#I’m a night-stalking crime-fighting vigilante

[ineffablehubbys]

Idk bout you but all I see is a little lil Lego boy

[sommerregenjuniluft]

i don’t talk abt Feelings, alfred. i don’t have any, i’ve never seen one. i’m a night stalking, crime fighting vigilante and a heavy metal rapping machine. i dont feel anything emotionally except for rage. 24/7, 365, at a million percent. and if you think that there’s something behind that, then you’re crazy. good night, alfred.

[chxrrywxvss]

𝕂𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕊𝕡𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕤

“Batman won’t save you.”

Bruce Wayne x Afab!Reader Word Count: 2.9k A/N: Second part of my Shadows of Valor series. I hope it’s good I was hunched over my computer for a while. If you wanna be added to the tag list, just lmk!

Warnings: Animal murder, stalking implied, brief grief, smoking, alcohol

PROOFREAD BY MY POOKIE. TY POOKIE FOR HELPING.

The Batcave was a sanctuary of shadows and technology, a stark contrast to the chaos of Gotham above.  The cavern's high ceilings loomed like the vastness of a night sky, each piece of advanced technology humming softly, almost reverently, in the dim light. Bruce stood before a massive screen, its glow illuminating his chiseled features and casting dramatic shadows across his face. He replayed the chaotic scene from the warehouse in his mind, the flickering images reflecting the intensity of the fight he had just witnessed. Yet it wasn't the thugs that occupied his thoughts—it was you.

He had seen you in action, your movements a fluid grace that belied your size. There was a raw power in your strikes, complemented by an unexpected finesse. Your fighting style was unorthodox, an intricate dance that was almost graceful as it was deadly. The razor-sharp cards you wielded had intrigued him; they weren’t mere weapons but tools of a well-honed skill set, each throw calculated and precise. Who were you?

Bruce leaned closer to the screen, isolating the moments when you had taken down the thugs with a decisive efficiency. Your strikes were not just physical; they carried an intensity, a purpose that resonated deeply with him. You operated with a moral code that was not so different from his own, albeit more flexible.

“Alfred,” he called, his voice echoing through the cavernous space, breaking the silence that enveloped him.

“Yes, Master Bruce?” Alfred replied, emerging from the shadows, a tablet in hand, the glow from its screen casting a soft light on his features.

“Run a background check on a vigilante. The one with the cards. Give me a list of the names that pop up,” he instructed, his eyes still fixed on the screen, mind racing with questions.

“Of course,” Alfred said, tapping away at the device. “Any particular details you’d like me to focus on?”

“Skills, known affiliations, any criminal history. I need to know who I’m dealing with,” Batman replied, his tone sharp as a blade. “And see if there’s a connection with the recent uptick in crime in Gotham.” Alfred raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. “You’re intrigued by this one, aren’t you?”

Batman didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he replayed the moment you had confronted him, confident and unwavering in the face of the stoic Dark Knight. You wore a full-face mask, which wasn’t unusual, but what truly piqued his interest was the vocal distorter you spoke through. It added an air of mystery, making it difficult to decipher your true intentions.

“Just doing my due diligence,” he finally said, attempting to mask his curiosity. “Gotham doesn’t need another loose cannon.”

As Alfred worked, Batman shifted his attention to the array of surveillance feeds monitoring the city. He needed to understand your motivations, your past. What had driven you to become a vigilante? He needed more than just a name; he needed context to unravel the enigma that was you.

Now, as far as he knew, you were a man. It was in the way your suit sat on your broad shoulders, which, unbeknownst to him, were reinforced with shoulder pads. Moments later, Alfred’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “I’ve found something. A match. The vigilante appears to have been active for several months, targeting mostly corrupt officials and criminals. However, there’s no record of his actions being linked to any gang or organization. He seems to operate independently.”

“Independent,” Batman echoed, his brow furrowing in contemplation. “That’s a double-edged sword.”

“The records show that the corrupt officials and criminals he targets seem to have some connections—some are upstart gangs threatening another gang’s territory,” Alfred added, a note of concern creeping into his voice. “An assassin, perhaps?”

Bruce nodded thoughtfully as Alfred continued. “He calls himself Bloodrune. No recorded data on why.”

Bruce nodded thoughtfully, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fit together. “Interesting,” he said, rubbing his chin in contemplation. “I need to find out more about his motivations, how far he’s willing to go, and how big of a threat he truly is.”

Alfred nodded, his expression serious. “I suggest you approach this with caution. These types are often unpredictable.”

“Unpredictable can be useful,” Batman replied. “But if he starts to cross lines, I’ll need to intervene.”

As he turned back to the screen, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were more than just an assassin. There was something deeper, a complexity that intrigued him—a hidden depth that mirrored his own struggles. You moved in a world he understood all too well, yet your methods were different—looser, perhaps even reckless.

“Keep monitoring his activities, Alfred. I want to know where he goes, who he meets,” he ordered, determination hardening his voice.

“Very well, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied, his fingers flying over the tablet.

Batman nodded, his mind racing ahead. He needed to understand you—your past, your pain, your purpose. He didn’t know why he felt so compelled to know more, drawn into your orbit by some mysterious gravitational pull. The shadows of the Batcave felt heavier as he contemplated the tangled web of fate that had intertwined your paths. —-----------------------------------------------------

The dim light of your apartment cast long shadows across the walls, the air thick with the rich aroma of your cigar mingling with the faint petrichor scent wafting through the slightly ajar window. You sank into a worn leather chair, its creaking leather a familiar comfort amid the turmoil of the night. The weight of recent events settled heavily on your shoulders, an oppressive reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. The adrenaline from your earlier confrontation had faded, replaced by a dull ache in your muscles and the creeping fatigue that threatened to pull you under.

You poured yourself another two fingers of amber liquid, the whiskey glimmering enticingly as it filled the rocks glass. Taking a slow sip, you savored the burn as it slid down your throat, a comforting warmth spreading through you, offering a brief respite from the chilling solitude of your apartment. The walls around you were lined with reminders of a life once filled with laughter and love—framed photos, keepsakes from better days. But tonight, they served only as ghosts of a past you could no longer fully claim. Your gaze narrowed when it landed on an old framed photo of you and your late husband on the countertop. You could’ve sworn you threw that out. You usually told people you went your separate ways, but the truth was far darker: you killed him. Not entirely in cold blood, at least, that’s what you tell yourself. Setting the glass down, you reached for the small stack of cash on the table. You had taken a portion from tonight’s job, a tidy sum that would keep you afloat for a little while longer. “Six hundred,” you murmured to yourself, placing the bills into a small envelope. You had a plan for this money—rent, groceries, maybe even a few supplies for your next job. Hey, that top you saw in that shop window the other day looked like it would fit you well. The whiskey warmed your insides, fueling a sense of bravado that had long been absent. You leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling as memories flooded your mind. They felt foreign, as if they belonged to a stranger, and you were intruding upon them. Well, you might as well be.

A sudden knock at the door startled you from your reverie. You froze, heart racing. Who could it be at this hour? You hadn’t been expecting anyone, especially since you don’t remember setting up a meeting with anyone. You don’t even have your disguise on. And now that you think about it, you’ve never given anyone your address.

Cautiously, you approached the door and peered through the peephole. To your surprise, it was Mrs. Henderson, your elderly neighbor from down the hall. She stood there, a frail figure with gray hair pulled into a bun, clutching a worn shawl around her shoulders, her eyes wide with worry.

You opened the door, relief washing over you. “Mrs. Henderson, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with worry. “I’m so sorry to bother you. Have you seen my cat, Coco? He seems to have wandered off again.”

You let out a quiet sigh of relief inwardly. “No, I haven’t seen him. When did you last see him?”

“Just before dusk,” she said, her eyes wide with anxiety. “He usually comes back in by now.”

“Let’s go look for him,” you suggested, grabbing your jacket. “I’ll help you find him.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she said, her voice softening with gratitude. “You’re such a kind soul.”

As you stepped outside, the cool night air hit you, invigorating yet laced with urgency. The two of you walked toward the small park where Coco often roamed. “Where does he usually like to hang out?” you asked, scanning the area for any sign of the little feline.

“Sometimes he likes to explore near the bushes,” Mrs. Henderson replied, glancing around with concern. “He’s such a curious little thing.”

You called out for Coco, your voice cutting through the stillness, but only the silence of the night answered back. As you moved deeper into the park, an uneasy tension settled in your gut. Something felt off, the shadows stretching ominously around you.

