors had truth to them.

Silas Haywood: 1770s. Butcher turned sharpshooter during the Revolution. Long-range specialist. He could pick off targets from rooftops or miles out in the woods with bows and firearms alike.

Henry Ballard: 1810s. Short sword user. Quiet. Mysterious. All we know is the trail of bodies and the money he left behind.

And finally... Alexander Staunton: 1850s. Dual Francisca hatchets. Last confirmed Talon to operate before the Court disappeared. Only one ever caught by the GCPD. Executed. But his body vanished from the morgue. Same week the Gotham Quake hit.

Something we now suspect may have been Swamp Thing related.”

Bruce sighed.

“We have no idea if the others will return too… Jason nearly died saving Damian from just one.”

His voice dipped lower.

“Gods forbid they all awake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was the kind that pressed in from every side.

The kind that screamed without sound.

It had become the norm lately… these long stretches of quiet between them.

A silence filled with unsaid fears, with doubt, with questions no one wanted to be the first to ask.

Among a family of tacticians, each capable of going toe-to-toe with metahumans and gods…

That kind of silence was more terrifying than any Talon.

Dick finally broke it.

Voice even. Face hard. But eyes… eyes exhausted.

“What’s the plan, Bruce?”

“Do we have any ideas?”

And the silence returned once more.

“Not yet,” Constantine said, his voice quieter than they’d ever heard it.

No sarcasm. No bite.

Even a man like him, snide and cynical to the core, could feel the weight in the room.

He didn’t dare mock it.

Not this fear.

Not this family.

Damian piped up.

“Father… I want to make it clear, I’m not falling back into old ways. That’s not what this is.”

All eyes turned toward him.

“But the Demon’s Head, the League of Assassins, they might give us a fighting chance. If we can convince them... even temporarily. An alliance.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Tense.

Bruce didn’t look up.

“No.”

Just one word. Flat. Final.

He didn’t explain. Didn’t argue.

He didn’t need to.

He was overwhelmed, and when that happened, Bruce Wayne didn’t process. He shut down.

He took the feeling. Buried it. And walked through it his own way. His own way he considered the right way. It’s as if he didn’t repeatedly learn that was wrong over the last 30 years.

It was tense.

Damian was benched that night, left behind to watch over his injured brother, Jason.

That’s when they had their talk.

“Damian… my man,” Jason slurred, the formerly-dead Robin riding the edge of painkillers and cheap whiskey.

“You saved me last night. I see a lot of myself in you, little bro… but yeah. But…”

He took a breath, and didn’t quite look him in the eye.

“You almost killed that guy. And look… I’ve killed a lot of guys. Even the worst ones, child abusers, scumbag traffickers, all that. Doesn’t matter. It still eats at you.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

“You can’t be doing that, little bro. I’m not telling good ol’ Daddio Bruce, don’t worry… but that League of Ass—asshatins—whatever. You’re not going the Grandpappy route, right?”

Damian shook his head.

“No, Jason. I’m not. Truth is…I despise him. But his resources, his network… that kind of alliance might save the city. If Father would give it a chance.”

He paused. Looked him in the eye.

“Love you, bro. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in here sharpening my katanas, just in case. You can trust me.”

Jason blinked, almost surprised. Then let his head fall back onto the pillow.

“I… I love you too,” he muttered, barely audible.

As much as Bruce hated having more people on the street than himself, he knew he was in no state to patrol.

The Bat-Family was stretched thin, every member scattered across the city.

No comms. No coordination.

Just blind hope they’d all return to the cave by morning.

And Bruce hated that.

That night, Tim took Crime Alley.

And he was the first to meet Uriah Boone again.

Tim didn’t hesitate.

He charged, bow staff in hand.

Two clean hits, one to each wrist.

The Talon took them without flinching, raising his arms to shield his face.

Then, with one fluid motion, he grabbed the staff!

Twisting it from Tim’s hands like it was nothing.

Behind the cracked, ancient mask…

Tim could feel the Talon smiling.

Even if he couldn’t see it.

He could feel it.

Tim backed off fast, instincts flaring.

Something in his gut screamed, not human. Not anymore.

And then he saw it.

The sai.

Still lodged where collarbone met neck… Damian’s.

Buried in ancient flesh.

The Talon noticed his hesitation.

And struck.

The stolen bow staff cracked across Tim’s leg!-

The sound was sickening.

Bone. Shattered.

Tim hit the ground, gasping, stunned,

But alive.

He left him alive.

That, more than the pain, was what terrified Tim the most.

Uriah stepped forward, calm as ever, and dropped something onto Tim’s chest.

A folded letter.

Heavy parchment.

Sealed with deep red wax, marked with an owl sigil.

It was addressed in careful, old-fashioned handwriting:

“To the Wayne Family.”

And then Uriah was gone.

They knew.

The real question was, what does this mean?

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

More cover arts with song names as subheadings

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

The Court of Owls #2

Within days, the Clocktower went dark.

Every screen, every single one, flashed B-Roll of a barn owl gliding silently across a black background, its wings ghosting through grainy static. Over it played a distorted audio file: a child's voice, warped and echoing, reciting a rhyme in fractured cadence:

"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,

Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,

Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the Talon for your head."

Not Barbara. Not Bruce. Not Tim.

None of them could crack the signal. Not yet.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t just a message.

It was a warning.

The Bat-Family had gone too deep.

And the fight was only just beginning.

Reluctantly, they reached out to Constantine again.

“I’ve heard this rhyme before,” he muttered, disinterested. “Piss off and I’ll find its source.”

And with that, he vanished.

Three days passed. The Bat-Family spread thin across Gotham. Patrols doubled. Sleep dwindled. Paranoia climbed even higher than usual. Every shadow was a threat. Every whisper, a warning.

Then, on the fourth night, Bruce’s first scheduled rest in days, Constantine returned.

He appeared in the manor without tripping a single alarm, slipping past the cameras, the motion sensors, even Alfred’s instincts. By the time Bruce stirred awake, the smell of cigarette smoke was already in the room.

Constantine stood at the foot of the bed, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a tattered old newspaper.

He didn’t bother with a greeting.

“Beware ye the Owl,

Eyes that follow you so.

Ruling over New Gotham

From a cave abode.

They watch when you walk,

From bankers to women of the docks.

Speak not their name—

Or the Talon, Boone, will make you game.”

Bruce blinked, groggy, his mind already parsing the words.

“The New Gotham Gazette, 1602,” Constantine continued. His voice rasped like ash. “Last paper published before the press burned down. This rhyme was printed on the final page, below the obits, can you believe that? Took me half a week and two favors I’d rather forget to find it.”

Bruce sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What does that mean for us?”

Constantine exhaled smoke. “I don’t know yet, you bloody bat. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

He gestured to the paper like it was obvious. “You’re the world’s greatest detective, yeah? Then help me figure it out, moron.”

Meanwhile, across the city:

Carrie and Tim patrolled the northwest, near the Gotham NJ-Metropolis NY border.

Steph and Dick swept through the center, between Crime Alley and the banking district.

Jason and Damian worked the southeast, down by the docks.

Jason and Damien were the first to see him.

Uriah Boone.

The first Talon to be released in centuries, perhaps the first Talon. The oldest one still etched in surviving records.

He moved like death that had remembered how to walk.

His hair hung long and white, streaked like it had been bleached by Lazarus waters. It spilled from beneath an ancient owl mask, cracked and yellowed with time.