Suddenly, you caught sight of a small shape lying motionless near the base of a tree. Your heart dropped. “Mrs. Henderson, wait here,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. You approached the shape, dread pooling in your stomach.

As you got closer, your worst fears were confirmed. It was Coco. His small body lay limp, and a knot formed in your throat. You knelt beside him, your heart racing as you reached out to touch him. A note was pinned to his collar with a knife, stark and ominous against his soft fur.

With trembling fingers and narrowed eyes, you winced as you removed the knife, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. As you picked up the blood-stained note, your stomach dropped. The knife was all too familiar—Slade Wilson’s work. Your mind raced as you scanned the chilling words: 

"50k for you alone, missy. Batman won't save you.”

You swallowed hard, the implications of the message washing over you like a cold wave. Slade was ruthless, and this was his way of sending a threatening message. But you couldn’t let Mrs. Henderson see this. She didn’t deserve to bear that weight, especially not at her age.

“Mrs. Henderson!” you called out, forcing your voice to steady. “Come here, quickly!”

She approached, her eyes lighting up with hope until she saw the expression on your face. “What is it? Is he…?”

You turned to her, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He’s… he’s gone, Mrs. Henderson. I’m so sorry.”

Her face crumpled with grief as she knelt beside you. “Oh, my poor Coco,” she sobbed, cradling the lifeless cat in her arms, tears streaming down her cheeks.

You glanced at the note again, the words seared into your mind. “He must have gotten into some trouble. Sometimes cats wander too far.”

Mrs. Henderson nodded, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “He was such a sweet boy. I’ll miss him so much.”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, your heart racing from the implications of Slade’s threat. “I’ll help you take him home. We’ll make sure he gets a proper goodbye.”

As you walked back to the apartment, a chill ran up your spine. It felt as though someone were watching you. Just before entering the building, you turned, scanning the empty street, the wind shifting ominously. Your sensitive nose caught a new scent on the breeze, one that was all too familiar. Slade.

With one last glance around, you stepped back into the apartment building, a sense of dread settling in the pit of your stomach. You had to act quickly. Time was no longer on your side.

—-----------------------------------------------------

You rushed around your apartment, the weight of the note from Slade Wilson heavy in your hands. How does he know who you are? Where you live? And more importantly, how long has he known? Who has he told? Each question churned in your mind like a storm, a relentless echo of dread.

You needed to leave Gotham. Now.

With frantic urgency, you shoved your belongings into a worn duffel bag—the only thing you could trust to hold your secrets. Clothes, cash, and a few personal items flew into the bag as your mind raced. How had Slade managed to uncover your identity? You had always been careful, meticulously covering your tracks. Yet here you were, threatened by a man whose reputation for destruction sent shivers down the spines of even the most hardened criminals.

Your phone screen lit up on the nightstand beside you. You snatched it up, desperately searching for a flight out of Gotham. The airline app opened, and your fingers flew over the screen, searching for any available options.

“Come on, come on!” you muttered, frustration boiling over as you scanned the available flights, each one slipping through your fingers like sand.

But when you attempted to book a flight, your heart sank. “No flights available for the next few hours? Are you kidding me?” You slammed your phone back down on the table, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. This was not happening.

You paced the small space, your mind racing. A bus? It could take hours, maybe even days, and you couldn’t risk being recognized, especially now that Slade had you in his sights. The thought of him knowing who you really were sent chills racing down your spine, making your skin prickle with unease.

You picked up the phone again, calling another airline, hoping for better luck this time. But the automated voice on the line only deepened your frustration.

“Next available flight is in twelve hours,” it droned, completely oblivious to the urgency of your situation. “Would you like to hold?”

“No! I need something sooner!” you yelled at the phone, feeling the anger surge through you like a wildfire. You tossed the device onto the couch and resumed your pacing, the walls closing in around you.

Your mind raced with possibilities. You could leave the city on foot, find a way to blend in with the crowds. But that wouldn’t be fast enough. For all you knew, he could be lurking just down the street, waiting for the right moment to strike, or maybe already in the next hotel, watching.

“Damn it!” you shouted, frustration boiling over. You needed a plan—a way to get Slade off your back. Your brows knit together as you chewed the nail of your thumb anxiously, a habit you thought you had kicked long ago.

Then it hit you—you needed help.

The realization struck you like a cold slap to the face. You had always prided yourself on being independent, on solving your own problems. But this was different. Slade Wilson had you cornered. You needed someone with the skills, the resources, and the sheer force of will to help you confront him. You needed Batman.

The thought made you grit your teeth. You had never wanted to rely on anyone, especially not him. The Dark Knight was notoriously difficult to approach, and you were well aware of his strict moral code. He would likely disapprove of your methods, and the last thing you wanted was a lecture on justice and revenge. But you also knew he was your best shot at surviving this.

“Damn it,” you muttered to yourself, frustration bubbling over. You paced the small room again, wrestling with the idea. You would need to lure him out, to make him understand that you were in danger. But how?

You glanced at the window, moonlight spilling into the room, illuminating the scattered remnants of your life. You could create a distraction, something big enough to catch his attention. The thought of pulling him into your mess filled you with dread, but the alternative was worse.

“Okay, think,” you said aloud, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “How do I get the Dark Knight to show up?”

Your eyes fell on your phone once more. You scrolled through your contacts until you found the number of a local criminal you had heard was tied to Slade. You had never wanted to get involved with such people, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

After a few tense moments, you sent a message: “I have information on a target. Meet me at the old docks at midnight.” It was risky, but you needed to create a scene that would draw Batman to you.

As you put your phone down, a wave of uncertainty washed over you. What if this backfired? What if Slade found out you were reaching out for help? You’d be putting yourself—and your identity—at greater risk.

But you couldn’t let fear paralyze you. You had to act. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. This was a gamble, but it was a gamble you had to take.

With any luck, Batman would already be on it before you even have to ask for help. You could only hope as you donned your disguise once more.

taglist: @lenalele

[strawberryforks]

your favourite nuisance // red hood x vigilante!reader

summary: you have another run-in with the red hood. this time you’re the one doing the annoying—defeating his target before he even gets to the scene. your vigilante name is striker!

warnings: violence, swearing

word count: 1036

a/n: striker!reader is such a fun character to write and i will probably continue to do so! that said, request/asks are open and encouraged as always!

you get the villain red hood was after. by the time he arrives to the fight, they’re being carted off by police. they’ll be headed to arkham, instead of carted off in a body bag destined for the morgue and the red hood–you add a ‘the’ because it makes his name sound more threatening, and right now, stalking towards you, he looks threatening. at least a head taller than you and wearing that stupid mask that should make it infuriatingly easy to hide his emotions–but he wastes that opportunity. his body language gives him away every time and you swear you can almost see steam billowing out of his ears like some ready-to-explode, red-with-rage, cartoon character. “red hood,” you acknowledge. “nice to see you.”

he starts shouting and you ignore him. you turn into an alleyway, keeping your back to him as you walk away. in gotham, there are very few people you would trust to stand behind you, to watch your back and not jam a knife in it. you’re really surprised when you realise red hood, the red hood, is one of those people you trust. you laugh a little, shaking your head all the while. glancing into a puddle, you see red hood’s reflection storming after you, getting closer and closer. you don’t change your pace. you aren’t trying to avoid a confrontation, you actually don’t care at all. as far as you’re concerned it’s inevitable. you knew what you were doing taking down a villain red hood laid claim to. you knew what would happen, how he’d react and you did it anyway. You’re not trying to avoid confrontation, you’re just trying to move it away from the reporter who had been lingering beside your crime scene, wanting the scoop. you happily gave her the details you could, but didn’t want your generosity being a mistake.

you didn’t want to go home and find yours and red hood’s faces in the paper. not for fighting. not for anything else. drama was something you tended to stay out of and this was different, okay? you weren’t being dramatic, you were simply having fun. red hood was as much a rival as he was a friend. you would never ever voice that, but it made it no less true.

in another puddle you see his hand raise. Before he can grab your arm and force you to look at him, you spin around. you face him but only because you want to (not because, never because, if he really wanted you looking into his eyes he would be able to make you and that could be incredibly embarrassing)

you smile up at him, all fake-niceness. you pat his shoulder, “aw, don’t worry red. i’m sure you’ll get ‘em next time. if not, i left some of the small fishes for you.

“what the hell striker?”

“get over yourself, red. you’ve ruined my day more times than i can count, it’s time you see how it feels.”

he scoffed. “more times than you can count? you’re going to have to go back to school sweetheart because vigilantism doesn’t pay the bills and if you can’t count to twenty eight not even the supermarket near crime alley will hire you.”