His coat, a bloodstained red it looked like something pulled from a British soldier’s grave. His boots were pitch black, too polished, almost untouched. But the stench that poured off him told a different story.

He smelled like rot. Like a hundred years of it.

Damian froze. He recognized him… the statue. The robed figure from the cave. The one he had taken the stone spear from during the Swamp Thing battle with Luthor.

Boone wasn’t a statue anymore.

He had been sleeping.

And now, he had awoken.

In a blink, Boone struck, flipping Jason off the dock with a brutal hit from the dull end of his handle, then spinning toward Damian. His weapon gleamed in the moonlight, a spear, polished and silver, humming with something unnatural.

Damian barely dodged.

The spear impaled the wood beside him, punching clean through the dock like paper.

This wasn’t going to be an easy fight.

This wasn’t like anything they’d fought before.

This… was a Talon. Something deadly. Only the first to reawake.

Damien took out his sais, wishing he’d brought his podao or one of his many swords.

The sais weren’t meant for defense. They were made for up-close, personal combat.

But right now, he had to make do.

He had to buy time. Jason needed to get back on his feet and back up here to help.

Damien tried calling in through his comms, but all he got was static.

Him and Red Hood were on their own.

And there was no guarantee they were getting out of this alive.

With every attack, every slash, every stab, Damien could feel it building.

He was getting closer to failure.

Fear was pulsing through him, screaming in his ears.

But he was raised in fear. Molded by it.

A Bat must not be consumed by fear.

Therefore a Bat must be stronger than the Owl.

Damien struck, one of his sais landed, burying deep in the tendon of the Talon’s leg.

He jumped back, buying himself precious seconds…

But he’d just lost a weapon.

What would cripple any normal man, Uriah simply shrugged off.

He ripped the blade from his leg and let it clatter to the dock.

Then charged again, another spear thrust, faster than before.

Damien wasn’t fast enough to dodge.

And for a second…

He was about to accept defeat.

Accept death.

But Jason was there.

Soaked in seawater, Jason took the hit instead—blocking the full impact with a grunt of pain.

Then, through sheer will, he headbutted Uriah mid-lunge, cracking the ancient owl mask wider than before.

It gave Damien just enough time to move.

With a yell, he drove his remaining sai into the Talon’s collarbone, forcing the monster back.

Boone retreated, snarling, leaving behind his weapon, still embedded in Jason’s shoulder.

Damien had saved his brother.

But in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t held back.

He’d almost broken the one rule.

Not that they even knew if Talons were truly alive.

Jason didn’t say a word.

He’d keep quiet about it, for the moment.

But there’d be a talk later.

For now, they needed to move.

To the cave. 

To save Jason and to get in contact with the others.

Stumbling in, bleeding, bruised, and barely upright, Jason and Damian were greeted by John Constantine and a sleep-deprived Bruce, hunched over ancient texts, eyes scanning for answers.

Their arrival made Bruce pause, only for a moment.

Then he saw it.

The gaping hole in Jason’s shoulder.

The pure silver spear still embedded in it.

He froze.

Damian didn’t wait.

He told them everything.

The ambush. The way the Talon moved. The broken comms.

The statue from the cave.

The spear.

The rot.

He creatively left out one detail of where his sai had landed.

Constantine groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“This complicates things a whole bloody lot.”

He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling.

“Do you even know how many statues were in that cave, kid?”

Damian hesitated. “Five… maybe six.”

Constantine swore under his breath.

Bruce stood up from his console, face tight, jaw clenched.

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to.

He had almost lost two sons tonight.

He turned back to the Batcomputer, fingers flying, eyes wild.

Damian stepped forward.

“That’s not the priority right now. We need the comms backup, and we need to bring the others in. Now.”

Not realizing thats exactly what his father was doing his best to do remotely.

Across the cave, Alfred gently removed the spear, carefully tending to Jason’s wound. Jason didn’t flinch. Just stared blankly ahead.

The silence was thick.

The tension, tighter than ever.

The realization hit all of them at once:

This was only the beginning.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

btw, still making more Girls Night issues, and when both Court of Owls and Girls Night wrap up, there will be Damien Bedtime Stories season 2. I just had a good lore idea for that third series, and it wouldn't work in the other 2 series, so I had to start a third series

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Court of Owls #1

The Justice League was holding its biannual strategy summit–six months since the last–with as many heroes in attendance as could make it. Present were the founding members alongside Barry Allen, Kara Starr, Billy Batson, Nathaniel Adam, Dan Garrett, Doctor Fate, Zatanna Zatara, the Phantom Stranger, Dinah Lance, Arthur Curry, Eel O’Brian, and Damian Wayne, present as his father’s ward.

Each hero took turns presenting reports: mission summaries, threat assessments, economic impact breakdowns, tallies of off-world or imprisoned threats, and updates on ever-looming dangers, Darkseid, Trigon, and others who hadn't struck yet.

Damian tuned most of it out.

He remembered something else: his solo patrol through Gotham, the night he ventured into the ancient swamp beneath the city and encountered the monster.

When the time felt right, he raised his hand.

“Some time ago, I came across a cursed creature in the swamps under Gotham. Doctor Fate had to bind it, but I believe the monster isn’t evil. Just… cursed. Misunderstood. Constantine once told the Catwoman about an ancient hex tied to that land.”

He glanced at Bruce before continuing.

“If it's all right with my father, I’d like to return there. The former villain Poison Ivy has agreed to help me. And I’m asking now if any of you who use magic are willing to join us, I’d like to try to help him. Free him. But not by force. I want to do it the right way. So that he may find peace and not destruction”

For a moment, the League said nothing.

Batman’s expression gave nothing away, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes.

Then the Phantom Stranger rose silently, phasing through the table, his hooded form drifting until he stood before the boy.

“I will accompany you, child,” the Stranger said, voice low and echoing. “Your heart speaks truth. Your cause is just.”

The others returned to discussing economics and logistics, boring details that made Damian’s ears ring. A few days after the meeting adjourned, the Phantom Stranger appeared again, this time phasing silently through the wall of the Batcave.

Tim, running on three hours of sleep and five cups of coffee, let out a strangled yell.

“Fucking Casper the Friendly Ghost is coming for my ass! Someone call the Ghostbusters!”

He bolted toward the elevator like a man possessed.

Damian, completely unbothered, walked calmly toward the apparition and extended a hand.

“Stranger,” he said, voice steady. “I appreciate your presence.”

The Stranger gave a single, solemn nod.

Robin threw on his helmet, hopped on the Bat-Bike, and tore off to pick up Ivy, his unlikely passenger for the day. The Phantom drifted silently after him, trailing like a shadow behind the roaring engine. 

They arrived outside Wayne Enterprises just as the sun began to dip below the skyline. Pamela Isley was stepping out, finishing her shift as Head of Agricultural Protection.

Damian was used to the legend of Ivy, old case files with photos of her draped in vines, red hair flowing, deep green boots and gloves, a leotard and leaf-patterned leggings. And then there were the more recent party pics, courtesy of his sisters, Pam in a leather jacket and tastefully scandalous outfits, always a drink in hand, always locked in a loving glare with Harley Quin.

But this? This version he barely recognized.

Hair tied back. Glasses. Lab coat over professional, muted slacks. She looked... normal, well outside of the green skin. And that, somehow, unsettled him more than the other versions.

She approached, gave the Phantom Stranger a quick glance (and raised eyebrow), then looked at Damian. 

“Boy Wonder,” she said, sliding onto the back of the bike like it was second nature. “What’s the plan?”

“I tracked Luthor here once,” Damian said as the bike wove through the outskirts of the city. “That’s when I first encountered the creature: Swamp Thing. It nearly killed us both. But I don’t think it meant to harm. It was protecting something.”

He paused, watching the road ahead. “Our goal is to calm it. Communicate. Gather information. And if possible... find a way to free it. Let it roam beyond Gotham. Beyond what's left of the cursed swamp.”

Ivy glanced sideways at him, tightening her grip around his waist just slightly.

“Sounds... a little dangerous, don’t you think, Robin?”

“It claims to protect the Green,” he replied. “Isn’t that your job?”

She didn’t answer, so he continued. “The Phantom Stranger is with us. Selina’s encounter with the creature back in ‘08, and mine a few months ago suggest that it’s vulnerable to mystic attacks. If it comes to that, the Stranger can intervene. But I don’t want to fight it. I want to free it. Peacefully.”

He flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror, catching her gaze. “Does that give you any comfort, Dr. Isley?”

Pam exhaled through her nose, half sigh, half scoff. “As much as it can,” she said. “At least we’ve got a JL member on our side.”

When they reached the edge of town, Damian turned down a gravel road that led to a cliff overlooking the ocean. At the top sat an old tree, its bark weathered but still bearing a carved heart: KS + SB 4evr. Damian chained his bike to the tree and anchored a grapple line down the cliff face.

“The cave entrance is beneath,” he said simply.

Ivy’s fingers curled around the rope as she stepped up beside him, eyeing the drop. She was visibly nervous. It had been years since she’d done anything this… adventurous. Eco-terrorism was one thing. This was different. She wasn’t used to it anymore. Even if she knew she could transform the local plants to mush her fall if she slipped.

They descended in silence, rappelling down the cliff, then slipping into the cave entrance below. The air grew damp, heavy. The floor was submerged in ankle-deep water, murky and still. Ivy shivered as it soaked into the hem of her slacks.

“I wish you’d warned me about this part, Damian,” she said, eyeing the sludge. “I’d have asked we start later. Maybe not ruin my work clothes.”

Damian glanced over, voice dry. “I assumed you knew the risk of stains when I said ‘giant swamp monster in a cave.’”

She laughed once, short and surprised. “You know what… fair point. Didn’t think about that.”

The Phantom Stranger followed quietly behind them, his robes never touching the water, his presence silent and still. He listened to their banter without comment, eyes locked ahead.

They made their way deeper through the stone passage until they reached a sealed stone door, massive and cracked with age. At its center was a carved sigil: an owl, its wings spread wide in warning.

The Stranger stepped forward.

“I can feel it,” he said, voice low and reverent. “Magic. Powerful. Wicked. It courses through every atom of air behind that door. No wonder the Swamp Thing you met was full of rage. Whatever it was left behind to protect, it’s ancient. And it’s evil.”

Ivy’s anxiety spiked with every step closer to the door, but she didn’t turn back. The Phantom Stranger stepped forward, raising a hand. Ancient wards shimmered in the stale air as with a groan of old stone, the door creaked open.

They stepped inside.

It was exactly as Damian remembered.

A wide chamber stretched before them, half-forgotten grandeur mixed with brutality. The faded bones of a once-elegant ballroom were still visible in the gilded columns and fractured chandelier above, but the floor was stained and scorched, the walls lined with statues of robed men in owl masks, each holding a different weapon.

It felt like a court… and a prison.

Ivy’s breath caught.

Then… movement.

A shape charged from the shadows, massive and fast, but it collapsed mid-sprint, yanked violently to the floor by glowing golden chains etched with runes. Magic restraints. Doctor Fate’s handiwork.

Swamp Thing heaved itself upright, vines twisting and slithering around its form. The glow of the chains flickered as it snarled, stumbling back, eyes glowing with fury.

“You’ve returned,” it roared, voice like cracking wood and thunder.

“To destroy the Green once more!”

Ivy stumbled forward, breath shallow.

“I—I…” she began, voice trembling.

Then she squared her shoulders and let the fire in her chest rise, her voice shifting from uncertain to thunderous.

“I protect Mother Nature. The Green, as you call her. I spent the first twenty years of my life studying her, learning how to care for her. Then, by accident or fate, I became something more, an avatar of her daughter. And I defended her. I still do. Peacefully, now, but no less fiercely. You call me a threat to the Green?” She took another step forward. “I scoff, Swamp Thing.”

Swamp Thing snarled, it’s bark-like chest rising and falling.

“Hypocrisy! You lie! Why else would you come to this cursed place?!”

The Phantom Stranger floated forward, unshaken.

“Calm yourself,” he said, his voice low and steady, echoing through the chamber. “We do not yet know the truth of this place. Only that the magic it protects is… wrong.”

Swamp Thing recoiled, furious.

“The Green? Evil? No! It was misused! Twisted! This place! It bled into the Green, corrupted its roots! And I have stayed to contain it. Longer than man has walked! And man is why it changed. Why it still festers!”

“You yourself are lost,” the Stranger replied gently. “You carry the wound within you. Let me show you the truth!”

He extended a hand, glowing faintly.

“...and then, if it is your will, you may go free.”

The Stranger entered Swamp Thing’s mind, his presence drifting through centuries of torment and fleeting moments of peace.

He saw it all.

The arrival of white men to the land that would become Gotham, led by a cult. The Court of Owls. They had carved a city atop sacred ground and bled the swamp dry, warping its ancient power. They bound the heart of the Green to their will, transforming nature’s sanctuary into a prison. And from halfway across the world, its guardian returned, a once-gentle, judgeless steward, now corrupted by fury and pain. The Court had used it’s home to trap it here. A curse was born, one that anchored him to Gotham… and cast a shadow over nearly every evil that ever touched it.

The Stranger absorbed every thread of this truth.

And then he offered Swamp Thing a truth of his own.

He showed the creature his story: The Story of the Betrayer. A man cursed to wear the robes of the demi-god he had led to death. A man bound not by chains, but by penance. A man who had wandered the Earth for millennia, stoic and unseen, performing good not for glory but to atone.

Swamp Thing, shaken, watched it all. The long road of redemption.

And then, slowly, it saw Gotham again, but not through the eyes of a prisoner.

It saw its people. The ones who fought for good. The ones who failed and rose again. The broken, the healed, the in-between. It saw the boy before it, Damian, who had stumbled into this cursed place once before, knowing nothing, and yet returned simply to help.

Then it saw her

Pamela Isley.

The scientist. The avatar. The protector.

The moss on it’s shoulders rustled. The Green whispered its trust in her, and it felt real and ancient. She had always been part of it. A sister. A daughter. A guardian in her own right.

The vision shook the primordial soul of Swamp Thing to its roots.

It collapsed to it’s knees, less beast, more spirit once more. The rage drained from it’s frame.

“I… apologize,” it croaked, voice like the shifting of ancient trees.

“I was meant to protect the whole of the Green. And I abandoned that calling… left it to the young scientist who stands before me… because of this curse. No longer. I will leave Gotham. My place is with the Green, all of it.”

Vines crept down it’s limbs, roots stretching into the stone. “The rainforest… I can be there in minutes. It could use its guardian again. So could many other places.”

It turned to Ivy. “Continue to protect her. Free me of these chains.”

The Phantom Stranger raised a hand.

The golden bindings, Fate’s magic shattered like glass.

Few could have broken them. He did it with ease.

And then, like mist, Swamp Thing sank into the earth, gone.