“twenty eight? has the red hood been counting our encounters?” you laugh, being flooded with all sorts of ridiculous mental imagery–red hood scribbling in a pink notebook, red hood writing with a dry erase marker on the fridge, red hood, get this, looking forward to seeing you. jeez, you’re laughing so hard your stomach aches.

“do you journal? ‘dear diary, today i saw striker for the fifteenth time! i stole her thunder, ruined her night, and she went home and cried into ramen. ah, such a productive day fueled by tears, the blood left on my suit from the needless slaughter i just love to partake in, newspaper headlines, and assholery!’ is that about right?”

“shut the hell up.”

“i don’t think i will. besides, you don’t want me to. you’d be bored and have nothing to write about.”

“i wouldn’t be bored. there's a clear difference between bored and peaceful. also, i don’t write about you. i don’t even like you, striker.” okay, ouch. the big guy might as well have punched you in the nose because that one hurt a surprising amount.

you recovered quickly, never letting your mask (metaphoric) fall, your actual mask you didn’t need to worry about. it was as secure as secure got. covering your nose and mouth, all that could be seen was your eyes and on nights where you knew things would get messy, you wore goggles, rose tinted ones, that blood couldn’t stain, that you had commissioned from a seller on etsy. “you do too! i’m your favourite nuisance.”

“you aren’t.” he says immediately. hating you is one of his reflexes, how sweet. “you’re like my third favourite nuisance.”

you raise an eyebrow. just one. it’s as accusing as it is amusing.

“second…” he trails off. “alright, goddammit. yeah, you’re my favourite nuisance. happy?

“fucking ecstatic, actually red.” you grin and if you had to guess–he rolls his eyes.

“that villain,” back to business, as always. you straighten your spine and prepare for the scolding of a lifetime. you tilt your chin up and glare at his mask. “that was my target and you know it. that said, you did a good job.”

“if he hangs himself in his cell at arkham i’ll know it was you. i’ll be pissed–wait, red, there’s no way that you just said that. that was so a compliment. the only thing missing and making you seem awful was the fact you forgot to say ‘thank you!’ wow, regardless, i’m proud. honoured, even.”

“next time let me handle it.”

“you’re welcome!” you say in a sing-song voice. one that’s way too cheery for the other vigilante’s liking.

“striker?”

“yeah?”

“you really are a nuisance.”

“i like to put the emphasis on ‘favourite’ but sure, that works.” you slide past him in the alleyway, heading out. you stop on your tippy toes to whisper your goodbyes and don’t miss the blinding camera flash or the gawking reporter at the entrance of the alleyway.

[bequiteanddriveeeeeee]

Hey it’s normal to have an attachment disorder when your a clingy 16yo girl who will just kill herself if you don’t be with her

But when your an adult man who doesn’t want to be loved or feel love, is perfectly fine being alone, works better alone and only interacts because I have to and yes you entertain me but I don’t like you or have any more connection to you then a stranger on the street

“Your life sounds so lonely🥺🥺it’s a shame people have to live like that” I’m happy?? I don’t care?? How the hell is that so hard for you all to understand I don’t like anyone I never will and i am happy without deep attachments or dating or being in love or even in like. I’m a crime fighting. Night stalking vigilante and a heavy metal rapping machine

[twistedtummies2]

Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes - Number 2

Welcome to A Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes! During this month-long event, I’ve been counting down my Top 31 Favorite Fictional Detectives, from movies, television, literature, video games, and more!

We’ve reached our penultimate choice in the countdown!

SLEUTH-OF-THE-DAY’S QUOTE: “I Am Vengeance.”

Number 2 is…Batman.

As I said in my rules at the start of this event, I wouldn’t be counting characters I consider more “superhero” than “detective.” HOWEVER, some exceptions do apply: I spoke of the Question in my Honorable Mentions, and Rorschach and the Shadow earlier in the main countdown. These are all characters you could classify as “super detectives”: where they do count in the vein of superheroes (or, at least, pulp-style heroes), but also do qualify as detectives, by virtue of them BEING detectives being a major character trait and element. Out of all the comic detectives out there, in the annals of superhero fiction and anything similar to it…I think it’s fair to say none are as well-known, or as well-enjoyed, as Batman.

Frankly, when a character gets their start in a comic series called “Detective Comics,” and one of their titles is “The World’s Greatest Detective,” I challenge anybody to say they DON’T count. :P

Anyway…I’m quite sure Batman hardly needs an introduction, especially for those familiar with my page, but I might as well go into the basics for anyone who’s been living under a rock for almost a hundred years: Batman is one of the most popular superheroes of all time, if not perhaps THE most popular. The fictional character’s biography is as follows: as a child, Bruce Wayne – the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, a pair of wealthy philanthropists and the owners of a large and thriving corporation – saw his parents murdered by a mugger, shot down in a back alley. The experience scarred Bruce for life, and he vowed to symbolically avenge his parents’ murder by devoting the rest of his life to fighting crime. He wanted to make sure no other children would experience similar horrors, as long as he could prevent it. He studied forensics and various sciences, trained his body to peak physical perfection, and – inspired by the sight of a bat flying through his window one night (bats being a phobia of his as a boy) – the now-adult Bruce chose to adopt the image of a bat as his motif. He thus became Batman – the Dark Knight, the Caped Crusader – a mysterious vigilante who stalks the streets of Gotham City, facing everything from mad supervillains to common hoodlums, in a neverending war against crime.

The real-life origins of Batman are almost as interesting as his fictional beginnings. Batman was created due to the popularity of Superman, whom many consider to be the first TRUE superhero. DC (which went under another company name at the time, for the record) wanted to create another superhero who could match the Man of Steel. Artist Bob Kane and writer Bill Finger, taking inspiration from various places, jointly created this new character…although I should state that, for a very long time, Kane took sole credit for the matter. (By all accounts, Bob Kane was something of a swindler behind the scenes; for example, Batman’s very first appearance was a direct ripoff of a Shadow magazine story, and this apparently was Kane’s idea.) The thought process behind Batman was to go the opposite direction of Superman: if the Man of Tomorrow was bright and colorful, then the Dark Knight would need to be Gothic and shadowy. If Superman was bold and jocular, then Batman would be stoic and sardonic. Where Clark Kent came from ostensibly humble beginnings, Bruce Wayne would come from wealth and stature. And of course, while Superman had almost Godlike superhuman abilities…Batman, rather famously, was the first “proper” superhero to have NO powers at all.

This is the point where Batman’s abilities as a detective very much come into play. Because for all of the many things you can point to for Bruce Wayne’s success as a crimefighter, I think it all comes down to him, again, being a sort of “super detective.” Even the Shadow, Batman’s chiefest inspirational source, had arcane abilities at his disposal: Bruce Wayne has no otherworldly talents at all. He’s simply a man, with a boatload of money, a brilliant mind, and a LOT of stubborn determination. Many of the best takes on Batman use their mind, not just their fists and gadgets, to tackle problems: he searches for clues to track down culprits, analyzes the way certain criminals tend to operate in order to guess their next move, and frequently uses his wits to outmatch them and find ways to defeat them. Whether he’s facing mortal foes like the Joker or Catwoman, or superhuman beings like Clayface or the Orca, Batman’s greatest asset is that he thinks everything through, and keeps track of everything he’s learned, so he can pursue, battle, and capture the enemies he faces.

To say Batman has been adapted to other media beyond the comics, or even that the comics have continued to evolve and be printed as time goes on, is almost a redundant fact. Indeed, Batman has become one of the most frequently reimagined and re-interpreted characters in fiction; I believe he might be the single most frequently used and reused superhero, in particular, of all time. It’s gotten to a point where actors who get to play the character have declared him to be on par with such famous roles as Hamlet. Meanwhile, writers, critics, and psychologists have compared him to Greek heroes like Prometheus and Odysseus. When a character gains this much clout, and has lasted for so exceptionally long, with so many different interpretations – from colorful and campy to grim and gritty, from noir-esque to flashy and wild – I think they’ve more than earned their place VERY high in the ranks.

That and…well…I love Batman. A lot. So do I really need any of the other reasons I just described to begin with? XD

Tomorrow, the countdown concludes with my Number One pick!

CLUE: “Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

[crying-pan420]

Diego: I don’t talk about feelings , Liam! I don’t have any. I’ve never seen one. I’m a night stalking, crime fighting, vigilante. And a heavy metal rapping machine. I don’t feel anything emotionally except for RAGE!