Damian exhaled, lips curling into a smirk.

“That was… simpler than I expected.”

A voice cut through the air behind him.

“You bloody blew it,” John Constantine muttered, emerging from the shadows.

He took in the chamber, boots splashing through shallow water, trench coat soaked. He lit a cigarette.

“I hated the big mossy bastard bein’ stuck here, don’t get me wrong. But I didn’t free it near twenty years ago for a reason. That curse wasn’t just binding it, kid, it was holding them back.”

He pointed at the door marked with the Owl sigil.

“The Court might be scattered now, but with no guardian, they’ll come sniffin’ back. They always do. It’s only a matter of time before they find this place again, and try to use its magic.”

He took a drag.

“So. Looks like I’m stayin’ in Gotham.” He glanced at the group, then exhaled smoke.

“Cunts.”

Damian blinked.

Ivy blinked.

The Stranger said nothing.

Constantine grinned.

“Oi. Don’t all thank me at once.”

The wind chilled them, magical energy swirled in the room as always.

What would be coming for them?

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #8

Weeks had passed. While things weren’t quite the same as before, the girls had started healing, there bond, though cooler, had grown strong once more. The warmth between them had returned, and their trust had begun to mend.

Steph was at Ivy and Harley’s apartment, wearing the pleated fuchsia skirt and deep violet cardigan she’d picked up on her trip with Lois and Selina, pieces that made her feel at home in her body again. She paired them with a tight black shirt blasted with an emo band logo, black thigh-highs, and pink sneakers to match. She felt like herself again.

Harley was busy doing Steph’s makeup, Ivy focused on her hair. Both wore teasing smiles as they waited to meet the girl Steph had told them about, the one who’d asked her to dinner. Steph was absolutely fabulous tonight, but her heart was racing. She was nervous. She was going on a date with her best friend.

And then—

Knock

Knock

Knock

Steph rushed over and opened the door.

Kara stood there, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

“W~wow,” she stuttered. “Steph… y~ou look amazing.”

She was visibly stunned.

Kara wore a white dress fit for a runway,  sleek, structured, and unmistakably bold. The signature titty window was ever present but in more of an oblong diamond shape. She paired it with heeled white leather boots and gloves that reached past her elbows. It looked like she’d taken her super suit and tailored it into something worthy of a gala.

Back inside the apartment, Ivy and Harley exchanged a look.

Ivy leaned toward Harley and whispered, “Is she… is she dating”

They finished in unison.

“...Power Girl.”

The two stared, stunned, as the tall, impossibly muscular, and ridiculously well-endowed woman took a graceful knee and kissed Stephanie’s hand.

Both Steph and Kara turned the same bright shade of red, neither quite able to form a coherent sentence. Both taken aback by each others beauty. 

“So… so, PG,” Steph managed, “do you wanna get dinner? I heard Penguin’s Nest is popular. You don’t have to worry about paying for anything… I’ve got Bruce’s credit card.”

“I don’t care where we go or what we eat, Steph,” Kara replied, breathless. “I just beg of you to let me hold your hand.”

Steph stimmed a little, fingers fluttering at her sleeves, she then fell forward into Kara’s arms, slowly moving her hand to grip Kara’s tightly.

She turned to Ivy and Harley, cheeks still flushed. “This is Kara… the girl I told you about.”

They both waved awkwardly, still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that not only did Steph know Power Girl, she was dating her.

Soon enough, Kara and Steph were off to the Penguin’s Nest, ready to eat some of the finest seafood in Gotham. And if they had room, they’d try the restaurant’s banana cream pie since that’s what it was known for. Sure, it was technically owned by the mob, but so were all the best restaurants in Gotham. And as far as Cobblepot’s escapades went, this one wasn’t too shady. The place wasn’t a front for guns or drugs like most of his other businesses. It was just a gift to his nephew, who’d graduated from culinary school. Oswald funded it, sure, but he stayed out of the kitchen.

The two soon arrived at the bustling restaurant. Everyone inside was overdressed, even compared to the borderline runway model that was Kara. But all it took was Steph casually dropping her adoptive father’s last name, and suddenly they had the best table in the house.

Who knew it paid to be a Bat?

They were brought two glasses and a bottle of the finest wine, along with a basket of breadsticks so big it could fill a room.

“Where has this been my whole life?” Kara gasped, grabbing a breadstick. “I knew your family was loaded, but wow…”

She caught herself. “Not that it matters! We could eat at Bat Burger for all I care, as long as I get to stare into your gorgeous crystal-blue eyes.”

Steph blushed again, her smile widening.

“And that smile of yours? You make me wanna scream with glee, Girl Wonder.”

“Staaapppp,” Steph laughed, giving Kara’s shoulder a playful shove. “If you keep this up, I’m gonna get lightheaded, silly.”

She laid her hand, palm-up, on the table. Kara took it gently, squeezing it. Just like they had been all night, both of them were blushing uncontrollably.

“Any idea what you want yet, PG?” Steph asked.

“Your lips on mine.”

Steph’s face flushed bright red. The silence between them stretched, heavy, charged.

“I’m sorry… sorry! Was that too forward? I was just trying to be romantic…” Kara stumbled through the words, panicked.

Steph leaned over the table and kissed her softly.

“Yeah… that was a little fast,” she teased as she pulled back. “But if you play your cards right, Kara… after dinner and dessert, you’ll get a longer kiss. And if I’m a lucky girl…”

Her smile curled like mischief.

“We can cuddle under the stars.”

Kara was speechless.

The two studied their menus carefully. Everything was fancy, absurdly so. But price wasn’t a concern. Bruce could probably buy a small country if he wanted to, even after funding half of Gotham’s infrastructure, criminal reform programs, and around twelve youth outreach initiatives.

Neither of them really knew what they wanted, but eventually, Kara ordered the Butter-Poached Lobster Tail, served over squid ink risotto with thin lemon slices arranged like flower petals. Steph, feeling adventurous, went for the Wood-Fired Octopus, braised in white wine, charred over a wood fire, and plated atop perfectly diced, paprika-dusted potatoes.

It was delicious. Weird... but delicious. Every bite tasted like money and Michelin stars.

They exchanged a look, half-delighted, half-overwhelmed. It was possibly the best food they’d ever eaten. But in the same breath, both found themselves thinking about Bat Burger, or Superbabes Diner, where the fries were greasy, the service was too friendly, and nobody stared at you like you didn’t belong.

A place like that wouldn’t be as glamorous, or as high-quality, but it would’ve been more them.

Still, they were having an incredible time. The wine was bitter-sweet, the air was warm, and the way they kept catching each other’s eyes across the table made the whole room fade. For once, the world was quiet.

As they finished their plates and started discussing dessert, a hush fell over the restaurant. A figure in a flowing petticoat sat down at the grand piano, fingers brushing the keys with practiced elegance. An open floor stretched between the piano and the tables, lit in soft golden tones.

Kara turned to Steph and reached for her hand.

“May I have this dance?” she asked, with the gentlest of smiles.

The two locked hands and stepped onto the open floor as the soft, dreamy tune of “Am I Blue” floated from the piano. Slowly, they danced, the world around them melting into soft light and sound.

The floor beneath their feet may as well have disappeared. Kara could, in a literal sense, lift them into the sky and dance among the clouds, with owls and bats soaring beside them. But that wasn’t what was happening.

This moment… this bliss… made them feel like they were already floating.