@thisistheroomofthedead

[hattr]

I fr go around bragging that I got less slepp than everyone else 🤩

It’s cos I’m a night stalking crime fighting vigilante ok I live in the shadows 🥷

[neeksrambles]

batman thinks he’s me when i’m literally a crime fighting night stalking vigilante like who are you bitch

[mythren-system]

Me and Zuko except he’s Barbie and I’m Batman. Like sorry that YOUR Batman sucked, however mine is a night stalking, crime fighting vigilante, and a heavy metal rapping machine.

-Azula❤️‍🔥

[eldin-tower]

I don’t talk about feelings Alfred. I don’t have. I’ve never seen one. I’m a night stalking, crime fighting vigilante. And a heavy metal rapping machine. I don’t feel anything emotionally except for RAGE. 24/7. 365. At a million percent. And if you think that there’s something behind that, then you’re crazy. GOODNIGHT ALFRED.

[sommerregenjuniluft]

i don’t talk about Feelings, alfred🦇 i dont have any 🤨 i’ve never seen one😑 i’m a night stalking🌙 crime fighting💣 vigilante 🕺🏻 and a heavy metal rapping machine 🎸🎤 i dont feel anything emotionally🕳️, expect for rage👹 24/7🕥 365🗓️ at a million percent💯 and if You🫵🏼 think that there’s something behind that🚪, then you’re crazy🥸 goodnight, alfred🤪🥰

I’m so very cool (I have been called Lego Batman like 4 times this week)

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

The Red Hood (Part 1)

Summary: While on a job, the reader runs into The Red Hood. She discovers his true identity to be Dean Winchester from one of the wealthiest families in the city. She knows he’s made a few enemies and tries to take advantage of that fact to get something she needs in return...

Masterlist

Pairing: Vigilante!Dean x criminal!reader

Word Count: 1,500ish

Warnings: language, fighting

A/N: Enjoy!

________

“Oh, crap,” you said, feeling the binding around your torso. You thought you’d made it out clean. But if it was someone using a gadget like that, it wasn’t any security guard. You grunted as you saw a figure emerge from the shadows, a hood up and a mask covering his eyes. “Let me walk and you can have the money.”

“Not my style,” he said. He walked over carefully, tilting his head at you. His cautious approach stopped when he suddenly stepped over and ripped the mask covering your face off. You scowled at him but he simply stared. “I’m taking you in.”

He bent down and you used the opportunity to swing your legs up and wrap around his neck. He went wide eyed and glared at you but you smirked.

“Goodnight Mr. Vigilante,” you said. He tried pulling you off but he lost consciousness quickly. You let him drop to the ground and moved your leg back, managing to grab the knife in your boot. You sliced through the lower bindings and eventually got the ropes off. You almost left when you saw the unconscious Red Hood on the ground. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little blackmail after all. You pulled out your phone and pushed down his hood, ripping off the mask over his eyes. You took a few pictures of the man, something familiar about him.

You grinned when you recognized him as the ward of the biggest tech company in the city. 

If you played your cards right, a week from now you’d be loaded and sipping mai tais on the beach, never having to worry about pulling a job ever again.

“Shit!” you shouted the next evening, jumping straight back into your counter. The Red Hood was standing silently at the edge of your kitchen, narrowing his eyes at you. He threw down a manila envelope on the counter and stalked over to you.

“I don’t negotiate with criminals,” he said.

“I don’t think it’d look too good if Dean Winchester were to be found out as The Red Hood. With all the crimes you’ve committed yourself. I bet that’d ruin a few of your family’s contracts,” you said. You reached up to grab his hood when he caught your wrist. “I felt I was very generous with my offer.”

“Fifty million is generous?” he scoffed. He shoved your wrist away and put his back to you, tugging his hood back. He slipped his eye mask down around his neck and glanced over his shoulder. “I should throw you in prison.”

“For stealing from rich people? They can afford it just like you can afford this. Take it out of your trust fund. I bet no one would even notice,” you said.

“What do you need that much money for?”

“What do you need it for? None of your business.”

“The answer is no.”

“Then I guess your photo of you out cold at a crime scene in your little costume will be on the news very, very shortly.”

“It’s an excessive amount,” he said.

“Your family is billionaires. You got the cash.”

“I can’t move that much without red flags.”

“Figure it out.”

“I could just make you disappear,” he said, stepping in front of you. “You couldn’t stop me.”

“You only murder the bad guys and unfortunately for you, I just steal things and knock people out. It’s not justified. Your old partner, that bat guy, even he didn’t kill people,” you said.

“He let me down, more than once. I do things the way they need to be done,” he said. “Don’t think because you’re a woman you get special treatment.”

“Wouldn’t expect it,” you said. “Give me my money and you will never hear from me again.”

“Five million.”

“No way.”

“Five million a month for the next ten months,” he said. “It won’t raise too many eyes. I can justify a cost for that.”

“Fifty. One payment,” you said, crossing your arms.

“What the hell do you need with that much money?”

“Maybe I want to donate to charity. It’s not your concern. You have three days to get my money into that bank account. If you don’t, you and your entire family’s business are going down. Have I made myself clear?”

“I will find all copies and when I do, you’re gonna have a big problem. Count on it.”

He went out your back door and you rolled your eyes, already making plans to have extra copies out there just in case.

Three Days Later

“You’re good,” said Marcus. You stared at him and he smiled. “You’re clean kid. Debt repaid with interest. Your family is safe again. Any interest in working for me again? You’ll get to keep some of the profits now.”

“I’m not meant for this line of work,” you said. “Lose my number?”

“You’re not as bad as you think. Just got a pesky conscious. Enjoy retirement,” he said. You hummed and quickly left, taking a deep breath. 

Half an hour later you were heading to the airport with five million dollars in your bank account and ready to go start over.

Two Days Later

“Nice view,” said a voice behind you. You sat up from your chair by the pool, staring up at Dean as he smiled. “Nice house. A little smaller than I was expecting for fifty million dollars in the bank. If you had fifty million that was. More like five now, hm?”

“I still have copies,” you said as he sat in the chair beside you.

“Oh, I know,” he said, stealing your drink. “Whoa, fruity and a lot of rum.”

“What do you want?”

“My plan was to hunt you down and get my money back and get you to give up the copies and get you thrown in prison. But I’ve had a change of heart.”

“Really. Just like that.”

“If you told me innocent lives were in danger, I could have been a lot nicer. Marcus is an unforgiving criminal. But even he could let a mistake go for forty five million, right?”

“I owed him ten. The thirty five was interest. I screwed up a job when I wouldn’t kill a guard. He lost the pay. I started working for him most every night to pay it off. If I didn’t, he’d deal with my family over on the other coast. He’s connected enough to have them watched. For forty five million, they are safe.”

“Sounds like you owe me five million dollars,” he said, holding out his hand. “Fork it over.”

“I can’t live there anymore. I need to be out of that city,” you said.

“You’ll come back eventually. But you owe me five million dollars,” he said. You dropped your head and sighed, resting your head in your hands. “Or you can give me every single copy of the photos and agree to never steal another thing in your life and in exchange, I will pretend you didn’t take five million for yourself.”

“Are you serious?” you said, snapping your head up. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Why would you do that?”

“Why didn’t you tell Marcus who I was? That would have cleared whatever you owed and then some,” he said. You shrugged and he smiled. “I have a sneaking suspicion you’re a good person. Don’t worry, I won’t tell the other criminals.”

You reached to your left and grabbed your phone, deleting the picture and then permanently deleting it again.

“You never had copies,” he said.

“Nope. You could have taken my phone and that would have been that.”

“Then I guess that settles that,” he said. “Nice place to retire to.”

“Yup,” you said.

“Mind if I crash here? Considering I bought this place and all.”

“Why are you staying here?”

“I did something yesterday. My old partner called me up, told me I ought to take a break for a bit. He had some valid points,” he said. “No one’s ever knocked me out before.”

“I have many skills,” you said. He chuckled and stretched out his body.

“I bet you do. So am I staying?”

“You can stay if you get me a refill,” you said, taking the glass from him and drinking the rest of the liquid. You held it out to him and he sat up.

“Alright. Don’t go running off on me again.”

“I think this time I’ll stay put.”

“Glad to hear it, sweetheart.”

“For now.”

“Oh really? Where you thinking of going?”

“Home to Gotham. Eventually,” you said. He stared at you and glanced down, nodding to himself.

“How about a nice vacation in the meantime?” he asked.

“After you. Sweetheart.”

_______

A/N: Read Part 2 here!

[theitalianerd]

Nico: I don’t talk about feelings, Will. I don’t have any - I’ve never seen one. I’m a night-stalking, crime-fighting vigilante and a heavy metal rapping machine, I don’t feel anything emotionally except for RAGE 24/7 365 at a MILLION %, and if you think that there’s something behind that then you’re CRAZY. Goodnight Will.

Will: Nico, it’s morning. *opens window to let the light in*

Nico: *hisses* *goes under the blanket*

[imsofansie]

YAY! I love doing things :) some of these aren’t from my favorite characters, just ones I could think of from the top of my head lol

“He had to get his stomach pumped!” - Ocean O’Connell Rosenberg ~ Ride the Cyclone

“Like a drunk Chita Rivera.” - Sonny De La Vega ~ In The Heights

“I don’t know, let me ask it. Track bar, are you helping me??” Dale Earnhardt Jr. ~ NASCAR (does this count as a fandom?)

“It’s a me’apho’ fo’ capi’alism” - Hobie Brown ~ Spiderman: Across The Spiderverse

“Somewhere out there, someone cares, GO TELL THEM!!!” Katherine Plumber/Pulitzer ~ Newsies

“I don’t talk about ‘feelings’ Alfred. I don’t have any, I’ve never seen one. I’m a night-stalking, crime-fighting vigilante, and a heavy metal rapping machine. I don’t feel anything emotionally except for rage, 24/7, 365, at 1 million percent. And if you think there’s anything behind that, you’re crazy.” - THE FUCKING LEGO BATMAN MOVIE

Tagaroonies: @our-future-is-up-to-us-2 @spookysplatt @loving-jack-kelly @mani4milfs @oliviaaaah @rat-all-the-stars @theseusthetransratking @yourpigeonwife @your-penthouse-in-the-sky

toff starts a tag game

reblog with a quote from your fav character from atleast 5 fandoms that you’re in/used to be in!!

ok mine:

”your fingers might not be so burnt if you cooked with an air fryer!” -frye onaga (splatoon)

“you ever think about runnin in pictures? buy a ticket, they let anyone in!” -albert dasilva (newsies)

“now, what the heck happened around here? oh right- my doing!” -caine (tadc)

“what happened to you that made you hate fun?” -serafine savoy (lackadaisy)

“the romantic tension is so palpable… how can you guys even concentrate??” pavitr prabhakar (atsv)

hey guys 😏 @the-woild-is-y-erster @sluttylittlenewsboy @ftm-megamind @newsiesfixation @itsgrapes-exe @newsiesreference and anyone else that wants to join!!

[internalsealpanic]

Better Die Than Doubt

Summary:  You wince knowing he’s already noticed. You feel the tiniest bit more at ease as he approaches your booth but it didn’t stop your eyes from flickering and searching for something off in the environment. The creeping sense of being watched trails up your spine. You’re sure.

A/n: To no one’s shock, this entire fic was unplanned. I was possessed by the urge to make it (translation: I got the urge to write this and one of my enablers said do it).  This story should be treated more or less as a horror story. Nothing is being glorified here except how dorky Jason is. That being said,  PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. This fic contains quite a few triggering things and I really don’t want you to be blindsided.  Also thanks to @knightfall05x for helping me write this whole thing. Thanks to @batarella (HOE) for action writing tips.

Warnings: graphic violence, stalking, emotional manipulation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, drugging, nongraphic description of rape, and rape aftermath 

masterlist

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes. You could practically feel the oncoming headache the way you could sense someone coming down the hall. This is what happens when you’re running on just 5 hours of restless sleep for the last few days. This headache was also not helped by the fact that this was your fifth coffee in the past 30 minutes. You probably should not be drinking this much caffeine this late but intelligent decisions weren’t exactly your strong suit this week. You rub the sides of your forehead feeling another wave of nausea. 

 You check the time again and groan.  It’s been one-and-a-half hours since your agreed upon time had lapsed and yet one Jason Peter Todd was nowhere to be seen. You curse, nerves edging, and mind fraying.  To be perfectly fair to him, he is a busy guy, vigilante, and all. You understood that fairly well- and this was sudden to say the least. You can’t really fault him for being a bit late but the long wait was ratcheting up your anxiety. Again, the coffee didn’t help but considering it was the only thing you could keep down since last night, you didn’t have much choice. 

 Last night. 

 Your stomach tumbled. You cup your hand over your mouth feeling your coffee traveling back up your esophagus. You let out a long exasperated breath, letting yourself sink into the booth. You look out the window, eyes flickering wildly searching for Jason. Your hands tighten around your mug. The feeling of being watched made you bristle. 

 Jason, well, Jason wasn’t hard to spot. The man was 6 feet 4 inches of pure muscle and leather. Having a handsome face and a ‘fuck you’ look in his eyes also helped.  In short, the man was hard to ignore. You wave weakly to him as he dismounts his bike, a gesture far too small for your usual bombastic self. Jason’s smarmy smile greets you as he returns the gesture with his gloved hand. The motion is slow and cautious, rickety in a way. You wince knowing he’s already noticed. You feel the tiniest bit more at ease as he approaches your booth but it didn’t stop your eyes from flickering and searching for something off in the environment. The creeping sense of being watched trails up your spine. You’re sure. 

 “Jesus, y/n, you look like Timbo” Jason chuckles sliding into the booth his green eyes shining with scrutiny. You look at him flatly not having enough energy to properly respond to his jab. He winces seeing your lack of reaction. “Rough night, huh?” He asks flagging down a waitress, who looked quite pleased to get away from her previous table.  

 You nod weakly, slowly as if the fact that it had been a rough couple of days had just sunk in. “Yeah,” you reply, your voice small and a little threadbare. You drum your fingers against your increasingly cold mug. The waitress sets a couple of warm mugs in front of you. Her soft smile makes you uneasy. You and Jason mutter a thanks as she tells you to wave her over if you need anything else. Her warm brown eyes boring into the stark purple bruise on your face. You shrink and smile sheepishly at her.

 “I’m fi-”

 “I am going to throw these sugar packets at you if you say you’re fine.”

 “Damn, ok, Mr.Kettle,” You laugh. His concern startles a genuine laugh out of you. You’re sincerely surprised how lively the sound that comes out of you is. “You know if you keep sounding like that, Jay, you’re gonna wreck the whole stone-cold badass thing you got going,”

 “Y/n..”

 You huff running your hand through your disheveled hair, trying in vain, to soothe your mind. What was the best way to put it? You swallowed, gathering your lapsing thoughts. “Sooo uh-” The collar of your shirt suddenly felt tight around your neck. “-I-” You breathe. “-I found around 4 or 5 of Blackmask’s boys and Deathstroke-No, I’m not shitting you- in my- my apartment for- well- the third time in the last two months, can I crash at your place? Just ‘til I find a new place. Oh and also how do I get rid of them?”

  He blinks as his brain takes its sweet fucking time digesting what you had just said.  He leans back groaning and running his hands over his face. He looks like he’d like to deck you if he wasn’t too busy being concerned for your welfare. You shrink again, feeling bad for springing it on him. The decision to leave out the gory details of your hectic week suddenly felt like the wisest choice but you had no doubt he’ll get it out of you at some point. 

 “I’ll skip the obvious ‘why did you wait three times before moving’ question because I feel like I’m probably going to get an aneurysm from your answer,”  Your reasoning wasn’t quite that stupid. You were mucking about Sionis’s operation. The fucker decided to branch out his little enterprise into your city and like hell, you were gonna leave well enough alone. After you had set fire to one of his warehouses, you thought that would explain the False Facers. But Deathstroke? Deathstroke was a mystery. You’ve also been mucking about his business but you two have always been civil if not friendly. Frenemies of sorts, you guessed. You’ve been encountering him a lot in the last few days. You had figured that Blackmask had hired him but considering he threw two men out of your apartment window last night, you’re not entirely sure.  You make an affronted noise that Jason elects to ignore. 

 “What did they do?”

 “Aside from necessitating a visit to IKEA?  Nothing.”

 “Did they take anything? Leave a message?”

 “Nope, nothing-” You furrow your brow trying to recall. You shake your head. “-They just made sure I knew they broke in.” You add, shrugging your shoulder. You wince at the movement. Your shoulder still aches from being hit with a bat. Jason’s shoulders shift, moving as if to reach out to you but stops himself. Instead, he continues with his line of questioning. “Sweetheart, there’s gotta be something missing.” 