Everything bad that had ever happened, and everything that might still come, seemed to pause, giving them this one perfect breath in time. Their steps were slow and certain, and in each other’s arms, it felt like the rest of the world had finally let go.

As the music swelled, Steph leaned in and kissed Kara again, longer this time, deeper. Their cheeks flushed scarlet.

It was love.

They ordered a banana cream pie to go, paid a bill that had nearly drifted into four-digit territory, and left the Penguin’s Nest hand-in-hand.

Outside, the city sparkled around them, yet even so they ran to where they wouldn’t be seen. 

There Kara lifted Steph gently into her arms and flew them to a quiet lookout perched high above the ocean cliffs. They curled up beneath the stars, the pie between them, arms wrapped around one another, they snuggled and ate dessert.

Kara noticed Steph’s eyes fixated on the stars above them and the full moon.

“Do you want a closer look?” Kara asked softly.

Steph’s eyes lit up. Kara pulled out her phone and a pair of earbuds, slipping one into her own ear and the other into Steph’s.

Then, “Am I Blue” began playing between them again, and they flew.

They danced in the stratosphere, wrapped in wind and moonlight and music. Hearts soaring higher than even Kara could carry them.

The night was, impossibly, perfectly, theirs.

Love wins. Always.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Not that it's required watching/ reading, but if anyone is as autistic about DC and Batman as me currently, I would highly recommend these comics and episodes because not only are they some of my favorites, but different elements of them are directly referenced through different lenses in my AU at different points:

The Phantom (1936)

Detective Comics #40 (1940)

Batman #1 (1940)

World's Finest Comics #30 (1947)

Batman #244 (1972)

Tales of the Teen Titans #44 (1984)

Frank Miller Dark Knight Trilogy (1986)

Batman #408 (1987)

The Killing Joke (1988)

Batman #426–429 (1989)

Suicide Squad #23 (1989)

Mad As A Hatter (1992)

Catwalk (1995)

The Lion and the Unicorn (1998)

Detective Comics #647 (2001)

War Games (2004)

Batman: Under the Red Hood (2006)

Action Comics Annual #12 (2009)

Batgirl #1 (2009)

Batman: The Brave and the Bold – Emperor Joker (2010)

Batman: The Court of Owls (2011)

Batman: The Brave and the Bold – Powerless (2011)

Action Comics #1058 (2023)

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #7

Babs took the elevator down from her room in Wayne Manor. As the doors slid open, she saw the pile of tangled limbs and blankets spilled across the couches, Harley, Steph, Carrie, Ivy. Laughing in their sleep. Peaceful.

But all Babs could hear was his laugh.

Her breath caught. Her fingers clenched the arm of her chair. And before she could stop herself,

“HOW COULD YOU LET HER HERE?!”

The group stirred, groggy, confused.

“To this space. This safe space. After everything she did… to you! To me! After she backed over the trust we gave her thinking she got better…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t believe she can get better anymore.”

Her sobs were ragged now.

“Why the fuck is she here?! She…she knew what happened to me. She was there when it happened. She let the Joker…she let him…”

Her voice collapsed into a whisper.

“…she let him.”

Babs was wheezing, curled in on herself. Steph moved toward her, instinctively reaching out.

“Don’t,” Babs snapped, slapping Steph’s hand away.

“If you don’t realize what a mistake this is, I don’t believe you got better either. That you deserve the mantle I passed to you!”

She froze. Her own words hung in the air like broken glass.

“I… I didn’t mean that,” she choked, covering her mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

She turned her chair and rolled away before anyone could follow.

Steph moved to go after her, but Ivy gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her eyes said everything:

Let her breathe. She needs space.

…

The silence was deafening.

Heavy with shock. With awe. With not knowing what to say.

Babs' outburst had been raw. Real.

Even if Harley had been doing better lately, Babs didn’t see that.

And even if she did, that didn’t mean, especially after everything between them, that Babs owed her forgiveness.

The mood had cratered.

And the yelling wasn’t doing anyone’s hangover any favors.

The group sat in the weight of it.

No one knew what to do.

No one knew what to say.

Harley was quiet.

Too quiet.

She was never quiet.

She sat, eyes cast down, fingers clenched in her lap, her shoulders trembling.

Ivy knew that look.

She was spiraling.

She moved beside her and pulled Harley close, holding her tight to her chest.

Her voice was soft, certain.

“She doesn’t owe you forgiveness. But that doesn’t mean you’re a joke. You are loved. You are lovable. You deserve to get better.

Tell me what I always tell you, rosebud.”

Harley’s voice was barely a whisper.

“I can get better. I deserve love. I’m not a joke.”

“Again.”

“I can get better… I deserve love… I’m not a joke…”

Tears streamed down Harley’s face as she buried herself deeper into Ivy’s arms.

The rest of the group sat in silence.

They’d known this hurt Barbara.

But they hadn’t realized, not fully, how much it was hurting Harley too.

Alfred soon walked in, carrying six cups of tea.

“I heard the commotion and thought some refreshments might help,” he said gently. “I’ve let the rest of the house know to give you space until you’re ready.”

He looked around at the group, voice soft but steady.

“I’m always happy to lend an ear to you all, my dears… but I’m afraid Miss Gordon is isolating at the moment. I’ll offer her my company, in case she’s ready to talk.”

He turned toward Steph and Carrie.

“I hope you both know how deeply this family cares for you, Miss Brown… Miss Kelley.”

Then his gaze softened as it shifted to Harley and Ivy, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Doctor Quinzel, Doctor Isley—I'm proud of the progress each of you has made.”

With that, he picked up the two remaining cups and quietly slipped away, off to find Barbara.

Alfred found her on the back patio, seated in silence, eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

Her tears had dried, but the weight hadn’t lifted.

He sat beside her.

“Miss Gordon, would you care for a caffeinated green tea?”

She turned her face from her arms. He placed the drinks on the table between them.

“You’ve got a lot swirling in your head, I imagine…”

He hesitated. “I haven’t seen you like this since you were sixteen.”

He watched her closely.

“I know the Harley Quinn situation’s reopened some old wounds… Does it feel fresh again?”

She nodded, slow and silent.

“I’ll tell you what I told you back then,” he said, knocking gently on his prosthetic leg with a hollow thunk.

“It gets easier…not better.”

“You know I wasn’t just talking about being disabled,” he added, voice lower now. “What I saw overseas… what I did in service of the crown to survive… That haunted me. Still does.”

He looked ahead with her.

“It hurts the same every day. But every day, I try. And every day, it gets easier.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

“You don’t owe Quinn a chance,” Alfred said, gently. “But you giving Steph one wasn’t a mistake. Nor was giving Master Todd one, when he returned under darker circumstances.”

“It’s never easy. It’s a choice… and a hard one at that. But out there, I don’t see a bad actor like Karlo. I see a woman, distressed by her past, trying to make amends.”

He turned toward her.

“I’ll stay with you as long as you need. We can sit in silence. Or… if you want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Babs whispered, finally.

She picked up her tea. Took a sip. Exhaled.

And the two sat quietly for hours.

Just being there was enough.

Inside, the others tried to salvage what they could of the day, leaning on one another, helping Harley through the spiral. Eventually, Ivy and Harley left for their apartment.

Babs returned inside.

She and Steph locked eyes… and apologized at the same time. Both overflowing with regret.

They embraced.

Babs, with no fanfare or conditions, agreed to give Harley one last chance.

Not because it was owed. But because, in that moment, it felt right.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #6

It was time to try.

That’s what Steph had decided, at least.

She knew what it was like to be used. To be shaped into someone else's weapon. Spoiler was never just a name, it was her father's project. His legacy. From the age of nine until eighteen, she was Cluemaster’s right hand, trained to take up his mantle. Every act of rebellion, every failed mission, every flicker of independence or femininity was punished, sometimes with words, sometimes with bruises.

So yeah, she understood Harley. Maybe not completely. But on a baseline level? She got it.

Harley had still done horrible things. Even after she got out. Like teaming up with Cluemaster, that still stung. But Steph saw the effort. The change. The work. She wasn’t ready to give up on Harley just yet.

Even if she’d hurt her and her sister.

So Steph made a plan.

A bar. An all-night arcade. A wing place that stayed open until sunrise. Something casual. Something messy. Something human. It’d be her, Carrie, Ivy… and Harley.

One more chance.

She just wished Babs would give her that same chance, too.

But Steph knew better than most, you don’t rush healing. And Babs had every reason not to come.

And Steph respected that. Especially knowing what Harley did under Joker’s thumb, specifically to her. 

Steph did her best to plan the night to be as perfect as possible, despite how awkward she knew it would be. So you got the venue, the date, the time, and the plan was going into action.

4 Nights Later. Girls Night: Kit Walker’s Skull Cave: ARCADE. BAR. WINGS, 9:15 pm

The four of them stumbled in one after another. Awkward waves. Tense smiles. They slid onto bar stools in near silence.

And then, finally, it broke.

“I’m… sorry,” Harley said. “I really am trying. I appreciate you giving little ol’ me a second chance, Steph.”

It was the quietest any of them had ever heard her speak.

Steph nodded. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I know what it’s like to struggle to be yourself again… You knew my father. I’m not giving up on you yet, Harley.”

Carrie, unusually quiet, flagged down the bartender. She didn’t like tension. Didn’t like waiting. She ordered herself a Lemmy, then looked back to the group.

Harley: Pina Colada.

Ivy: Bloody Mary.

Steph: Tequila Sunrise.

It was still awkward.

But the ice had cracked.

“Carrie…” Harley fidgeted with her drink. “Do you… Do yo…”

“What, Harley.” Carrie said flatly, not looking up.

“DO YOU WANNA PLAY DDR LIKE OLD TIMES?!” Harley blurted, arms thrown in the air like she’d just shouted a confession in church.

Carrie visibly tensed, just for a second. Harley caught it, saw her brace for a verbal jab, a guilt trip, an old habit she hadn’t yet unlearned.

But none of that came. Just innocence. Just… Harley.

“Yeah,” Carrie said, softening. “Sorry, Harls. I’m still tense. I’m not trying to be mean.” A beat. Then a small, genuine smile. “Let’s go loosen up on the dance floor.”

The two of them shot off toward the arcade machines, leaving Steph and Ivy behind at the bar.

Steph sipped her drink.

Ivy glanced over. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Steph tilted her head, puzzled. “For what?”

“For seeing the good I see in her,” Ivy replied. “All three of us… me, you, Harley, we come from very different backgrounds. But we’ve all had to change. Reform. Survive.”

She looked back toward the dance floor, where Harley and Carrie were now flailing wildly to the beat.

“Thank you for seeing the version of her I see. The one trying so hard to be better.”

Steph smiled. It was small. But it was real.

The two sipped their drinks in peace, the silence comfortable until Steph broke it again.

“Ivy… I know you and Harls are a thing, obviously,” she said, a little awkward, but genuine.

“Indeed, we are, Steph. What’s the question?” Ivy replied, already sensing something good.

“So… there’s this girl…”

Ivy’s smirk grew wide. Her full attention was locked in. “Do tell. This is exactly the kind of gossip I like.”

“Well… we’ve been besties for years. She’s tall. Fast. Genuine. Kind. Bit of a short temper… I asked her if she’d like to come to Girls Night sometime with us, and instead she asked me to dinner…”

Ivy leaned in, grinning. “Go on, Steph. Ask the question.”

“Does she… does she feel the same way I do?!” Steph blurted, face flushing pink. “Or is this just, like… a friendship dinner thingy?!”

Ivy burst out laughing, a full belly laugh, head thrown back.

“YES!” she cackled. “Yes, she likes you, you useless, beautiful little sapphic!”

Steph pressed her fingertips together, sheepish. “...You sure?”

Ivy was still giggling, but her voice softened.

“Yes, honey. I’m sure she likes you.” Ivy said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Over at the DDR machine, Harley got distracted by Ivy’s laughter and fumbled a step, botching the combo and handing the win to Carrie.

The Cat Girl threw her hands up in victory, whooping loud enough to startle a nearby birthday party. Harley, ever the drama queen, made a full-body pout reminiscent of Puddles the Clown, then broke into laughter and threw her arms around Carrie.

“You got me fair and square, kitten. Let’s go find something else with flashing lights and retro audio,” she grinned.

Together, they darted off to explore the rest of the arcade, playing either solo or against each other in a whirlwind of neon and noise.

Steph and Ivy, still at the bar, downed the last of their drinks before grabbing matching fruity beers and slipping off their stools.

They joined the others, and within the hour, the group had graduated to a skee-ball showdown.

The stakes? Loser buys wings.

(With a 50% chance they were going on Bruce’s credit card since both Steph and Carrie were contestants.)

And by the time the scores were tallied, Carrie’s final ticket count came in at a dismal 15; there was no question.

The wings were ordered.

And yes… Bruce was paying for them, along with the extra Blue Cheese at Harley’s request.

The night felt like it would last forever.

They kept gaming, and gayming, partying, drinking, playing, and drinking some more until 2 a.m., when they finally stumbled their way back to Wayne Manor. They collapsed onto the couches in a tangled pile of limbs and laughter, spending the night there, sleeping in past Bruce and Damien returning from patrol, and well into the next day.

They didn’t wake up to everything being fixed.

All wasn’t forgiven.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was behind them.

And girls just wanna have fun.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #5

Steph had stayed close with Power Girl ever since her stint as Robin, occasionally backing up the League as Batman’s ward. Today, she dropped in on her dear friend Kara Starr in Kansas, planning for a good old-fashioned game of cat-and-mouse sparring—followed by some well-earned punch therapy, just like old times.

“It’s been too long, PG!” Steph called out brightly, arms already open as she approached for a hug.

“Yes, it has, Girl Wonder,” Kara smirked. “So I take it you’re here for one of our old games?” she asked, cracking her neck with a grin.

“You know it.”

Steph pulled back her jacket, revealing her Batwoman suit beneath. She pulled out her cape and cowl, sliding into both like muscle memory.

She stretched out her fingers and bounced lightly on her heels as Kara, with a burst of wind, tornado-spun into her Power Girl uniform.

“Same rules as always, PG?” Steph asked with a sly smile.

“Yep,” Kara giggled. “Head into any of the surrounding fields or woods. Thirty-minute head start…”

She winked.

“…then survive for as long as you can.”

Kara closed her eyes and covered her ears as Steph sprinted at full speed into the cornfield.

She moved fast—dropping thermal batarangs throughout the field and along its border, mapping the area like a battlefield. Deeper in the woods, she found a large foxhole and activated her suit’s thermal cloaking. Just outside the pit, she planted a proximity-sensing bat grenade designed to blast a 30-foot radius with concentrated red sun radiation.

Steph adjusted her goggles. She wasn’t just prepared she was predicting what would happen next.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooommm!