 You frown, biting your cheek. Jason rests his chin on his hand, green eyes watching you and urging you to think back. It was either the weight of his gaze or the lack of sleep that was making it hard to recall. You close your eyes and catalog your belongings, analyzing the mental picture you have like a crime scene like how he taught you months ago, breaking it down into the smallest pieces of information and bringing it back into a bigger picture.  Still, nothing. Nothing of note was missing. You shake your head and shrug your uninjured shoulder. Jason glares at the immobile one. You shake your head silently telling him it wasn’t from last night which just made him clench his jaw. 

 “Evidence?”

 You shake your head.  He frowns baffled. 

 “Tech?”

 You shake your head again. 

 “Anything personal?” He asks jokingly. 

 “I-” A cold horror washes over you trailed by embarrassment. Your vibrator had been missing and so were a couple of your lingerie sets. You feel your stomach drop to the floor. “Oh god, Jay- I- Please, let me stay with you.” 

 “And have them steal my stuff?” He chuckles. 

 “Please, Jay, like you have anything worth stealing.” Jason frowns at you scrutinizing your face. You level him a glare but it was more in an effort to fight down a blush than anything venomous. Jason’s jaw unclenches and his face breaks into a shit-eating grin. “What color was it?”

 “Wha-”

 “Bzzzzzzzt ” 

 If you weren’t blushing before, you are now. Heat climbs up your spine. Your mouth felt dry. 

 “Well, what color was it, sweetheart?” Jason drawls, his voice dropping an octave. You shiver but bristle just as quickly. You bite your cheek and glare at him. “HA. HA. HA. Funny, Todd.”

 “Was it Red Hood Red?” Jason teases, winking and raising his cup of coffee to his lips. 

 “Nightwing blue” You deadpan. Jason coughed into his drink.  You preen with satisfaction. 

 “Does it make stupid puns while you go at it? ”

 “Yup,” You say, the ‘p’ popping. “That’s part of the appeal.” You joke smiling into your mug.  Jason snorts. “How is that supposed to be sexy?”

 You shrug, a sharper less tired smile cutting across your features. “Dunno man. Nightwing is pretty sexy if you ask me.” You wink.  

 Jason makes a fake gagging noise. Well, it seems fake with how theatrical the gesture is but with bats? You never could tell. You roll your eyes and giggle.  Jason’s shoulders loosen at your bubble of laughter, his face slipping into one of his sheepish smiles. “In all seriousness, y/n, you can stay at my place.”

 You smile at him, your usual fluorescent smile. 

Click

 Click

 Click

 A man from across the street watches you intently through the lens of a camera. 

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

 Slade throws the photos across Roman’s desk, each glossy piece of paper containing a candid photo of you looking increasingly frayed and anxious.  

 Roman marvels at how your usually larger than life figure shrank into your puffy coat, how small and malleable and inexperienced you looked. He notes the panicked look in your eyes in every one of the photos and savors it. He couldn't wait to see it for himself. 

 In one photo, you're looking over your shoulder as you enter your office building. 

 In one, you’re tracing circles on a child’s hand with your thumb,  beaming brightly as you told some wild tale to distract the child. 

 In another, you're slumped in your desk chair as you think over a case looking absolutely exasperated but determined. 

 In yet another one, you're locking lips with a man, his hand trailing up your shirt. Roman made sure to give the man some swimming lessons a few weeks prior.  

 In the photo in Roman’s hand, you're at the emergency room looking like you haven't slept in 2 days. Your face was bruised and your clothes were torn in several places where Slade had managed to land a blow. Your delicate skin marred with cuts and trickling blood. Absolutely gorgeous.   

 He examines it closely. The photo was taken just a few hours ago. You look like you're going to cry but your shoulders and jaw are squared more frustrated than scared. There's a fire in your eyes that threatens to level the city. A thrill rides up his spine at the prospect of extinguishing it. 

 “This is why you wanted to throw my men out the window?”

 Slade hums. He shrugs and the edge of his lips curl into a smile. “It was the only way to convince the kid that we’re both after her-” His eye drifts to your face. Appraising but impassive. “The kid’s scared out of her mind and exhausted at this point.”

 Slade had a point. Roman had to give him that. It wouldn’t be obvious to the casual observer but it would be plain as day to anyone like Roman who had been studying you for a while. You weren’t quite as meticulous with your appearance as Roman thought you should be (He would work on that later) but the dishevelment in your appearance was obvious. The slight dip in your shoulders in place of the prim posture that you usually employed was a blatant indication of your weariness. And the falter in your smile, the flickering in your eyes, and the number of times you let yourself bite your cheek showed the cracks in your fearless image. 

 Who knew weeks upon weeks of chaos could weather Minos City’s own budding hero? 

 In the photo next to Roman’s hand, your laughing face is stark and lively against the drab atmosphere of the diner, bubbling laughter carving life into your exhausted features making you look more like the shining paragon your city has come to rely on. The man sitting in front of you is laughing too. The sharp edges of his grin softened by the fondness in his eyes. It was hard not to recognize him even with such a foreign expression plastered onto his face.  Roman crushes the photo in his hand. 

 “BUT NOW SHE’S WITH THAT SCUMBAG RED HOOD”

 “And she’s now with the Red Hood. In his secluded safe house. Weakened and far from help. Most likely thinking that she’s safe under his protection and blissfully unaware of the tracker I put in her arm.”

 “I see… It seems like you are worth the pay.”

 Slade made no effort in hiding his smug grin.  

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

 “Jay, I really am sorry about this.” You mumble for what seemed like the fifth time in the past half hour. 

 “I sincerely hope you’re apologizing for the fact that you neglected to tell me you had bruised ribs before getting on my bike and not the fact that you’re staying with me because two crazy assholes decided your place needed remodeling.” Jason exasperates, pinching the bridge of his nose. You feel kind of annoyed by the gesture but he did have a point especially with your city’s less than smooth roads. You were also pretty banged up. As it turns out, facing off against a bunch of goons plus a master assassin is not good for your health. You swore viciously under your breath. Now, you weren’t expecting Deathstroke to go easy on you despite your rapport but the guy really didn’t have to throw you around like a rag doll. Even with your power to adjust the odds, it was a miracle that you escaped intact. 

 “Well, Mr.Pot, you ride your bike all the time even with broken ribs.” You bite back. Jason rolls his eyes unaffected by the distilled venom in your voice.

  “Well, one of us is a stone-cold badass- ”

 “And the other is a sasquatch with a stick up his ass.” You sneer snatching the beer bottle from Jason. Your tone was far too fond and playful to have any actual bite. Jason chuckles at you and ruffles your hair before snatching it back and handing you a bottle of water.

 You huff taking the bottle from him and following him to the couch. He sits down on the couch patting the seat beside him. You plopped on to the couch, placing your sock feet on his lap. He grabs your ankles and throws your feet back at you. You just as quickly throw them back on and this time you do it with an absolutely delighted smirk on your face. “Rude,” He mumbles but doesn’t attempt to extricate you again. 

 “So Deathstroke, huh?” Jason starts, side-eyeing you over his beer. You adjust yourself to sit up a little straighter.

 “You mean the asshat who broke my favorite lamp last night?”

 “Who the hell has a favorite lamp?”

 “Me! And get to your point.”

 “Have you two- yanno?” Jason jokes, his eyebrows wiggling and hands gesturing vaguely. Your eyes grow wide and heat creeps up your neck and face. You scowl at Jason throwing a pillow at his face for good measure. He catches it with ease much to your frustration giving you his trademark triumphant grin. You kick at him with no real force. 

 “NO! What kind of soap opera shit is that?” You giggle into your drink. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before. The guy was skilled and pretty witty.  You also had eyes and the man was handsome but something always felt strange about taking it further. You were civil but you kept your distance. 

 You pout at Jason again causing him to chuckle. “What? I’m just saying it’ll air out some tension~” He suggests winking. 

 “Oh my actual god, I hate you. I sincerely, truly hate you.” You laugh, kicking at his thigh. Jason makes an obviously fake hurt noise which draws out even more giggles out of you. Some tension in Jason’s shoulders releasing upon hearing the bubbly sounds. 

 “You speaking from experience, Jay?”

 Jason shakes his head and coughs. “Catwoman-” Cough. “Talia Al Ghul-” Cough. “Sorry, sweetheart, seems like I have a really bad cough this week.”  

 And that is how you spend the rest of the night questioning Bruce’s love life. 

“Food is in the fridge,” Jason says pointing to the said fridge which was sorely lacking magnets, sounding like a somewhat tired single parent. 

 “Do I look like I can keep anything down?”