Kara launched into the cornfield at the speed of sound, methodically sweeping the area and disarming each thermal batarang—unaware that one of them carried a hidden microbot.

It latched onto her boot.

On her tracker, Steph saw the ping, Power Girl was a thousand feet up, hovering over the center of the cornfield. Listening.

She was close.

Too close.

Then, BANG!

The flash grenade went off, saturating the woods in red sun light. Kara was blinded instantly, eyes scorched with a burn that would linger for hours, and her powers flickered out for a precious few minutes.

Steph didn’t waste them.

She lunged out of the foxhole and clotheslined Power Girl mid-dive, then darted back into the forest canopy. Bounding tree to tree, she vanished into the pines, settling into shadow with her heart hammering.

Game on.

Steph kept her eyes on the tracker. Powergirl, even blind for maybe another hour, maybe a little less, she knew her super-hearing would kick in eventually and she'd have to move.

Steph slowed her breathing. Her heartbeat, too. A technique Bruce had drilled into her, meditative suppression. She was as quiet as a human could be. That would buy her a few minutes. Just a few. And it wasn’t the last trick she had up her sleeve. That was for later.

For now, she waited.

And waited.

And waited…

CRASH.

Kara plowed blindly through the pine canopy, powers flickering just enough to allow flight and light-impact landings. She tore through the trees, toppling one entirely as she landed. Steph slipped behind her, soundless as a shadow.

Kara groped through the forest, swiping at empty branches, scowling as she searched. That was when Steph struck.

BOOM! BOOM!

Two explosive batarangs detonated right next to Kara’s ears.

Blind. Deaf. And pissed.

This was why Power Girl loved training with Batgirl.

Clark could match her blow for blow. Captain Atom could absorb her punches. But Stephanie Brown?

She couldn’t bench press a planet.

She didn’t have laser eyes.

But she’d been trained by the Bat. And like any Bat, she was a master strategist, always five steps ahead.

Steph darted in with a dropkick to Kara’s back, sending her stumbling forward through the trees.

 Then Steph turned and bolted, back toward the cornfield. Full speed. Every muscle on fire.

Ahead, just past the rows of golden stalks, the Kent family farmhouse stood like a finish line.

Just like freeze tag.

Just like hide and seek.

Home was safe. And Steph was about to win.

Yet even if Steph had outsmarted her so far, Kara knew one thing:

If Steph wanted to win, she had to reach the farmhouse before the red sun radiation wore off.

So Kara did what any frustrated Kryptonian would do—she charged.

She barreled toward the general direction of the farmhouse and slammed into the ground with a bone-rattling crater, sending seismic waves rippling through the earth near the edge of the cornfield.

She didn’t realize just how close she’d come to catching Steph.

But Steph didn’t falter.

She stumbled, but kept her footing. Kept sprinting. Almost there.

She hit the steps of the farmhouse when

Whoooosh—

A wall of hurricane breath slammed into her back. Kara was holding back, obviously. She didn’t want to strip the paint off Ma Kent’s porch or flatten the entire cornfield (any more than she already had), but it was just enough.

Steph was knocked off her feet, just long enough for Kara’s hearing to finally lock on through the ringing in her ears.

And then…

A light tap on Steph’s back.

“Tag,” Kara grinned. “I win.”

Steph groaned into the porch floorboards as Kara sat beside her, laughing.

“…Now, do me a favor and blast me in the face with a fire hose or something, I think that’s the closest thing to eye drops that might actually help right now.”

After Steph’s gadgets wore off and Kara’s vision returned, the two of them sat on the porch, sweat-soaked and smiling. They talked, about life, the ups and downs since the last time they saw each other. About Harley’s mistake. About Steph maybe, just maybe, thinking of giving her another chance.

They joked about Power Girl showing up to one of the Girls’ Nights, if there was another one, after everything.

It was heavy. But it was good.

Steph needed this.

So did Kara.

She had her own struggles, her own chaos, but in that moment? Just sitting and talking like this? It was easy. Kara couldn’t remember the last time she felt so at ease. She might have once called Steph “just a League contact,” but now?

This, this was a best friend.

And maybe, if life had tilted differently, and they were able to see eachother more, they could have been… more.

The sun dipped below the Kansas horizon, streaking the sky in shades of peach and plum. Steph pulled out her phone and stared at the group chat for a minute. Then, she typed:

Steph: Next weekend, Girls Night? For old times’ sake

Ivy: 👍

Carrie: 👍

Harley: 👍

Babs: …

…

…

> read

Steph exhaled slowly.

“Here’s hoping we patch things up, PG…” she said, eyes fixed on the first stars blinking into view. “You’re more than welcome to come with us, if you want-”

Power Girl cut her off with a smile.

“How about dinner sometime instead?”

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

I made cover art for each issue of the first series and gave them sub headings of punk songs

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

I made cover art for each issue of the first series and gave them sub headings of punk songs

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #4

Dick, Babs, Raven, and Kori met in Bludhaven for their biweekly Dungeons & Dragons night.

It was tradition, one that dated back to the early days of the Titans. A silly, chaotic excuse to stay connected. It had been Dick’s idea originally, his way of keeping close to his sister even when the world pulled them in different directions, letting her know that he still thought about her even ways he was off on his own now.

Ten years and dozens of campaigns later, Dick was still the forever DM.

Some things never change.

Scattered across the table were their well-worn character sheets:

Sobrinus- the half-orc barbarian (played by Babs)

Nom- the human cleric (played by Raven)

Toast- the elven bard (played by Kori)

But something felt off tonight.

Babs was jittery, fidgeting with her dice, missing obvious cues, barely reacting to Toast attempting to seduce a random NPC. Everyone noticed, but no one said anything.

Dick figured it was Damien.

The kid had been roughed up on his recent solo patrol, his run-in with Swamp Thing leaving him banged up and brooding. Dick assumed Babs was just shaken by that.

But the truth was deeper.

That pain, the one curling in her chest, had nothing to do with Damien. 

Something was clearly wrong. And the group, in their own quiet way, was looking for how to help. Dick did the only thing he could think to do—he kept the game going, let the table hold the space.

“As the three of you walk through the dungeon, you find yourselves approaching a narrow hallway, only wide enough to go single file. What’s your marching order?”

“I’ll cover the flank,” said Sobrinus. “Keep us safe from sneak attacks.”

“Then I shall lead the way,” Toast chimed in, grinning. “To get the jump on any unsuspecting foes!”

Dick nodded.

“You continue down the corridor. The air smells of mildew and death. Babs, I need you to make an Athletics check. Kori, Raven—Perception.”

“9,” Babs muttered.

“3,” said Raven.

“7,” added Kori.

“None of you notice your teammate is missing,” Dick said. “Sobrinus, you plummet through a trap door and land alone in a room full of mirrors—each one reflecting your greatest fear. What do you see?”

//Sobrinus spun around, her breath shallow, her hands trembling around the grip of her mace. Every mirror around her shimmered with something grotesque. Familiar. Terrifying.

She let out a scream and began smashing them—one by one—shattering glass into glittering shards. But the reflections reformed as quickly as they broke, the mirrors healing, unbothered.

A voice echoed through the dungeon, low and laced with venom:

“You may not run, you may not hide… this is real—so prepare to die.”

One mirror cracked down the center. Then it slid open.

From it stepped Gwynplaine.

A figure from Sobrinus’ backstory: the noble tyrant who had ordered the torture and slaughter of her clan.

But he was not as she remembered him. He stood ten times taller now, a giant with bone-white skin stretched taut over too many teeth. In one hand, he held a tall red staff, capped with purple stones that pulsed like living things. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

He smiled.

And Sobrinus froze.//

“Roll initiative,” Dick said, looking toward Babs. “Kori, Raven—roll Perception to see if you notice your friend’s absence yet.”

“Eighteen!” Babs shouted, locking in.

“Nat one…” Kori muttered, disappointed.

“Eight,” Raven sighed.

“Toast and Nom continue down the corridor, oblivious,” Dick narrated. “And Sobrinus… what do you do?”

//Sobrinus charged forward, mace raised high. Her first swing—nineteen. Hit. Eight damage.

The giant stumbled, but then the wound vanished like smoke.

Second attack—four. Miss.

She raged, swinging again with raw fury. Seventeen. Hit. Nine damage.

Gwynplaine toppled with a grunt, then began to laugh.

The sound echoed off the mirrors. He stood back up.

Unscarred.

“What kind of monster are you?!” Sobrinus screamed.

Gwynplaine raised one foot the size of a boulder and brought it crashing down.//

“Twenty-two to hit,” Dick said softly. “Twelve damage. You’re thrown back.”

//The giant sneered, his face too wide to read.

“Monster?” he said. “I’m only the part of you you can’t look at.”//

Babs rolled back from the table.

“You know who Gwynplaine was based on, Dick.”

She turned and rolled toward the balcony.

Dick fumbled for words, trying to explain the metaphor, to say it wasn’t intentional, to take it back

But she cut in without turning around.

“And by Dick, I don’t mean your name.”

The balcony door shut behind her.

Dick winced.

He turned back to the group.

“Give me a second.”

He followed her out onto the balcony and sat beside her.

“I wasn’t trying to say you’re anything like him…”

Babs was crying.

“Then what sniff were you trying to say?”

“I was trying to show you that… I see it. That you’re carrying something. And I wanted to give you a way to process it without having to say it out loud. To remind you, when you’re stuck in the maze, if you look at it differently, you’ll see that you’re ten times stronger than your fears. Then your trauma.”

“Dick way of doing it Dick” she laughed between tears

“I suppose your right dweeb…” Dick said softly, “do you wanna talk about whats going on though, with me or the group… or maybe continue playing… we can take break if you don’t want to play right now, just know me, everyone in there, everyone in the manor, and so many more love you, and were here for you when you need it… Alright?”

“Yeah… I know… just give me a second to calm down and then I’ll head in and we can talk and then maybe finish the game… is that *sniff* ok?”

“Of course it is, Babs, please come back in when you’re ready.”  Dick left her knowing she needed some space.

Babs sat out on the balcony for a minute longer, staring up at the sky, letting the night air cool her down. The quiet helped. She missed this kind of stillness, missed the wind in her hair, the rush of swinging between rooftops, that feeling of moving fast and free in the dark.

But mostly, she missed feeling like herself.

After a bit, she rolled back inside, wiping her face and doing her best to act like nothing happened. The others didn’t press. She looked at them, her friends, her family, and just said it.

Told them about Girls’ Night. About what Harley said. About why it hit her so hard.

The reactions were what you'd expect. Very mixed, concern, quiet anger, understanding. But most of all, they listened. They really listened.

And that helped.

They didn’t try to fix it. They just let her be heard. And after all that, Kori gave her the biggest hug in the world, one that nearly pulled her from her chair, and Babs couldn’t help but laugh.

It felt good.

Soon, they were back at the table, dice in hand, easing into the game like they always had. They cracked jokes, made bad decisions in-character, and ordered too much pizza.

The night ended with laughter, full stomachs, and a little less weight on her shoulders.

It was fun.

And for now, that was enough.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #3

[massive tw for this issue dealing with trauma recovery, and SA]

Babs sat alone in the Clock Tower. Reflecting. She couldn’t believe what Harley had done. She couldn’t believe she tried lending her a hand after everything she’s done in the past. She thought she was getting better. Barbara was always more forgiving than she should be, but for once, she was a brick wall.

// I remember the night Jason died. Bruce and I were a block away, fighting Harley like hell. Her laugh. Piercing my skull. Her hammer smashed into me and Bruce. Just a block away, poor Jason was tied up, having a crowbar repeatedly slammed into his ribs, a J carved into his lip, bones smashing under rusted steel. She kept us from saving him, and by the time we had taken her out… we heard it. BOOM!

 Jason was gone in a fiery blaze. It was as much her fault as it was that psychos. 

Not long after, she was with the Joker that day. The day he shot me and I still haven’t healed. She and two goons stole my father from our apartment, and while they were gone… while they were gone… while… her pudding laughed at my suffering as I bled there. He photographed himself… he photographed himself… There was no way she couldn’t have known. I remember his and her laughs twisting together just before she left, just before I heard the… I heard the ‘zip’… 

There was no way she didn’t know… why did I try to forgive her… why did I think she had any capacity to change… why did I try?

She didn’t deserve my forgiveness, and I offered it to her! I offered it to her, I gave it to her, I let her know I was proud of her taking a step in the right direction, that she was seeking help for what the Joker did to her. 

She returned the favor by spitting in me and my sister's faces. She returned it by betraying every ounce of trust I put in her.

After being with that maniac for 8 years… even if it was just him changing her… she became a monster just as horrific… am I being too hard on her…

She doesn’t deserve that kindness. After what she did. Of course, I’m not being too hard on her.

She was making progress… if she wasn’t, then it would have been more than just jokes… right?

Does that really matter after what she did that night, after everything she did before?

I don’t want to believe her again. I don’t want to believe she could change//

And at the same time, Harley was having a similar crisis back at her apartment.

Ivy was gone at work, which usually meant Harley was off causing minor mischief, but that wasn’t the case today. Today, she couldn’t escape her thoughts. She just sat there in the dark, fiddling with a potted plant.

// I’m just like him… he molded me to be like him… he made me this way… he transformed Dr. Quinzel into Harley Quinn, my name isn’t even mine.

He tricked me into being his… he used me… that doesn’t excuse how many people died because of me… the pain I caused as a hired goon when I got out, that wasn’t him, that was me. What I said… they shouldn’t forgive me, I don’t deserve forgiveness, all I do is hurt people

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!

He killed Harleen Quinzel… am I all that's left?

…

…

Harley. You’re a psychologist. You know this voice.

You’re catastrophizing.

That doesn’t make what you did okay. But it doesn’t mean you’re beyond repair.

Guilt is the price of healing. Shame’s what he left behind.

I can know right. I can still mess up. But I can still try again. 

I am not a monster, I can get better. I will get better.

I’ve been through every type of pain for the last 10 years. 

He melded our minds, he hit me, he made me hurt others, he… 

touched me. 

I’m not him.

I will never do the things he made me do again. 

Even my skin. It’s a reminder of what he did to me.

I will never be the same as before, but I will never be what I was back then again.

…

…

…

I’ve killed so many people… I’ve hurt so many more… what if I am irredeemable…

What if I am a monster//

The pot shattered, soil spilling like a wound. She stared at it for a long moment, like the mess could answer her.

// I am worthy enough to get better, Harley, I am.//

On opposite sides of the city, the two spiraled in very different ways. Mutual trauma connects them and tears them apart, not knowing what will happen next.

If their friendship would ever be repaired. Harley typed in the Girls Night GC.

“I’m sorry

I’m trying to get better

None of you deserved that

I wish I was better 

But all I can do is keep trying

Love y'all”