 Jason snatches the water bottle you had abandoned on the side table next to the recliner. “With that big mouth of yours? Sure.” Jason teases lightly booping you on the nose with your water bottle. “Get some rest.”

 “Yes, mother” You sighed, burying yourself into the thick comforter he’d given you, crumpled water bottle in hand. He ruffles your hair. 

 “You know you’re safe here, right? ” The question startles you. You shift uncomfortably, pulling the comforter tightly around your shoulders. You shrug at him, not entirely certain how to answer. You know Jason’s safe house is, well, safe but you also thought your apartment was too. Your stomach twisted. 

 Jason squeezed your shoulder probably sensing the spiral of your thoughts. He smiles down at you, probably. It was hard to tell with the helmet.  

 “If you want, I can-”

 “No, Jay, I’ll be fine here. You can go on patrol. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

 The thing with Jason was that even when he was so big and bulky and hella intimidating, his empathy towards others had a bad habit of always shining through despite the layers of armor and sarcasm. You squeeze his hand, pressing little circles into his palm, and smile up at him. It was forced but it was the best you could do. Jason ruffles your hair again before letting go and making his way to the window. 

 “Get some sleep.”

 “Aye aye cap’n” You yawn settling into a slump on the couch. Jason can’t help but smile fondly at you.  You wave him a sleepy goodby before he sets off. 

You passed out on the couch, an old habit you never grew out of. You always slept on the couch when you felt uneasy. It may have been some sort of way to separate stress from your bedroom. It sure as shit wasn’t for safety reasons. Your equipment was dispersed throughout your apartment but your weapons were usually stowed away in your room. 

 You feel a hand running gently through your hair, smoothing away all your apprehension. 

 “Jay” You grouse, your hand halfheartedly swatting at the hand stroking your hair. You bury yourself further into the warmth of the comforter feeling the need to shrink away from the touch. You feel a soft prick on your neck.  

 Your eyes fly open.  

 Shit.

 The hand tangles in your hair. It throws you to the wall. The air is knocked out of your lungs. Your ribs scream. You scrabble to your feet. Your limbs fail you. They flail uselessly. Your breaths pick up. Your chest feels like it's caving. 

 "JAY" You shriek. “HELP.” A large hand grasps your throat. A rush of adrenaline kicks in. You thrash. You kick. Your hit lands. Another grasps your ankles. You scream. You swear viciously. Another grabs at your wrists. Something rough winds around your wrists and ankles. 

 The world tilts into an odd angle. Your head feels heavy so do your arms and your legs and everything. 

 "Jaaay" You slur, the air in your lungs becoming sluggish like everything else. "Jay" you sob again, knowing he wouldn't come. Not when he was so far away. 

 "Shut up you …..  bitch" You feel a swift kick to your stomach. It barely registers above the haze. 

 "Hey man-"

 "What? The …. man said we …… rough her up."

 "We can?"

 "Yeah, ……, said so"

 Your eyes blink, stupid, and uncomprehending.  Distantly, you hear yourself grunting and whimpering. You can feel their blows but your body is too far away, too inaccessible. It was strange to physically feel yourself drift away. 

.

.

.

 Roman traces the sun shaped scar radiating on your shoulder with a leather-clad hand. The one shot he’d managed to land on you the first time you’d stormed one of his warehouses. You were all cocksure and quick wit and boisterous laughter. You really had the devil’s own luck but it seems to have run out. Not that Roman’s got any complaints. Not when he’s got you laying at his feet,  tied up and vulnerable. 

 He crouches down, hand on his chin.  His eyes roam appreciatively over your sleeping form, appraising you like a premium cut of meat. You look pretty against the black silk sheets he’d chosen.  He sighs content with his prize. He traces the tip of his knife over your cheek, a dark purple bruise maring your features stark against the stainless surface of the blade. Slade really was quite careless when handling you. Not that Roman has any plans on being any gentler.  

 He lets his blade drift down, trailing down your neck down to the flimsy protection of your oversized shirt.  Your steady breaths falter. You keep your eyes shut trying to gather more information but it’s hard not to focus off the tip of the blade cold against your warm skin even as the blade cuts through the thin fabric of your shirt. A large hand grasps your face roughly. 

 “I know you're awake, baby-” You blanch still not opening your eyes. The grip on your jaw tightens. You grin like a madman. “It's rude to keep daddy waiting.” 

 “Sorry, Sionis, I was really hoping not to have to wake up  you’re ugly mug.” You sneer, voice thick and raspy with sleep but still full with your trademark confidence. Roman looks more amused than irritated.  Your body and mind are still at the cusp of sleep. You wriggle and almost cry out with joy when you feel them move. You mind the hand on your jaw and its tight grip. 

 “Baby, I won’t tell you a-” You spit in his face, cracking an eye open to see his reaction. A bloody grin spreads across your face like wildfire when you see the annoyance on his face. 

 “You’re going to regret that” He growls, wiping his face with a torn piece of your shirt. 

 “Oh please-” Something cracks across your jaw. 

 “The next time it’ll be the other end,” It takes a moment for your mind to catch on. You stare at the hilt of the blade for a moment before letting loose another smarmy grin. His violent reaction spurs you on. Yeah, you can definitely see why Jason thinks you’re going to age him twenty years. “Oh please, You like my face too much for that.”

 “You really wanna test that?”

 “Nope,” You say, spitting into his eye and landing a punch square in his face. You cackle like a madwoman when he goes down. You don’t bother hiding the delighted chirps that escape your chest. 

 Being petty, you give him a swift kick to the face before dashing towards the door.  You launch yourself, feeling like you can fly. The copper taste in your tongue almost feels sweet. 

 Your hand grasps the door when a hand tangles itself in your hair. 

 Roman throws you back onto the mattress, the springs digging into your back. You scratch and claw and thrash against the large hand wrapped around your throat. You snarl as Roman leans closer, his body pinning yours against the mattress, his weight immobilizing your fatigued limbs. A sweet-smelling cloth covers your mouth and nose, you gasp in surprise, inhaling the scent. Your mind is already sluggish by the time it catches on. 

 Your vision dims. 

 You feel hollowed out. 

 Your limbs fall away, arms drooping and pliant against the silk-covered mattress. The cloth feels too much against your skin. Vaguely, you feel horror prickling up your spine or maybe it was just the springs again. 

 Roman pulls away. You think you breathe a sigh of relief, feeling the weight of him lifted. He straddles your body, grinning down at you. Your mouth falls open to say something. You want to say that you curse him out or that you threaten him. The sound you make is small. Your tongue feels too heavy.  No, something is pressing it down, you think. 

 Above you, Roman is a towering colossus. You’re vaguely aware of the shifting of his hips. He removes his gloved hand from your mouth and caresses the side of your face with mock gentleness. His movements are sluggish and syrupy.  You make another noise when you realize to some degree of horror that isn’t. Your mind felt heavy and useless. 

 He snaps his fingers. The sound is dull like it's contending with water. A muffled set of steps approaches you. A man, you realize. You don't think you’ve noticed him before. His dark shape is messy and incomprehensible. A red dot flashes stark against his form. The mechanical sounds of a shutter drift in and out of your mind. You turn your head back to Roman at the sound of shifting fabric.

 Above you, Roman, already without his suit jacket, loosens his tie, eyes staring hungrily at you. The pit of your stomach feels painfully cold. You blink at him stupidly. He chuckles, grasping your chin to make sure you’re looking at him. You protest against his touch.

 “Don’t worry, baby, you’ll be the star of our little show like the filthy attention whore you really are. ” He laughs. It rumbles like thunder in your ears. 

 The world falls away. 

Click

Click

Click

.

.

.

.

.

One 

 Two

 .

.

.

.

One

 You feel a prick on your neck. 

 Hot breaths fan against your face. 

 Your body is too warm. 

 You don’t want to know why. 

 Twenty-five, you continue counting. 

 You feel fabric shift against you. 

 Something sharp digs itself into your flesh.  

 One 

 Two

 Three

 .

.

.

 Three?

 Something’s crushing your windpipe.

 Your body is aching. You’re not entirely sure whether it’s from use or disuse and by who. 

 “Good girl”

 Thirty

 .

.

.

 Twelve

 There’s something scraping against your flesh. 

 Is it a knife?

 Hot pants fan against your skin. 

 Teeth 

 Four

.

.

.

.

Fifty-six

 “Boss, I-.... going a …. bit too far?”

 Smack!

 “Do …. You…. to think?” 

 Two sixty-eight

 A hand strikes you. You think your jaw is broken. It hurts but then again everything hurts. All you can do is take it and whimper. 

 Tears sting against your face.  

  “That’s right. Just like that. Like that, you little whore.” 

 Your body is warm again. 

 You still don’t want to know. 

.

.

.

.

Two

 Two

 Two?

 You’ve counted two before. 

 You blink. 

 The haze of your mind lifts. 

 The coldness of the room seeps in your bones. You’re bare. You take stock of yourself, running your hands over your skin. Everything is still there. 

 Everything and a few other things. You let disgust and shame roll over you. A sob tears its way out of your chest. Your breath picks up. You feel your mind slipping. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, calling your mind back and steadying yourself. 

 You take stock again. This time moving your limbs and jangling your joints.  They were weak but workable. You’re surprised to find yourself unbound aside from the collar around your neck. You suppose Roman’s confident in his drugs. How long have you been here? You press lightly against your neck, feeling the higher than normal pulsing of your artery. You shift yourself waking your legs up. 

 You stiffen, gooseflesh spreading over your skin as light filters into the room through the door. Your eyes snap shut, stinging from the sudden intrusion of light. The pulse beneath your fingers jackrabbits. You think you’ll keel over. 

 “Shhhhhh”

 All the strength in your veins floods out, leaving a feeling of cold horror in its place. You scream or you try.  Your body feels impossibly rigid. Roman stalks towards you, his footfalls slow and deliberate and too loud. Your heart jumps up to your throat with each step. You inch yourself away from him, drawing yourself up to make yourself feel bigger. He coos at how adorable you are, trying to look defiant. The mattress dips under his weight. Your mind begins to slip away from you again. The world falls away from you. You anchor it, digging your nails into your palms. He cups your face, thumb caressing your bottom lip. You glower at him and bite out something witty. He laughs amusement lighting up his features, the sound grates against your ears. 

 “Not gonna fight back?” He taunts, pressing his thumb down on your bottom lip. Your body recoils but then goes slack as he runs his hand up and down your side. Shame blankets you but the fear etched into you keeps you still. 

 Roman loosens his tie. 

 Your mind falls out of your reach. 

 “Such a good little slut.” He murmurs against your lips.

 NO

 You wanted to say. 

 Instead, your mind starts counting again even as you hear the rustle of fabric. 

 .

.

.

. 

 BANG

 A gunshot rings through the thick atmosphere of the room. 

 Roman curses. 

 His men stampede. 

 Another round of shots fire. 

 Something- No, no.  Someone tears Roman off of you. 

 “Deathstroke?” You croak, your voice sounding foreign and absurdly brittle. 

 “Do you know anyone else walking around looking like this, kid?”

 “Ravager” You snark, lips twitching into a smile. He rolls his eyes underneath his mask. The familiarity of the exchange breathes life into your body. Roman’s hand grips your wrist with bruising intensity. Your breath catches. 

 No. No. No.

 The word loops in your head like a constant rat-tat. 

 Slade’s foot makes contact with Roman’s head, the force of it unnecessary but satisfactory. The sounds of bone-cracking fill the air. The man falls uselessly to the grimey floor. He shoots him with a couple of rounds for good measure, each shot instilling a pang of finality in the back of your mind. 

 You scrabble towards Slade, wide-eyed and shallow breathed.  You cling to Slade as he bundles your body in silken sheets.  He hoists you easily into his arms. You bury your face into the junction between his neck and shoulder, closing your eyes, the image of Roman’s bloody body on the floor pressed into your mind. You sob in relief. Your hands clasping onto Slade, white-knuckled and shaking.

  "I've got you, sweetheart," He rumbles, running his hand through your hair soothingly. The tight knots in your body, loosen. You whimper a quiet thank you. “I’ve got you.”

 You lift your head only to see Roman twitch. 

 Your breathing falters. 

 Fear pricks your spine. 

 Your mind falls away from you again. 

 Distantly, you feel Slade’s grip on you tightens. 

 Distantly, you hear him murmur something. 

 Everything is too far away. 

 Your eyes blink sluggishly. The world becomes dimmer with each blink. 

 .

.

.

.

 A warm spray of water drizzles down over your aching skin. Your open wounds sting but the warm water pooling around you soothes the aches of your bruised flesh. Your eyes focus on the soft off-white of the tile on the wall opposite you. You don’t let yourself about the thin, rusty red film swirling in the water. The air in the room is thick with steam and the scent of lavender. 

 The absence of grime on your skin makes you feel lighter and gauzy and immaterial. You felt naked and obscene like you had been taken apart and now someone was examining pieces of you. You almost miss it. 

 “Lean back” Slade grumbles as he lathers your hair with some lavender concoction the hotel provided. Your body follows automatically, eagerly, obediently. You tell yourself you’re just tired. You tell yourself nothing’s wrong with your response. You tell yourself you’re ok. You wince. The warm water around you shifts. You hear it splash against the tile. You flinch at how loud it sounds. You take a deep breath and lean into his touch. He’s handling you delicately as though you would fall apart any second. You might. 

 Blinking away tears, you watch his face, aware that by leaning back, you’d be giving him a good view of the hickies, bite marks, and knife wounds Roman ‘gifted’ you. There’s a slight twitch in the corners of his lips. He must be disgusted with you too. You want to sink into the hot water and let it burn you anew, but you don’t trust yourself not to drown.   

 You close your eyes as another spray of warm water pours over you. You melt into it hoping it’s enough to wash the last few days- weeks?- away. 

.

.

. 

 Your hands grasp his face, pulling him towards you. His hands brace against the tub, keeping him from falling in with you. Your arms loop around his neck, your hot breath fanning against his lips. You press your lips against him, searching and wanting. For what exactly? Comfort? Safety? Stimulation? His lips press lightly against yours, not quite a kiss. Slade actually looks taken aback. 

 The rest of the world floods back in. You peel away, your eyes wide with terror. “Shit- I’m- Fuck! Fuck! Shit, Slade, I- I’m sorry. I- Shit! I didn’t-” Your breathing ratchets up, becoming shallower as the pulsating in your ears grow louder. There’s a tightness growing in your chest that makes you think your ribcage is about to implode. You cover your face with your hands not caring how it didn’t help your shallowing breaths. You can’t look at him. You just can’t. You know you’re disgusting. 

 Your body wants to come apart, dissolve, and if it can, evaporate. You can’t breathe. You curl into yourself, into the water. A hand grabs at your wrist. You flinch. The hand carefully pries your hand away, forcing you to uncurl. Slade’s other hand cups your face gently, guiding you to look him in the eye. The lack of disgust in his face rattles you.

 His thumb brushes against your lips making your stomach twist and your spine curl. He dips his head closer to yours. You kiss him eagerly. He lets out a pleased hum and smiles against your lips. Something cold licks at the bottom of your stomach but it’s overtaken by the need for connection, to fill in what had been hollowed out.   

You press closer to him than strictly necessary as you watch the news, chewing on your cheek.  He pulls you close, shifting you on to his lap. You don’t protest, eyes glued to the TV. 

 “Businessman, Roman Sionis, was found with several gunshot wounds to the stomach in one of his warehouses here in Minos City. He is now in stable condition. Authorities say...”

 Your jaw falls slack in mute horror. Your stomach tumbles to the floor.  You’re hyperventilating. Your teeth are digging into your cheek, you taste copper. Your mind spirals back into the room, back to the dirty mattress, back to Roman. 

 Strong arms wrap around you, stilling your trembling body against a broad chest. Your body relaxes a fraction. You curl into him, the buzz of nervous energy settling into a quieter panic. 

 “You’re safe with me, you know that don’t you, sweetheart?” Slade says tracing circles into your palm. You lean your head into his shoulder. You nod easing against him. “I’ll never let that monster anywhere near you.” He promises, pressing a kiss into your hair. A little sob wrenches free of your imploding chest. 

 Slade keeps his face buried in your hair even as you fall into a lull. It was the only way to hide the triumphant grin spreading across his face. 

 “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take good care of you.”

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

A/n: Thanks for reading. There’s a follow up to this because I can’t cope with bad endings. I had to promise myself a good second part to make the ending horrifying. 

The writing process for this fic was basically:

Me: I have this horrifying idea!

My brain: Yes but what if we put a little dork Jason in it. 

Me: I guess that wouldn’t hurt. 

Me: Ok I have written nearly 2k of dorky Jason where’s the other parts?

Brain: Uh what other parts?

Me: *sighs and spends the next few days spamming @knightfall05x*

taglist: 

@batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes,  @americasmarauders , @l-horizon11, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell