#ellesthots

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

I. “the club within the club”

read on AO3 🦇 taglist 📣

parts: next

plot: Bruce Wayne is an angsty mess and you get thrown right into his tornado when you accidentally discover his secret identity.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+ MATURE! NSFW! canon-typical violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst (with a happy ending!), fluff, hurt/comfort, forced proximity, eventual smut, mutual pining, dual POV, Bruce Wayne needs a hug, mental health issues (psychosis, suicidality), substance use, blackmail (or is it?), serious health issues, grief, brief mention of sa (does not occur), gaslighting, torture

words: 2.4k

a/n: this is my first fic i’ve posted to tumblr and ao3, very excited to see how people like it ✨ same user on ao3 :) comments and reblogs are so appreciated! 💖 'the batman' and 'the penguin' are canon in this fic <3 i'll do warnings at the front ends of chapters when there's potential for the penguin spoilers, and for any of the more intense cw!

"I haven't turned in the assignment yet, I'm so sorry," you fumbled with your book and it slipped forward on the desk. Already a week late, the assignment was to write a piece on happenings around the city—the city was used loosely, because it was school policy to not require students in the field for assignments. You never lingered on what might have caused the rule to be enforced.

Dr. Vry was usually the picture of impatience, but not now. Though you couldn’t see the ‘journalistic prodigy’ frame she placed you in, she had a soft spot for you. Late work, stained sweatpants and haphazardly-stapled papers didn’t exactly scream talented, but you wouldn’t complain with your grade hanging in the balance. While you’d done well in the intro courses, more complex material left you struggling. She would say it was all in your head.

You’d never been great at people, though you’d tried—even going so far as to major in them. Four years of sociology had left you still tripping over yourself. You’d wanted to pivot with your last few credits, but were unaware how much grief taking journalism electives would cause. 

"You’re overthinking it." The professor gently shook her head, her salt and pepper hair unmoving in the slick bun. "I'll extend it until the end of next week. After that it's out of my hands!" 

With that (and a thousand thanks), you hurried out of class with your book squeezed tightly to your chest. Thank god, you thought. Can’t fail my last term.

Evening rain pounded your tiny apartment window as you nibbled at leftover takeout. The Family Meal was a steal you were too broke to ignore, even if the chow mein became a bit chewy for your tastes at day three. With your free hand you texted Mar, but knew she was out clubbing. How the hell she’d managed an early graduation with her social life was beyond you. How you’d landed in her orbit when you transferred, and that she’d accepted you as a friend, was an even greater mystery. 

Less of a mystery after endless nights sharing said Family Meal amidst midnight reruns, but nevertheless.

You stared at your dry phone for a few seconds, letting your mind numb against the backdrop of the ever-present monsoon of Gotham. Companionship was a dream long forgotten; the sting of loneliness here was too great, and since you planned to leave the second that degree slipped into your hands, it was no use forging new connections. 

Mar had snuck her way into a crack in the first few months of your arrival. Back when you thought you might find something here; back before you were proven wrong, and you’d given up on this godforsaken city. Leaving everything behind hadn’t filled the void, but you couldn’t accept that it might’ve deepened it. 

Mar didn't usually respond but tonight, she did.

Get your ass to the club! I miss you.

You chuckled a little at the idea of getting all ready to be sweaty in a room full of strangers. 

No thanks, have fun!

Within a second she’d disliked your message and sent another: You'll find more inspo here than in your studio. I'm sending a taxi, be ready in 10

You groaned and threw the phone down. It nearly fell off the couch entirely, forcing a wince. Ugh. A club? On a Friday? 

Men in Gotham were nasty, taking every opportunity to get something from a woman. Plastered across downtown were blistered posters with a faded number to report drink tampering. You should have expected as much with the city's reputation, but coming from a small town left you naive with hope many didn’t deserve. 

The day's exhaustion had worn your resolve and the longer you thought about her text, the closer you were to giving in. More inspiration... she might be right. Stifling a sigh, you glanced around your empty walls and noted the waning light outside. 

Fine, only for an hour.

You reluctantly walked to your closet to pick your outfit, bemoaning the night ahead. 

Fifteen minutes later, you found yourself shivering under your apartment patio in a dark mini dress. Mascara and gloss had been the only options, because you’d thought your driver might actually be on time. 

Staring out at flashing headlights threatened a migraine, so you whipped out your phone and logged onto Scypher, a Gotham-area social platform. Mar teased that you were an adrenaline junkie with how often you stalked the ‘Crime’ tab, occasionally grabbing your phone “to see if the loading screen burned in yet”.

Pretty empty. Some car vandalisms, a fire likely caused by some teens with too much time on their hands. Hmm. As unease pricked your skin, you reminded yourself that this was good, this was great. Wouldn’t want to go out during a crime surge. 

You looked up as you heard a tire tempt the curb. The driver called your name, and you slunk into the backseat. The leather was cold, rough, and generally uninviting. Classic Gotham.

The drive was quick, passing clubs practically on every corner. When he pulled up to one of the most elite clubs in the city, cold flashed through you. “I’m sorry, my friend must have given you the wrong directions—”

"It’s correct." He was stern, and when you started taking out cash, he waved a dismissive hand toward you. "Your friend already paid." 

Flustered, and frankly confused he hadn't sneakily accepted double payment, you staggered out. He barely waited for the door to shut before slamming the gas. Mar would get an earful.

The line wasn't too long, so you fell into step behind a few people laughing hysterically. On instinct, your eyes dropped first to their hands—empty—then their pockets—green. Tinfoil. Right. Dropheads. Harmless, but annoying in their glassy-eyed, inconsiderate bliss. Why couldn’t they popularize a drug that made you quiet and subdued, not screeching outside apartment buildings in the middle of the night?

You paused, the harsh reflection of your frown in an oil-slicked puddle challenging your cynicism. At least they were happy, too busy enjoying themselves to notice the stranger scowling behind. What would that be like to be completely out of your own mind? 

God, it seemed like a fucking vacation.

The line moved fast so you didn't have time to find an excuse to leave. You held out your card to the burly, tall bouncer who gave you a once-over and a smirk. Sexual harassment this time, or being denied entry for an out of state ID? No one moved to this city. No one but you. 

He handed your things back, and held out a hand for the club fee. Shit. A nervous look over his shoulder displayed a menacingly-Sharpie’d sign requiring $50 entry, and you managed three crumpled twenties from the bottom of your bag. He smiled, yanking open the rusty door for you. “No change.”

Well, guess I'm eating ramen this week.

Your ears began ringing the second you entered the club, glass-shatteringly loud speakers shoving the bass into your organs. People were packed in like sardines, and before you could even muster a thought you were grabbed fast from behind.

"Y/n!!!" Mar wrapped you in a hug while you tried to steady yourself. 

"Shit, Mar,"

"You look SO good! Fuck yeah!" She smiled and smacked your ass as she led you towards the stairs. You hadn't gotten much of a look, but her eyes looked bleary, inflamed. Not damning enough to call out, not with the beams of red stage lights flooding the dance floor.

"I met some guys that got us a lounge!" 

She was giggling, but you pulled away. You'd already been sufficiently creeped on by the bouncer, and longed for the sweet relief of your bed. "I thought this was a girl's night,"

"C'mon babe, relax!" A green hunk of tinfoil fell from her pocket when she whipped around. When you yanked your hand back, frustrated, she peeked over her shoulder like a guilty dog. It made you soften, but not by much. 

"MAR." You bent down to pick up the litter just as a man came up behind. One press of his hips to your torso made you recoil at the intrusion, and you spun around to shove him away. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” A bit of his drink spilled on your side, and you grit your teeth. By this time Mar had stepped up, always a willing wingman. 

"Hey, don't fuck with a woman like that, bitch!"

BAMBAMBAMBAM. 

Impossibly loud, impossibly close popping noises whipped through the crowd like gunshots. All hell broke loose. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. They were. It was. Fuck.

You grabbed the railing to pull your shaky legs to the exit when body after body rammed into you, leaving you stuck. Suddenly a kid again, ducking to your knees under the desk, shoving your hands over your head during drills. Crouched now, you wondered what the fuck a hand would do against a bullet. A cool wave of helplessness traveled your spine as someone’s knee knocked your skull against the stairwell in their escape.

The gunshots inched closer, closer, egging on your heart rate, curdling your thoughts sour. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t want to die. I shouldn’t be here. I should’ve stayed. What the fuck am I doing? Where is she? Is she dead? I’m going to fucking die, I’m going to fucking die.

You drew a shaky breath that was too loud for comfort, and forced your mind to clear for just a few seconds. What was the easiest place to hit? Images of autoplayed video after autoplayed video swirled your thoughts, trying desperately to parse which position those that survived all those mass shootings had been laying in. What had all those survivors said? What the hell had kept them alive? Luck? Silence? Luck and silence.

A rapid increase in gunfire made you shriek despite your survival instincts. One would fly through the railing, you just knew it. You knew it, you knew it, you knew, why hadn’t you stayed in bed, you’d never shit on your apartment again, you’d live and breathe and die there, no, you’d die right here, right fucking here—

Silence. 

Sweat beaded your entire body as it electrified with adrenaline; you squeezed your eyes shut, shoving yourself against the side of the stairwell in an attempt to make your body as compact as possible. The rough concrete texture burrowed into your arm as you jammed harder, harder, harder… I could be dead with just one bullet.

Before more morbid thoughts could form, you yelped as you felt your body being lifted and slung over someone's shoulder. Something was hard and slick against your stomach, and the world whizzed around you when you dared look around. The arm that held you was so strong you couldn’t slip out if you tried. Relief coated you as the chill of Gotham’s night air hit your cheeks. 

Short-lived was the relief, as a new panic settled in alongside it. Though you were fully removed from the chaos, the man wasn’t letting you go. 

An elbow was the first thing you tried, but it nearly had you choking on tears as it scraped against unforgiving material. Were they armored? 

You tensed your abs and fought to roll out of his grip. Nothing. Nothing but a grunt from the man holding you, but you couldn’t even begin to isolate the voice while your ears rang with tinnitus. 

So you shouted and wriggled, screaming “Let me GO!” until the cows came home. Or until he let you down, whichever came first.

"Stop fighting." A low, gravelly voice spoke hot against your ear, punctuated by a hard flop of your ribs digging into the edge of his shoulder. Bruises were evidence of struggle, something this dipshit probably wasn’t thinking about. You heaved a breath in preparation of another flop, but it wasn’t needed. 

Without warning the man released his grasp and you slid off, landing squarely in a puddle. If this was an EMT, they needed more training and identifiable clothing. Black on black made him hard to focus on, but the shock of a pale jaw knocked the wind right out of you. 

The Batman. 

“Oh, uh,” the tornado of panic relaxed ever so slightly, and a sliver of shame crept in. “Sorry.” You felt bad for thinking of all the ways to immobilize him, from a kick in the crotch to digging your nails into his eyeballs. 

He stood there long enough for reality to seep in. One, that you were safe, and two, that you hadn’t been. You’d finally found yourself in the crossfire and unless a dozen people died, it wouldn’t even make the news. Maybe you needed to leave before graduation.

“Turn around.”

Batman’s sharp tone burst through your reverie, and you spun around instantaneously. His word was good as gospel. In your year and a half here, a few of your classmates had spoken of being saved one time or another. “He never sticks around. Gone as quick as he comes. Thank god for him.” It was instinctual to trust him, like reaching for water on a hot day.

And his voice brooked no argument. 

The back of your head lit up in flaming pain. The edges of his gloves caught on some hair strands, and you gasped. “You need stitches.” 

A screen lit up on his arm when he stepped back. Your vision blurred at the edges, eyes watering from the pain. "Victim with head wound on Feller and Kelley." 

Head wound. Better than a fucking bullet to the chest. Never before had you swooned over the thought of a needle snaking through your scalp. You sighed out a thank you, half-wondering if he planned to carry you to whomever he’d called. You couldn’t tell for sure, vision much too hazy, but he might’ve nodded. 

In a blink, the masked man was halfway down the alley. Just when he turned out of view, police lights illuminated the space, flashing off the balmy brick. You swallowed hard, letting the shock wash through you. Part of a fucking shooting. Saved by the Batman.

And you hadn't gotten a good look at him.

[flawssy-227]

I saw you got tagged in that person’s post trying to ‘expose’ me (for supposedly having… a throwaway reddit account?? Which I don’t??), and I want to reach out to let you know I’m sorry you got dragged into this through the tagging, and that it shouldn’t have to be said, but it is NOT me. But it’s cool the two other harassing accounts got taken down!! Can’t believe the lengths people are going to with this, it’s actually so mind-boggling I can’t wrap my head around it. So yeah! Just wanted to reach out since you got a tag. It was so disheartening to wake up to.

I just saw this! And yeah no worries. I didn't even read the whole post bc I was like ??? Who has the energy. Hope you're doing okay :)

[cinnamongrl2006]

Ok since we have college! Jason, mayhaps a professor Bruce? Who sees you walking home in the rain and gives you a ride back to your dorm but he takes the ✨scenic✨ route if you know what I mean lmao

౨ৎ Professor!Bruce Wayne x female student!reader ౨ৎ mdni (18+)

౨ৎ Warnings: Legal age gap, power imbalance, vaginal sex, unprotected sex.

౨ৎ a/n: I will never stop writing for Bale Bruce Wayne, he's the love of my life, man of my dreams, I'm insane for him. I obviously don't condone this kind of relationship, but all I write is fiction and I find it reallyyy attractive in fiction, SUE ME!! also, creds to my divas @ditzydoe444 and @ellesthots because their professor!Bruce fics are TO DIE FOR!!

You hadn't expected it to rain so much that afternoon; that's why you had forgone the idea of bringing an umbrella in your bag, it would only add weight to your already heavy backpack, and you'd spend most of your time in the library anyways.

You began to regret your decision when you exited the library and the cold water began to patter against your head and shoulders, soaking through your clothes. Your damp shirt was stuck to your chest uncomfortably, your shoulders shook with shivers. You really should have brought an umbrella, or at least a jacket.

You were cursing yourself on your walk back to the dorms when he saw you. Bruce was in his car, another late night after a long meeting with the dean. He registered your presence quickly, it was raining heavily and there wasn’t a soul in the street—there shouldn’t have been, much less a young woman like you, so cluelessly strolling alone at night, so he did what he thought necessary, he rolled down the window and called out your name.

“Mr. Wayne?” You looked at him with wide eyes, the surprise and embarrassment were evident in your soft features. God you were so unlucky, the day you go out thinking that nobody will see you you cross paths with the hottest professor in the entire college—just your luck.

“You look like you need a lift,” He smirked, poking his head out the window, and slowed the car down to a stop.

────୨ৎ────

The car ride was quiet at first, only the low hum and static of the radio on a rainy night broke through the silence. You had your bag in your lap, clutching it close to you for dear life.

Bruce wanted nothing more than to chuck the bag into the backseat and get his way with you, he felt like an asshole but the way your top was clinging to your chest was making his brain go haywire and his cock fatten up in his slacks.

“You can leave the bag in the backseat, more comfortable that way,” He spoke as if he knew better, as if that was the right thing to do; patronizing and authoritative.

You did as he said and threw the bag into the backseat, folding your hands in your now empty lap, awkwardly. The tension between you two could have been cut with a knife, the silence heavy and loud.

Bruce stretched out a hand to move something on the center console and instead of moving it back to the wheel, he placed it on your thigh, squeezing it softly. It was a declaration of intentions, he was giving you a way out.

"You shouldn't be walking alone so late, more so when it's raining." He sounded truly worried as he caressed the soft, damp, skin of your thigh.

"Lucky you were here, then." You spread your legs further, urging him to go higher, and he followed suit. His fingers danced along the seams of your panties, not quite hovering, not quite touching.

The bumps on the road were the only thing forcing contact between him and you, and they were few and far between. You were beginning to get desperate, your breaths were coming out whiny and shaky, your hips stuttered against his thick fingers.

And Bruce was just a man, his self control had been thrown out the window the moment he’d seen you walking back to your dorm drenched and shivering all alone. You were so helpless, huffing and puffing, feet dragging across the pavement, shirt drenched in water and sticking to your chest so deliciously; he had to help you, poor little girl, who didn’t even think to bring an umbrella.

The louder your whines got, the faster he drove; he moved through the back roads with expertise, not even wavering with the rain, his hands steady.

────୨ৎ────

You were sprawled across the backseat, your bag on the floor of the car, as Bruce pounded you mercilessly. He held your thighs apart as he thrusted in. A creamy white ring sat at the base of his cock from your previous orgasm

He didn't know what had gotten into him; he was usually so professional, never would have even glanced at a student before he met you. Maybe it was because of the way you looked at him, your gaze intense and unwavering, never missing one of his classes. Maybe it was because of the way you spoke to him during tutoring hours, your voice soft yet confident, drawing him in. Or perhaps it was the subtle way you brushed your leg against his when you sat side by side.

He was grown, after all; he was not stupid. He noticed how your eyes drifted down to his chest when he rolled his shoulders, or how they lingered on his arms when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing the toned muscles underneath. It made his heart race.

"That feel good, sweetheart?" He breathed out.

You knew if you tried to speak the words would not come out so, with your hands pawing and tugging at his shirt— all wrinkled and rumpled now, thanks to your relentless movements— you just nodded your head, staring at him with wide, glassy, eyes and an open mouth, letting out little whines and moans at the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Come on, you're a smart girl, my top student; you can use your words, can't you?" There it was again, the sweet voice, the patronizing tone.

"Yes. Feels good, sir." You managed to breathe out.

"Call me Bruce, let's leave the titles for the classroom, huh?"

You nodded, eyes meeting his hungry gaze. Bruce's cock twitched at the sight of your dazed smile, half lidded eyes, pupils blown wide and your cheeks flushed that pretty shade of pink you got when you made eye contact in class.

"mhm, Bruce," You whined, your hips stuttered up, back arching when he angled your hips to get slightly deeper. You could feel the slight burn from the way he was stretching you out, the spur of pain when the tip of his cock hit your cervix repeatedly, but all of that was kept in the back of your mind, as he kissed your lips and cooed at you.

"So pretty...you're a beautiful girl, you know that? Smart too," He spoke between kisses, his voice was hoarse, breathy.

Bruce didn't moan, but he grunted a lot, to punctuate his words when he spoke, or after a particularly deep thrust.

"So tight, baby. Just relax, I've got you." He spoke into your neck as his thrusts got messier, harder. The squelching and clapping of your thighs against his got louder, and so did your moans. You came almost instantly, leaning your head back against the car window, his hands held your waist, keeping you in place as he fucked his thick cock into you. He came shortly after you, with a hard thrust and a grunt.

After a moment of shared silence, the sound of the rain drumming against the car filled the space between you. You both caught your breath, the lingering warmth of the moment wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. Bruce rested his forehead against yours, eyes shut tight.

"We should talk about this before Monday," He spoke as he caught his breath.

“Yeah, or it’ll be super awkward in class,” you replied, a light laugh escaping you. Bruce chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he tried to regain his composure.

“Well, we can just keep it professional, right?” he suggested, looking at you with a hint of amusement. 

────୨ৎ────

@lalitalux

[smellingbats]

1. let it happen

⏾  professor! bruce wayne x student! reader 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

⏾ cw: 18+ (MINORS DNI), opposites attract, eventual smut, you can’t tell me this man isn’t ocd, your professor is hot 🥵

⏾ content: Your professor calls you out in front of the entire class. Your world comes to a screeching halt. 

⏾Hi! I haven’t written a fanfiction in a really long time so I’m sorry if this is not the greatest piece of work. I’m going to probably turn this into a series as well so stick around if you’d like! Thank you so much to @ellesthots for inspiring me to write this and being so encouraging and so dang sweet!

“Y/N L/N. See me after class today, and yes, I see you pretending not to see me.” Professor Wayne’s  voice abruptly interrupts your thoughts, snapping you out of the dissociative episode you were in. 

You can’t help but scowl at his callout. You did not appreciate being called out in front of your fellow classmates. Especially after the ever so slight smirk on his face upon seeing you scowl. Only for a split second of course. Almost immediately, he returns to lecturing as if nothing had happened. His face and body language was perfectly composed, it seemed like everything he did was deliberate, no matter how small the action. Somehow, he always remained in complete control of the room. Which wasn’t hard because not only is he a genius on multiple subjects, but he also happens to be incredibly attractive. 

‘What is his deal?’ You think to yourself, internally cursing yourself for letting him catch you off guard like that. 

You sigh softly, knowing exactly what his deal was. Not only were you incredibly late for almost two weeks straight, but you had a handful of unexcused absences. Missing five of his classes was bound to get you dropped at one point or another, you just wished you had communicated more. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be in the predicament you were in right now. 

The rest of class is spent with an insurmountable amount of anxiety about the meeting with Professor Wayne  after class. Your mind was racing with possible scenarios of how it would go; in one he absolutely shits on the entirety of your submitted work, and in another he just sits and stares while you cry and beg him to not drop you (he drops you). 

Finally, he excuses everyone and you find yourself practically sprinting out of his class to get the meeting over with. Of course, by the time you get to his office he is already there. Perfectly composed at his desk, presumably looking over your school profile on his computer. You wonder if he is secretly the shadows or something. You go to knock politely, but he speaks before your hand reaches the door. 

“Come in Y/N.” His voice was smooth and low; unreadable as always. 

You nervously walk in, not saying a word. Professor Wayne was always unnerving to you. How could someone be so passionate about what they teach while being one of the most intimidating people you had ever met? Not because of who he was or how much he was worth. But mainly because of the way that he seemed to see through others so clearly while remaining incredibly aloof. You have never really been able to get a read on him, so you had no clue how he felt about you, or anyone else for that matter. 

He points to the chair directly across his desk and simply states, “Sit.” 

You adjust yourself uncomfortably in the small chair across from him, internally cursing yourself for choosing to wear a skirt today. You stare at him awkwardly, noticing his piercing blue eyes for the first time. You watch him type something and then meet your gaze, making you blush ever so slightly. 

“I’ve noticed you’ve missed several lectures now.” He fully turns towards you, placing his now folded hands neatly on his desk. His tone is sharp, but not harsh. Just straightforward. You expect him to ask why, so you open your mouth to finally speak, but he continues. “Is everything alright?” 

You swallow softly and nod, slightly shocked at the question, but then shake your head. “It’s been…a really tough few weeks. Just some family stuff.” You say, trying your hardest to not unravel in front of him and embarrass yourself by crying. “I know that that’s no excuse Professor, I know that I’m falling behind. I just didn’t want to give up so easily…especially because I’ve really enjoyed being in your class.” You look down at your hands ashamedly, 100% certain that he’d fail you. 

Bruce looks at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re not one to give up so easily.” 

You look up at him. Was that a… compliment? “You think so?”

“If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t have told you to come in today.”

You stare at him, unsure what to say. You didn’t realize that he was actually paying attention to you or the assignments you submitted. 

“I’m offering you a chance to earn your grade back through extra credit. A research paper.” He stares through you, leaning back in his chair slightly. “A research paper on the psychological and social effects of constant exposure to violent content, specifically on social media.”

You look at him with an intrigued gaze, “So. Desensitization?” 

“That is one part, yes.” He grabs a thick file next to him and places it in front of you. “The most important part though, is how this desensitization is affecting our ability to sympathize with others. Specifically when it comes to self proclaimed victims. The ones caught in the middle.” He pushes the file towards you and continues. “Especially when these ‘victims’ are committing acts of violence openly in the name of ‘real change’. Think of how the public reacted in the past year to Edward Norton. Some were angry, yes, but he gained quite a large following within a very short amount of time from the first video he broadcasted. Do you remember how people mainly reacted to his videos and livestreams?” You look at him with slight shock, impressed at how well versed he was on a subject so fresh. You open the file and look at him again. “With anger?” You could barely remember the last year, especially with the terrorist attack committed by the ‘Riddler’ and his followers. Everyone in Gotham was heavily impacted by his ‘real change’. He had made thousands homeless, killed hundreds, and forced everyone to start over. 

“Close.” He says with a slightly amused look in his eye. “Amusement. People like to say that they’re empathetic, but if you give them a phone screen to hide behind and one person's confession? Then it becomes entertainment.” 

“Thats…heavy.” You say.

“That’s exactly the point.” He pauses before continuing. “I expect your work to be 100% your own. No regurgitating my lectures, and no citations that are already in this file. I don’t want to read about something I have already researched myself. ” You look at him, feeling defeated. The file was huge! How could you ever find evidence that he hadn’t? 

He ignores your look of defeat and continues on. “Not only will your work be 100% your own research, but you will also meet with me weekly. If I’m going to invest my time into this then I expect you to show me that you’re fully committed to this. We’ll meet for progress check-ins, research reliability, and any other needs that arise.” Professor Wayne stares through you expectantly, awaiting your response. 

“I’ll do it.” You say quietly, not wanting to come off as ungrateful. “I’ll work hard and I won’t let you down sir. Thank you. Really.” 

For the first time maybe ever, you see his expression soften ever so slightly. “Good. I look forward to seeing what you find. This is going to take more than a little bit of effort to redeem your grade.” 

As you left, you could feel your knees buckle as you turned slightly to look at him again. He was still looking at you. With the same damn smirk from earlier. Maybe he wasn’t just talking about grades.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

⏾ Next chapter ⏾ 

[vulcanstarr]

oh my god, i’m crying over phish food @ellesthots,

such HEARTBREAK

[alixandra-multifandom-version]

I have this HUGE conference tomorrow with my team wish me and them freaking luck

(If I've passed away due to the stress, please delete this blog😭✌🏻✨️)

@ellesthots @shortnsweetsposts @uselesscomicnerd @lionwitch @lilacheavenlana @legendarylovee @this-is-how-you-shoot @cielitoot7 @muchmorelove @rouge-vixen579 @nanaldy @marriedtojasperhale @what-a-strange-creature @cherryswift13 @foreverwinterstan13 @m155y-74 @local-folklore

[batmanlovesnirvana]

hii!! have u thought about writing batman oneshots/fics

and what are ur thoughts on vampire!batman + professor!batman

I actually do have a fic called TU’BURNI — it’s in my masterlist, which is pinned on my page :)

I haven’t updated much here in the last three months, but I’m still updating it on Wattpad and AO3 … You can find the links on my masterlist if you want to check it out !!!

I also wrote a few one-shots for Batman ( I think I have three or four, I forgot but more to come anyway ) and there’s one that’s more like an analysis of Bruce too. They’re all listed in the masterlist as well !!

As for Vampire!Batman, I think it’s a really interesting concept. I haven’t read the actual comics where the Batfamily are vampires ( I know there’s one, but I’m not super familiar with it ). I’ve just seen a few panels floating around here and online.

If I ever get the time, I might check it out, even tho my vampire phase ended a while ago lol 😭 But honestly, it might come back like so many of my other phases, haha. I’ve always found the idea pretty cool !!

When u mentioned Professor!Batman, at first I thought u were talking about Professor Pyg — and I was like, “…umm?” but then I realized what u meant 🤣

Honestly, if you’re thinking of it as part of a romantic pairing, I think it’s really interesting !! I haven’t read anything like that myself yet, but I know one of my mutual and friend ( @ellesthots ) is actually writing a fic about it right now, you should go check it out ;)

I’m definitely planning to read it when I have the time but unfortunately, uni has been killing me lately, which is why I’m a bit slow when it comes to updating or posting new stuff… :/

thank u sm for the ask <33

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

twin bed

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/LeFbxS0 by ellesthots bruce wayne visits your family home, but you struggle to find time alone together. Words: 2800, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: The Batman (Movie 2022), Batman - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Bruce Wayne, Reader Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader Additional Tags: Smut, Established Relationship, Consensual Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Yearning, Aftercare, kinda middle care, Bruce checks in though, Almost Caught, Intense, No use of y/n, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Family Dynamics, He’s obsessed with making you feel good read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/LeFbxS0

[ao3feed-superbat]

battinson drabbles

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/iAVCKgY by ellesthots collection of drabbles involving battinson

[cauliflowercounty]

OP that reblog of the AI post is made by some weirdo who is making a slam campaign after the real writer Ellesthots told a reader that she did not appreciate her work being used for AI.

The real Ellesthots doesn't support AI at all but yea.

Thanks, anon for the clarification!

I agree with the sentiment that writers’ work should not be used for AI at all.

I hope whoever made that post and used Ellesthots’s platform to disperse it is taking the opportunity for some much-needed reflection and critical thought.

[flawssy-227]

10 people you want to get to know better!

tagged by the amazing @guiltyasdave <3

last song: rush - troye Sivan

last movie: coyote ugly

last book: be ready when the luck happens (ina garten's memoir)

last tv show: apple cider vinegar

sweet/savory/spicy: a sweet treat, a spicy margarita and a savory side of fries pls!

relationship status: single (talking to my ex)

last thing i googled: Aimee Lou Wood (she's so gorge and unique looking and I wanna be her bestie)

looking forward to: watching the SNL50 special today

current obsession: other than Pedro Pascal and Joseph Quinn???

tagging some folks (not even 10 tho bc I barely have mutuals haha):

@foundtherightwords @thepascalparadox @ellesthots

[cinnamongrl2006]

ty for the tag, vi!!

I hope you think of me when…

you see anything pink, bunnies, western films and americano coffee

tags: @prettywritergirl2 @palala2314 @ditzydoe444 @ellesthots !!

Tag game!!

I hope you think of me when..

I hope you think of me when you see anything periwinkle or broadway related

@xoxzso @soft-likethesunset @sweetreveriee @auntiejohn @meangirlsbway @urmumsfan @xoxochb

@im-on-crack-send-help

[alixandra-multifandom-version]

I love you all my beautiful mutuals please don't explode😭🎀✨️

@ellesthots @shortnsweetsposts @uselesscomicnerd @lionwitch @lilacheavenlana @legendarylovee @this-is-how-you-shoot @cielitoot7 @muchmorelove @rouge-vixen579 @nanaldy @billi-ashli @what-a-strange-creature @cherryswift13 @foreverwinterstan13

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter one | echoes of the past.

masterlist

universe : reeves, the batman 2022.

pairing : battinson!bruce wayne x fem!oc.

words : +6k.

synopsis : “In the dark heart of Gotham City, Dr. Maryam Halimi, a medical examiner of now 2 years, navigates a life steeped in tragedy and secrets. Her routine of grim autopsies is disrupted when a notorious serial killer strikes, plunging the city into chaos. As bodies mount, Maryam’s world intersects with the enigmatic Batman, whose presence both unsettles and fascinates her. Struggling with her growing feelings for the vigilante and the mounting dangers of her work, Maryam must unravel a web of deceit and face her deepest fears. In a city where trust is a rare commodity, survival hinges on deciphering the truth behind the murders and the shadowy figure who haunts her nights.”

author’s note : I’ve had this story in my drafts for three years. It’s also my first time posting a fic, so please keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. I’ve had this idea for longer than I can remember, but I’m really excited to finally share it. Please don’t hesitate to leave comments or anonymous asks—I love reading them!

dedications : maryam is dedicated to my fellow avoidant attachment girlies 🫡 Seriously though, this chapter is dedicated to a few incredible authors who inspired and encouraged me to share this fic. Their work is truly amazing, and I highly recommend checking out their fics. Your support and creativity have been a driving force for me—thank you! @punchdrunkdoc @devilfic @hollandorks @zipperzoo @bruciemilf @twinklelilstarkey @ellesthots @gilverrwrites @mostly-imagines and anyone I might have forgotten <3

cw : bruce is emotionally constipated, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

TICKING ECHOED through the morgue, a relentless countdown as the clock on the wall inched toward 10 PM, its rhythm cutting through the stagnant stillness.

With each tick, a life slipped further away. 

The numbers pulsed in the quiet : 108 lost every minute, 6480 in an hour. It was like a ceaseless march toward eternity, counted in heartbeats that would never echo again.

The morgue, sterile and cold, was a place where life had been reduced to charts, instruments, and clinical detachment. Yet tonight, even its unfeeling walls seemed weighed down by the enormity of it all. The air felt heavier, laced with a quiet reverence for the stories now stilled, for the breaths that would never again disturb the silence.

Inside this stark sanctum, time felt as though it had slowed to a crawl, suspended in the heavy stillness, burdened by the quiet presence of the dead.

And it was here, in this realm of silence and finality, that Dr. Maryam Ben Halimi sat ; a solitary figure amid the shadows, like an angel tasked with bearing witness to the lives now gone. 

More like an ethereal presence among the cold gleam of stainless steel and unforgiving white walls, the woman hovered over a lifeless body, movements quiet and reverent, like a priestess tending to sacred rites. Hands, steady as the Fates themselves, guided the delicate threads of mortality to their inevitable end.

Light brown hair, meticulously swept into a French twist beneath a whimsical unicorn scrub cap, glowed with a caramel sheen, catching the light in such a way that it seemed kissed by the sun, even in the shadow of death. The warmth of her tanned, almost bronze skin carried the whisper of far-off lands, of deserts and ancient places where myths were born and legends thrived.

Under the harsh, artificial light, almond-shaped hazel eyes flickered with a brilliance that seemed otherworldly, shifting from deep forest green to molten gold, like the eyes of a goddess who peers beyond the veil of the living. 

They were windows to a soul that had seen much, that understood both the sanctity of life and the inevitability of its end. 

A straight nose, with its barely perceptible bump, added a quiet dignity to her face, like the subtle scars on a warrior's shield. 

Sculpted high cheekbones framed features that balanced delicacy with strength. Beauty marks, scattered like faint stars in a night sky, adorned her skin — small celestial maps beneath her eyes, along her lips, and down the curve of her neck. They were not marks of vanity but symbols of a life well lived, silent testaments to a beauty that was both raw and real, as mortal as it was divine.

Dark, elegant brows arched above her expressive eyes, adding subtle definition to her gaze, while long lashes curled naturally, casting soft shadows over her cheeks like the wings of ravens in graceful flight.

Her lips, full and inviting, wore a deep crimson, the shade of a blood moon, of prophecies whispered in the dark. When she smiled, rare and fleeting, like the smile of a Sphinx ; it hinted at mysteries long kept, a quiet gesture that left its mark without need for words.

The beauty of Dr. Ben Halimi was not a secret, but it wasn't the kind that faded with time or was spoken of lightly. It was a beauty drawn from legend, shaped by the hands of destiny, touched by both light and shadow. Like a mortal vessel carrying the burden of a thousand untold stories, she held power that captivated without ever needing to command.

She possessed an allure that seemed effortless, captivating with just a single glance. And the longer you looked, the more striking her beauty became, as though it revealed itself in layers; quiet elegance intertwined with a natural grace. 

It was the kind of presence that lingered in your mind, leaving behind a lasting impression, not for its boldness, but for the way it gently captivated.

The doctor had just finished examining the latest tragic case: Fiona Harrinson.

A pale young girl of only nineteen, with fiery red hair and blue eyes that had turned a disquieting red — a common occurrence in deaths involving certain substances. A life that had barely begun, now extinguished by the scourge of Drops, a drug as ubiquitous in Gotham as the rain. 

Fiona, like so many others, had sought solace in the chemical embrace of drugs, a brief escape from the harsh realities of living on the streets without support. 

With a heavy sigh, Maryam gently covered the girl's lifeless face, it was a ritual she never grew accustomed to, no matter how many times she performed it. 

Each time, it felt like closing a chapter on a life story that ended too soon, and the sadness never fully dissipated. Fiona had no family to notify, no one to mourn her passing: just another casualty of Gotham's underworld, another soul lost in the shadows.

As Maryam turned to her desk, ready to tackle the inevitable paperwork, the door creaked open. 

Tamara Nguyen, known affectionately as Tammy, breezed in with her usual air of lateness and cheer, two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

She was petite, with a delicate frame that belied her boundless energy. Glossy black hair, cut into a sleek bob, framed a face that was all wide, warm brown eyes and a ready smile... And a habit of wearing bright, colorful scrubs that matched her lively personality, reminding Maryam of her younger sister Rania.

Tam's presence was like a burst of sunshine in the often somber atmosphere of the morgue, and despite her frequent tardiness, she had a way of making everything feel just a little bit lighter.

"Hey, sorry I'm late, as always," Tammy said with a sheepish grin. "But I did brought coffee!"

Maryam didn't look up immediately, her pen still dancing across the forms. "It's okay, Tammy," she replied, her voice tinged with a teasing warmth. Finally, she glanced up, a playful smile curving her lips. "I'm used to it by now."

She accepted the coffee, savoring the warmth as it flowed down her throat, offering a brief moment of comfort. Tammy leaned against the desk, peering curiously at the covered body on the examination table.

"So, what do we have?" Tammy asked, her eyes flicking between Maryam and the still form under the sheet.

Maryam sighed, setting her coffee down next to the papers, wincing as a few drops stained the corner of the form. She rubbed her temples, eyes closed briefly in weariness. "Another Drop case, as usual," she said, frustration evident in her voice. 

Her hands dropped to her lap, her hazel eyes now open and glinting with a mix of concern and anger. "It's getting out of hand. Too many bodies, too many kids, dead because of those fucking drugs! If it's not Drops, it's some other damn substance. And nobody's listening! I tried talking to Commissioner Savage and the cops—"

Tammy interrupted, tone voice soft but resigned. "As if the cops would listen. They're all bought up by you-know-who," she muttered, her breath fogging up her coffee cup.

Maryam leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I know, Tam," she said, exasperation seeping into her tone. "But I thought they'd at least try to do something. For God's sake, it's mostly kids dying from this stuff!" She threw her hands up in frustration, her voice rising slightly at the end.

A tense silence fell over the room, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning. The weight of the city's problems felt like an invisible fog, hanging thickly between them. 

Tammy, trying to lighten the mood, ventured with a teasing smile, "Maybe you should ask Gotham's vigilante. He might help you."

Maryam snorted, the tension breaking as she threw a pen at Tammy, who dodged it with a laugh. "Ha ha, very funny," Maryam said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'll just pop over to his cave and have a nice little chat. Maybe he'll even offer me some bat-themed snacks."

Tammy chuckled, shaking her head. "You never know. He might surprise you."

Maryam stretched her legs and neck, sighing tiredly for what felt like the tenth time that day. She picked up her pen, refocusing on the paperwork in front of her. 

"Can you please put her in the fridge?" she asked then, voice softening. "I'm going to finish her paperwork. She has no family, no one to cover funeral expenses or claim the body, so I'll have to turn it over to a funeral home."

Tammy nodded, taking a final sip of her coffee before setting the empty cup on the desk. She moved to the body, her demeanor professional as she prepared to transfer Fiona to the cold storage. "Where did they find her?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Under the Gotham Gate Bridge," Maryam replied, quickly adding, "Some kid going trick-or-treating found her and reported it to the police."

Tammy's mouth formed a small "oh," her expression twisting into a grimace. "Poor kid," she muttered, shaking her head while nudging the rolling table aside.

The television in the corner of the room played the nightly news on GC-1. The anchor's voice was a constant, soothing drone, providing background noise to their grim work. "It is Halloween night in Gotham," the anchor announced cheerfully. "Tourists are flocking to the city from all over the world to experience our unique festivities. But tonight also marks the anniversary of a tragic event in Gotham's history..."

The mention of the Waynes caught Maryam's attention. She glanced at the TV and turned up the volume, her eyes narrowing as images of Thomas and Martha Wayne appeared on the screen. The anchor's voice carried a somber tone, narrating the unfolding story.

"This week, we remember the tragic deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, beloved billionaires and philanthropists, who were brutally murdered in front of their young son, Bruce Wayne. The Waynes were Gotham's first family, revered pillars of our community known for their immense generosity and tireless philanthropy. 

Their loss left a profound impact on the city, and their memory still resonates deeply with many. Their son, Bruce, now a reclusive billionaire, rarely leaves the confines of his family estate. 

The Waynes' legacy remains a significant chapter in Gotham's history--"

The camera lingered on old photos of the Wayne's: Thomas, with his charismatic smile; Martha, radiant and elegant; and a young Bruce, holding his mother's hand. 

Maryam watched, transfixed, the light from the TV reflecting in her hazel eyes. Their family had always seemed like royalty to the people of Gotham — untouchable, revered. Their legacy was intertwined with the city's very foundation, their wealth and influence reaching every corner of Gotham.

And despite her disdain for the wealthy ( or any billionaire, for that matter ) Maryam Ben Halimi simply couldn't forget Bruce Wayne.

Twenty years ago, her Thursdays followed a familiar rhythm. She'd step onto the subway, her arms weighed down with empty shopping bags and her mind already calculating how far she could stretch her family's meager budget. Those rides were unremarkable, a blur of tired faces and station announcements, until she began noticing them—a mother and her little boy.

Mrs. Wayne was simply impossible to overlook, her presence was both understated and undeniably commanding. Her triking blue eyes, the same shade as her son's, would scan the pages of a book she always carried, a posture effortlessly elegant even in the worn subway seats. One gloved hand turned the pages while the other rested protectively over her son's small fingers.

The boy, Bruce, couldn't have been much older than Maryam. His legs dangled above the floor, too short to reach it. He sat close to his mother, always clutching a tiny knight figurine as if it were the most precious thing he owned. His face, framed by dark, straight, and perfectly groomed hair, carried a shy, almost hesitant smile—a smile that felt surprisingly unguarded for someone from a family as wealthy as the Waynes.

Or perhaps it was simply the smile of a contented, privileged child, one who had everything handed to him on a silver platter.

But there was something achingly sweet and shy about him — a little boy in his neatly pressed clothes, already showing hints of the man he would become.

A security officer stood vigil a few meters away, his watchful gaze always scanning the crowd with an intensity that always made Maryam feel uneasy.

The young girl, thin as a whisper, wore torn tights that clung to her slender legs and a light brown jacket that offered little defense against Gotham's biting cold. She'd sit quietly in the corner, her gaze locked on the family. Maybe she would've been seen as a creep, but she couldn't help it—they were so... strikingly different in every possible way.

Every so often, Bruce would glance her way, offering a small, shy smile—or sometimes, a tentative little wave.

And in those brief moments, Maryam's heart would skip, and she'd quickly look away, embarrassed by her uninvited curiosity.

This quiet routine played out every Thursday, until that fateful week.

On that day, Bruce accidentally left behind his knight figurine. Maryam noticed the small, abandoned toy resting on the seat, its craftsmanship evident—expensive and clearly cherished. She couldn't leave it there. She picked it up, her fingers brushing the smooth surface, and made a silent promise to return it to him the following week, gathering the courage to finally speak to him.

But that meeting obviously never came.

The very next day, the Waynes were tragically and brutally murdered.

Maryam could still recall that night in vivid detail.

She had been curled up on the worn couch in her Aunt Meysa's cramped living room, watching her favorite cartoon, Tom and Jerry, on the small, flickering TV. The theme song was playing, and she rested her chin on her knees, Bruce's knight figurine glistening softly on the coffee table beside her. The light from the screen danced across its surface, casting a faint glow in the dim room.

She had just settled deeper into the comfort of the moment when the broadcast was interrupted by the news. Her brow furrowed in frustration, and she huffed, annoyed at the disruption.

"We interrupt your program to bring you breaking news: at 10:47 PM, Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot and killed. They were leaving the Monarch Theater when they were attacked. Thomas and Martha died at the scene. Their son, Bruce Wayne, witnessed the tragedy. The GCPD has yet to apprehend the alleged killer."

The words from the TV blurred together as Maryam sat frozen, trying to make sense of what she had just heard. It didn't feel real.

Aunt Meysa appeared beside her, her dark hair pulled back into its usual sleek bun, her olive skin glowing faintly in the dim room. The concerned frown on her face deepened as she tried to follow the news.

"What did he say?" Meysa asked in arabic, voice soft and filled with confusion.

Maryam hesitated for a moment, then translated in a low voice. "They died. They were killed." She made a small gesture with her hand, mimicking the shape of a gun, and whispered, "Pooh, pooh."

Meysa's face shifted from confusion to dismay. "Astaghfirullah, Maryam! Don't do that!" she scolded, gently slapping her hand away.

Maryam's frown remained, gaze fixed back on the screen and mind struggling to process the tragedy that had just been announced.

"The kid, what's his name, I forgot —" Aunt Meysa began, her voice trailing off in confusion.

"Bruce," Maryam provided softly.

"Ah, yes, yes, Bryce —" Meysa continued, mispronouncing the name.

"It's Bruce, not Bryce," Maryam corrected, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at her lips, despite the heaviness of the moment.

"Right, Bruce. Is he dead too?" Meysa asked, her brows furrowing, concern knitting her features.

"No. They say he's the only survivor. He watched them being killed," Maryam explained, her tiny fingers nervously twisting the knight figurine she'd kept beside her, the only connection she still had to that moment.

"Lotf, lotf!" Aunt Meysa cried out, her hands clutching her apron tightly as she brought it to her mouth, trying to shield herself from the horror of the news.

Silence hung in the air as they watched the rest of the news. 

The camera panned over the crime scene, but the view was obscured by the crowd of officers, flashing lights from their cars, and the yellow crime scene tape. Only the vague shape of two bodies, draped in white cloth, could be seen beneath the bright lights. 

They lay so close to one another, as if they were two halves of a whole, destined to be together even in death, their final positions almost tender in their proximity, like a pair of stars whose light had faded but whose orbits had always been intertwined.

After a long while, Maryam spoke softly. "I feel bad for him," she murmured, her fingers gently curling around the knight figurine. She gazed down at it, her mind swirling with thoughts of the boy she had never truly known.

"Don't," Meysa said after a pause, tone soft but resolute. "It is God's will. Everything is written, habibti." She began gathering her things, preparing to leave for work. The TV flickered in the background, the silence between them heavy. "Besides, he still has his money, his houses. He's not homeless. And he'll have food on his table tonight."

Just then, Maryam's stomach grumbled loudly, its cruel timing cutting through the stillness. Meysa raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing look. "Unlike us," she added gently but firmly.

The little girl scoffed, the weight of their reality settling on her chest like a heavy stone. She glanced away from her aunt, the sound from the TV almost fading into the background as the room seemed to close in on her.

"Don't scoff at me, Mimi," Meysa said, accent thick as she shifted her weight. "Make sure your sisters still sleeping. And you, don't stay up too late, yes? I go to work now."

She didn't respond, her fingers tightening around Bruce's figurine as she turned her attention back to the TV, the somber report flickering on the screen. The soft click of the door closing behind her aunt echoed in the quiet, and the silence that followed felt heavier, pressing down on the living room. Maryam shook her head, trying to dispel the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. 

She refocused on her stack of papers, but before she could even continue, her phone buzzed, Gordon's name flashing on the screen. With a sigh and a quick tap on the green button, she answered and switched it to speaker.

"Hey, Jamie. What's up?" she asked tiredly, trying to sound casual.

"Hey, Mar." Gordon's voice was clipped, urgent. "We need you at the Mayor's house right now. Something's happened. Police are on their way." Then reluctantly adding, voice lowering "The Mayor's wife called. Her husband was murdered."

Maryam's breath caught in her throat for a split second, but she quickly steadied herself. "Okay, I'm on my way." she said, not needing any more details.

"Thanks, Mar. I'll see you soon." Gordon hung up, his thanks echoed in her ear.

Maryam glanced at her phone, her mind racing with worry, primarily about George, the mayor's son. Was he safe? Had he been hurt — or worse, killed? 

Shaking her head to dispel the gnawing anxiety, she abruptly stood up, her chair rolling backward with a loud squeak. Gathering the stacks of papers with determined urgency, she made her way to the room where the bodies were kept. As she entered, she found Tammy scrubbing the tools used for the autopsy, her movements methodical and focused. 

"Tam, Gordon needs me," Maryam announced. "I've done most of the paperwork. Can you finish up? It's an emergency."

Tammy looked up, eyes widening "No problem! Have fun!"

Maryam snorted, rolling her eyes playfully. "Yeah, I'll be sure to send you a postcard from the crime scene."

With that, she headed to the locker room, peeling off her hospital scrubs and the cap decorated with tiny unicorns. In a few swift movements, she changed into her civilian clothes. Standing in front of a small mirror, she adjusted a few stray strands of hair, but despite the rush, her French twist updo remained perfectly in place.

She stumbled through the empty hospital corridors in her black high-heeled boots, the click-clack of her heels echoing through the space as she balanced her medical kit and car keys.

The cold Gotham air enveloped her as she made her way to the parking lot. But just as she was about to reach her car, someone grabbed her arm, abruptly stopping her. 

Instinctively, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, her expression already hardening into a glare. "What—"

"Where are you off to like that, Miriam?" The voice was smooth—too smooth. And it belonged to none other than Dr. Thomas Elliot, the hospital's head of neurosurgery, known as much for his surgical prowess as for his striking looks. 

His blonde hair was meticulously combed back, and his dark eyes, almost black, gleamed with something unsettling as he gave her a slow once-over, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. 

Maryam huffed, yanking her arm back and adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "To a crime scene, Dr. Elliot." Her tone was cold, her eyes narrowing. "And it's Maryam, not Miriam."

His smirk only grew, undeterred by her frosty demeanor. 

"Come on, I was just teasing, you know that," he said, tone light and playful. Then, with a quick glance, he added, "And I've told you a hundred times—call me Tommy."

Maryam resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She didn't just dislike him ( she couldn't stand him ) despite his charms that seemed to win over everyone else at the hospital. Sure, he was a gifted surgeon, undeniably handsome, and to top it off, came from a wealthy family with the charm to match.

To many, he was the perfect man. But to Maryam, there was something deeply unsettling about him, something that triggered alarm bells in her subconscious. 

He was too perfect, too polished — his charm felt like a thin veneer concealing something far more sinister. Her instincts always flared up when he was near, as if he were hiding something dark behind that charming facade.

At first, she had thought she was just being overly cautious. Dr. Elliot had seemed too nice, the perfect doctor who always listened to his patients. But there was a strange sense of superiority in him, a subtle way he diminished others just because he could. 

He used his charm and wit to manipulate people, often for personal gain—most often, it seemed, for sex. 

Maryam had seen the way he looked at people, as if they were puzzles to be solved or pieces on a chessboard to be maneuvered.

But what disturbed Maryam the most was his behavior when he had to deliver bad news to a patient's family. 

He would play the role of the empathetic surgeon flawlessly, but as soon as he turned his back to the grieving family, a sardonic smile would spread across his face. And it wasn't a one-time thing; no — it happened too many times for her to ignore. Each time she witnessed it, it chilled her to the bone.

Dr. Elliot seemed friendly and outgoing, but to Maryam, it all felt like a carefully constructed ruse. 

Maybe she was too observant, too wary, or even too avoidant of people. Dr. Elliot's influence at the hospital was undeniable, and she knew that voicing her concerns could lead to serious repercussions. 

So, she tried to be civil, keeping her distance as much as possible. 

But Dr. Elliot was relentless, always flirting, always trying to get under her skin, as if he enjoyed watching her squirm under his attention. 

"You look stressed, Maryam. Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked, stepping closer, voice oozing with false concern.

Maryam instinctively took a step back, determined to maintain her distance. "I'm fine, thank you. I deal with stress by actually doing my job."

Dr. Elliot chuckled, clearly amused by her sarcasm. "You're a tough one, aren't you? I like that."

Maryam forced a tight-lipped smile, her patience slipping away. "I'm glad you're entertained, Dr. Elliot," she said, tone flat. Glancing at the watch on her wrist, she added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Tommy," he corrected again, moving into her space again, his smirk never fading. "Like I said, you don't have to be so formal. We're colleagues, after all."

Maryam sidestepped him, her eyes flashing with irritation. "And as colleagues, I'm sure you understand the importance of professionalism. Look, I really have to go."

He was a man who thrived on control, on bending others to his will, and his interest in her felt like a noose slowly tightening around her neck. 

Unfortunately for him, Maryam was not one to be easily swayed or intimidated. She had survived far worse than the likes of Thomas Elliot, and she had no intention of becoming another one of his conquests.

As she turned on her heel and made a beeline for her car, she could feel his gaze lingering on her, a heavy weight that made her skin crawl. 

Sliding into the driver's seat and tossing her tool bag onto the passenger side, Maryam took a deep breath, pushing away the lingering unease. 

She twisted the key in the ignition, glancing at the rearview mirror to see the man still watching her. She muttered under her breath, forcing the key to turn again, "Come on, you rusty old piece of junk, don't fail me now."

The engine sputtered to life with a reluctant growl. The doctor exhaled deeply, her grip on the steering wheel tightening as she prepared to face the long road ahead.

The night was only beginning, a long road ahead and the crime scene awaited, and she couldn't afford to let anyone ( or anything ) distract her from her duty.

          When she found herself stuck behind a slow-moving car, frustration bubbled up inside her.

The driver behind her began shouting, their impatience palpable. Maryam rolled down her window, the cigarette hanging precariously from her lips, and shouted back, "What do you want me to do, run over his car, you imbecile?" Her hands flailed dramatically, and she rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh.

Mixing Arabic curses, she added, "Yallah, move it, you moron! What's wrong with you, huh?"

The traffic finally cleared and Maryam sped off, her car swerving slightly as she hastily took another drag from her cigarette. 

She arrived at the mayor's residence twenty-five minutes later, her patience frayed. Skidding to a halt outside the mayor's grandiose home, she yanked open her car door and grabbed her ID card from the glove compartment. The harsh light from Gotham's streetlamps stretched long, distorted shadows across the steps.

As she approached, a police officer moved to direct her away, but Maryam swiftly flashed her credentials and snapped, "I'm the Medical Examiner, not some nosy neighbor. Let me in."

The officer huffed in exasperation but, recognizing her credentials, waved her through. The medical examiner slammed the car door behind her, crushing the cigarette under her heel and shouldering her kit with a determined stride. 

Briefly looking up to the dark sky, she could see the Bat-Signal cutting through the Gotham night sky.

Maryam glanced briefly at the dark sky, her eyes catching the sharp, familiar glow of the Bat-Signal cutting through the Gotham night. Whether it was a curse or a beacon, she couldn't decide.

The signal cast an eerie, almost malevolent light across the city, a jagged shape etched into the heavens. Its cold, angular silhouette sliced through the thick fog and mist that blanketed Gotham, a harsh, unforgiving beacon against the overwhelming darkness.

For the criminals of Gotham, it was no symbol of hope, but a dreaded harbinger of reckoning. To them, the Bat-Signal was a reminder that they were never truly alone, that their every move was watched, their every crime noted. It wasn't a call for aid—it was a relentless warning, a promise of retribution, swift and unyielding.

Maryam had never personally encountered the vigilante, as the news and social media liked to call him. It had been two years since the shadow first appeared on the streets, and while she'd heard plenty about him, she had yet to cross paths with Gotham's most notorious figure. 

His presence was felt in every darkened alley, every whispered conversation — but so far, he had remained just a distant, ever-present force.

Inside, the cacophony of the crime scene unfolded like a dissonant symphony: the hum of forensic equipment, the subdued murmur of conversation, and the occasional clatter of equipment.

Officer Martinez, ever the beacon of positivity amid the chaos ( a trait that reminded Maryam of her cheerful assistant, Tammy ) spotted her and made his way over, his face etched with concern. "Hey, Mar... Thanks for coming so quickly. It's a mess in there" he looked around, eyebrows furrowed,"and I think we're all in for a long night." He added with a sight.

Maryam, cheeks flushed with the urgency of the situation, gave him a terse nod. "No problem, Lucas. I'll handle it from here." A small pause, "What's the rundown?"

Martinez scratched his head, his usual cheerfulness dimmed by the gravity of the scene. "So, the mayor's dead. Murdered. Found by his wife and kid. You'll see the worst of it in the study. Bullock's up there, but you know how he is — probably got a cigar stuck in his mouth and a scowl on his face."

Maryam managed a wry smile. "Of course he does. Thanks for the heads-up."

As the officer led her through the throngs of officers and past the forensic team in their immaculate white suits, Maryam felt a knot of unease tighten in her chest. The crime scene was a carefully orchestrated mess : a tangle of evidence, forensic cameras flashing intermittently, and the low murmur of detectives piecing together the nightmare.

Bullock was leaning against the wall outside the study, puffing away on a cigar that left a trail of acrid smoke swirling in the air. His eyes were tired but sharp as they tracked Maryam's approach.

"Dr. Ben Halimi," Bullock greeted gruffly, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Glad you're here. We could use a fresh set of eyes on this fucking mess."

Maryam flashed him a sardonic grin as she stepped past him. "Just what I needed after a long day—a front-row seat to Gotham's newest tragedy. You know me, always up for a good dose of horror."

Bullock smirked, shaking his head. "Always with the sass and jokes. You'd think by now you'd be used to it."

Maryam shrugged, her gaze drifting towards the study's entrance. "If you're not laughing, you're crying, right?"

She secured a mask over her mouth, looping it around her ears, and pulled a hair net over her head.

As she stepped into the study, the scene that greeted her was both grotesque and meticulously staged : Mayor Don Mitchell Jr. lay sprawled across a chair in his study, his body arranged in a macabre tableau. 

His head, mummified in duct tape, was covered in blood, and a chilling message in red read : "NO MORE LIES." 

His thumb was severed, blood pooling around him, making the scene all the more haunting.

Maryam's eyes swept over the room, taking in every detail—the way the blood spattered across the luxurious carpet, the silent witnesses of scattered papers, and the grim determination of the forensic team working to document every inch. 

She took a deep breath, pushing past her own discomfort to focus on the task at hand.

The doctor pproached the body with her medical kit, carefully extracting her tools: a pair of gloves, a small light, and a digital camera. The forensic team was busy capturing every angle, but Maryam's job was to verify and document the specifics of the body's condition.

And so, she began by photographing the scene. 

The camera's flash briefly illuminated the macabre scene: the mayor's head encased in duct tape, with the stark message scrawled across his mouth in red. 

The severed thumb was captured from multiple angles. 

Each image was carefully framed to preserve every detail, ensuring that nothing was lost in the documentation process.

"The thumb hasn't been found?" she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

A detective nearby, busy jotting down notes, glanced up briefly. "Nope, not yet," he replied, his badge catching the light as he worked in another corner of the room.

Moving on, Maryam retrieved a ruler from her kit. 

She measured the depth and extent of the wounds with deliberate accuracy, noting the size of the blood pool around the mayor's mouth, partly hidden by the duct tape. Her observations were meticulously recorded, providing a detailed account of the injuries that would be crucial for understanding the nature of the attack and the victim's final moments.

Carefully, Maryam began collecting evidence. She bagged a bit of the strips of duct tape used to mummify the mayor's head, handling them with gloved hands to avoid contamination. 

Fragments of the mayor's clothing, stained with blood, were also placed into evidence bags. Each item was labeled and sealed, ensuring that potential evidence was preserved for further forensic analysis.

She then took a moment to examine the scene itself. 

Making mental notes of the body's positioning, the state of the room, and any items that might offer additional context. 

Her keen hazel eyes swept over the room, noting the arrangement of furniture and any disturbances. This meticulous observation was crucial for piecing together the circumstances surrounding the crime.

Finally, Maryam used a flashlight to explore less obvious areas of the room. She searched under furniture and in corners, her light revealing potential clues that might have been overlooked. 

Every corner was inspected with care, her flashlight beam dancing over surfaces as she sought out any detail that could shed more light on the murder.

Maryam's concentration remained intense, her movements precise and deliberate. 

But just as she finished documenting the initial findings, she heard Gordon's authoritative voice cutting through the room. She paused, her heart quickening as she prepared to brief him on what she had uncovered.

This was indeed going to be a very long night.

    It was almost unbreathable.

Maryam had seen her fair share of crime scenes, but this one, this one was different. There was something deeply wrong here, something that clung to the walls and settled into the bones of the townhouse like a ghost refusing to be exorcized.

The heat of too many bodies, the murmurs of grim speculation, the scent of stale cologne and death. It made the walls feel like they were closing in.

And then, it got worse.

He arrived.

Vengeance.

The Bat.

A shadow among men, stepping into the crime scene like he belonged there more than anyone else. And maybe he did. He had only existed in Gotham for a handful of years, and yet, the city had already carved out a place for him. Or perhaps, more chillingly, he had carved himself into it, branding himself into its flesh like a wound that refused to heal.

Gotham, ever greedy, had welcomed him with open arms, embracing his sins, feeding his rage, making him something more than a man. Something worse.

Maryam was skeptical.

Not that skepticism was a rare feeling for her, on the contrary actually, it was almost second nature. But him ? She had never given him much thought, never cared to, never had the time to. Yet she had heard the stories. Everyone had.

Her aunt called him Al Ghul or al-Shayṭān : the demon, the devil himself. Her family’s opinions on him were split down the middle. Some dismissed him as nothing more than an urban legend, a figment of Gotham’s collective paranoia. Others, however, were certain he was real, pointing to the grainy footage and fleeting glimpses captured in the depths of the city, circulating online like ghost stories made tangible.

He had been at his most visible a year ago, during the highly publicized arrest of the Joker. But beyond that, he was a phantom. A shadow that slithered through Gotham’s underbelly, unseen, unknown and that was precisely how he wanted it.

One thing, however, was undeniable :

He was brutal.

And dangerously so.

He entered with Commissioner Gordon at his side.

The officers posted at the entrance hesitated, their faces flickering between confusion and unease. It wasn’t every day that a man clad in a bat-themed suit walked into a crime scene like he belonged there. And yet, despite their wary stares, not one of them dared to question him.

Bruce Wayne ( though no one in the room would call him that ) ignored them all. His focus was singular, locked onto the path ahead as he followed Gordon deeper into the townhouse. The sound of his boots against the polished wooden floors sent dull, heavy echoes through the lavish halls, each step thick with an unspoken menace.

A crime scene always had its own rhythm, like a macabre sort of dance between evidence and theory, between the living and the dead.

Maryam was deep in it, her mind filtering through the grim details as she meticulously examined the body. Her light brown hair was secured in her signature French updo, not a strand out of place despite the long night. Sharp hazel eyes skimmed over every detail, methodical, unwaveringly so.

Then came the shift, the ripple of movement, the slight hitch in breath from those around her.

She looked up just as Lieutenant Gordon entered.

And behind him, towering and haunting, was him.

That damned Bat.

Or Vengeance, as Gotham had come to call him.

As they stepped into the room, the young officer, Martinez, stationed at the door stiffened. His hand twitched, moving instinctively to block their path.

“Whoa — whoa, whoa. Police action,” he stammered, shifting awkwardly as his gaze traveled up the vigilante’s imposing frame.

From the other side of the room, Bullock scoffed, pushing himself off the wall with an exaggerated grunt. His irritation was palpable, clinging to him like the smell of cheap cigars. He crossed his arms, planting himself firmly between the Bat and the crime scene.

“He’s right,” Bullock grumbled, his thin lip curling with disdain. “What the hell is he doin’ here, Jim?”

The room, already painted with the heaviness of death, grew even tenser. Conversations faded. Every movement seemed hesitant, uncertain, like no one wanted to be the first to acknowledge the presence of Gotham’s most infamous vigilante.

But the Bat didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

No, his gaze ( cold, unblinking ) dropped to the officer’s outstretched hand against his suited torso, like a silent warning in the sharp stillness between them. Martinez swallowed hard, fingers twitching before he let his hand fall away.

Gordon, ever the mediator, stepped in before the tension could snap. “He’s with me.”

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t a debate.

It was a fact.

Officer Martinez hesitated for a beat too long before finally stepping aside, shoulders stiff with reluctance. As Batman passed, the young officer muttered under his breath, barely audible over the hum of voices in the room.

“…Goddamn freak…”

If Batman heard it, he gave no indication.

Bullock let out a long, beleaguered sigh, the kind that spoke of too many late nights, too many cases that never wrapped up neatly. He shook his head, exasperation rolling off him in waves, like this was just another burden added to the ever-growing pile of bullshit he had to deal with.

His hands settled on his hips, thick fingers pressing into the fabric of his wrinkled coat. The cigar, which had long since burned past the point of good sense, dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth, the ember dim but still stubbornly smoldering.

Maryam caught sight of it and, as always, scowled. "How many times," she had warned him before, "do I have to tell you not to smoke near a crime scene?" But Bullock never listened. He was a creature of habit, and bad ones, at that.

The room quieted as heads turned toward the newest arrivals. Maryam, momentarily distracted, spun on her heel to greet Gordon, only to stop short.

Her breath caught.

She had nearly collided with him.

The Bat.

His presence was suffocating in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Him, his presence, his silence settled over the room like a storm cloud, shifting the tension itself. He was tall, taller than she expected, and built like something carved from stone. The dim lighting made the contours of his suit look even more unnatural, shadows clinging to him like an extension of his own darkness.

And then, in that split second, their eyes met.

Hazel locked onto deep, unreadable blue.

Her breath hitched, just barely. Her eyes widened in something between surprise and instinctual unease, while his remained inscrutable, expression hidden behind the sharp, angular cowl. He was watching her, studying her, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

A movement : his hand, swift and sure, reaching out.

Before she could react, she felt the firm grip of his gloved fingers on her forearms, steadying her with effortless control. It wasn’t rough, nor was it hesitant just ... certain. A quiet show of restraint in a man who, from everything she had heard, knew very little of it.

Maryam’s spine went rigid, her fingers twitching slightly before brushing against her throat, a nervous tick she had never quite rid herself of. Quickly, she took a step back, reclaiming her space, regaining her composure.

She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, and forced herself to breathe. The moment passed, dissolving as quickly as it had formed.

And that ( unexpected, unplanned ) was how she first crossed paths with Gotham’s infamous, much-discussed Bat.

A man whispered about in precincts, argued over in newspaper columns, feared in back alleys. A man who, until this moment, had been nothing more than myth wrapped in shadow.

He was real. And impossibly human.

Gordon, sensing the tension thickening between them, broke the silence with his usual no-nonsense tone.

“What do we know?”

The lead detective ( Steve, still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else ) cleared his throat. His gaze flickered to Maryam, a silent cue for her to step in.

She did.

"The mayor suffered blunt-force trauma to the skull," she reported, professional and composed, as if her pulse hadn’t just skipped a beat moments earlier. "Multiple lacerations to the head. The fatal blow came from something heavy. Most of the blood is from a deep wound in the hand."

Gordon’s brow furrowed. "All this blood's from his hand?"

Maryam nodded. "Yes. The thumb was severed postmortem. Likely taken as a trophy."

Silence.

Then — finally — the Bat spoke. "He was alive when it was cut off."

His voice was low, rough like gravel under tires. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it settled in the air, heavy and whispery.

He moved, barely a shift, yet it was enough to draw every eye in the room. Leaning in, he studied the wound with unsettling precision, the dim lighting casting sharp angles across his cowl.

"Ecchymosis around the wound," he murmured. "Bruising suggests circulation. He was still alive when they did it."

A cold shiver ran down Maryam’s spine, though she masked it well. The room, once buzzing with conversation, fell into an eerie hush. Even the most seasoned detectives hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Bullock, who had been chewing on his cigar like it owed him money, paused mid-motion.

Because he had seen something they hadn’t.

Because he always did.

The room fell into an oppressive silence, each person digesting the grim weight of the revelation. It was as if time had briefly stopped, leaving behind nothing but their collective disbelief.

Maryam's gaze lingered on the vigilante. Her perfectly sculpted brows furrowed in quiet irritation. How had she fucking missed that ? There was no denying the tension that hung between them, thick enough to be felt in the pit of her stomach. She could almost taste it.

For a few taut seconds, their eyes locked : hers, sharp and calculating, his, cold and distant. The stillness between them felt heavy, overwhelming. 

Then, with a slow exhale, the female doctor sighed, the breath escaping her like a quiet surrender. Her eyes flickered away, finally landing on Gordon, who had been watching them with a raised brow, clearly amused by the interaction.

"I suppose he's right," she muttered, conceding, the irritation still simmering under her words but tempered with a hint of reluctant acceptance. There was little point in arguing with a force like that. Not when the room was likely hanging on every word they spoke, while the rest of the team continued working, pretending not to listen.

Gordon hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes narrowing as he turned to the lead detective for more details. 

"Security detail downstairs says the family was out trick-or-treating. The mayor was up here alone. Killer came through the skylight," the detective explained, gesturing towards the ceiling with a grim expression.

Batman’s gaze, however, was drawn to something else, small but telling. 

A fresh gash marred the polished wooden floor. 

It was an easy detail to miss, but not for him. He knelt down, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, as he inspected the scratch with careful attention. The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the faint click of a camera as a photographer, who had clearly missed it earlier, hurriedly took a shot.

"There was a card," Steve said as he reached into his coat pocket.

Gordon, watching Batman with a practiced eye, shifted his attention to the next piece of the puzzle. 

The detective handed over a small, crisp envelope, which Gordon opened with methodical precision. 

Inside was a Halloween-themed card : a creepy skeleton hunched over, its bones barely visible beneath a wide-eyed owl. It seemed almost playful, if not for the dark twist of the message inside.

Gordon pulled the card free, opened it, and read the words aloud, his voice dipping into a heavier tone as he did: "What does a liar do when he's dead?"

Strange symbols were scrawled across the card; a chaotic blend of lines and shapes that seemed to defy any logic. Gordon unfolded another sheet from the envelope, revealing a cipher — its cryptic nature immediately evident. He held it up, examining the strange markings. "There's a cipher too ... Any of this ... mean anything to you ... ?" he asked as he turned to Batman, who remained as unreadable as ever.

But before Batman could respond, the door swung open with force, and Commissioner Pete Savage stormed in. His fat face was a mask of disbelief and frustration, the tension in the room thickening even more with his arrival.

"I asked him to come, Pete," Gordon said quickly, attempting to smooth things over before the situation escalated.

Savage wasn’t having it. 

"This is a crime scene — it's Mitchell, for Chrissakes — I got press downstairs— !" His voice was rising, words laced with barely contained anger. "You know I cut you a lotta' slack, Jim, 'cuz we got history, but this is way over the line...!"

Gordon, unfazed, handed Savage the card, knowing full well what was coming. Savage read it with growing horror, his eyes scanning the symbols and the unsettling message, before they landed on the envelope addressed to 'The Batman.'

His expression darkened instantly, suspicion clouding his face.

"Wait, he's involved in this ?!" Savage demanded.

Gordon shook his head, his calm demeanor unwavering despite the mounting pressure. "No, no, he's not involved — "

Savage’s frustration exploded. "How do you know? He's a goddamn vigilante — he could be a suspect! What are you doing to me, you used to be my partner!" 

As the argument escalated, Maryam, sensing the tension, decided it was time to leave.

Her gloved hands trembled slightly as she pulled them off, tossing them into a nearby bin with a soft rustle. Without looking back, she moved toward the door, her steps quickening as she hurried to escape the charged atmosphere.

In the hallway, Maryam paused, gathering herself before heading toward a nearby room where she knew Elliott, the mayor's young son, was being questioned.

The memories of seeing the little boy during her visits to her aunt's house surfaced, Aunt Meysa had often babysat George, and Mar had developed a fondness for the quiet, sweet child.

As she approached the room, the door was slightly ajar, revealing George sitting on the bed, a detective was kneeling in front of him, trying, and failing, to ask the usual questions — nothing was getting through to the grieving child.

With a hesitant step, Maryam entered the room, her eyes softening at the sight of the boy sitting on the bed. George’s tear-streaked face, red and swollen from crying, caught her off guard. His eyes, though clouded with grief, flickered with recognition when they landed on her. Then, without warning, he shot up from the bed and ran straight into her, wrapping his small arms tightly around her legs.

Maryam froze. 

It wasn’t that she wasn’t good with kids — she had grown up surrounded by them. But she hadn't expected this outpouring of raw emotion. She hadn’t expected to be the one on the receiving end of such desperate comfort.

Her heart softened, and instinctively, she knelt down, arms wrapping around him in a protective embrace. His tiny body trembled against hers, and she held him close, her hand gently stroking his back, trying to soothe him in the stillness of the room.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm here," she whispered, voice a soothing balm. "You're safe now."

George buried his face into her neck, his little body wracked with muffled sobs. "Maryam," he choked out, his voice thick with the weight of the nightmare he had witnessed, "I'm so scared. I... I saw him..."

Her heart squeezed in her chest.

But she only held him tighter, rocking him gently. "I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s all so scary right now, but you’re safe now, okay? You're so brave. Everything’s going to be alright."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at her through tear-filled eyes, his small hands gripping the fabric of her coat as though he were afraid she might disappear. "Why did this happen?" he asked, small and fragile, innocence too pure to understand the darkness that had crept into his life. "Why did they hurt him?"

Maryam’s breath hitched, and she pressed her lips together to steady herself. 

What could she possibly say to ease the confusion, the hurt, the terror of a child who had witnessed something no one should ever have to see? She swallowed, searching for the right words, but in that moment, she realized that maybe there weren’t any words that could truly make sense of it.

Instead, she cupped his face gently in her hands, wiping away his tears with her thumbs, offering him a small, comforting smile. "I don’t know, George," she whispered softly. "But I promise you, we’ll figure this out. We’ll make sure no one else gets hurt."

She didn’t know if she believed the words herself, but as George’s sobs gradually slowed and his breathing evened out, she realized that for the moment, that was enough. It seemed to calm him, even if only a little, and that was what mattered. She was doing what she could, offering what comfort she could give. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She continued to hold him, her fingers gently brushing through his hair as she whispered soothing words, hoping they would help him make sense of the chaos in his young mind.

As she spoke, the faint sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. 

As she spoke, the Bat and Gordon made their way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the boy's room. Their faces were shrouded in shadow, the limited light casting long, ominous silhouettes on the walls.

Batman's eyes lingered on the quiet scene before him, his usually hard gaze momentarily softening as he observed Maryam, now sitting at the edge of the bed, the traumatized boy curled into her, her arms wrapped tightly around him, offering what little comfort she could to the trembling child.

There was a flicker of something, too fast to name, too fleeting to grasp. Empathy? Sorrow? A memory, perhaps, of a night long past, when the world had been torn apart in the blink of an eye.

The images crashed into his mind like a wave : gunfire, the staccato rhythm of bullets tearing through the air, the sound of pearls scattering on cold stone, the frantic screams that echoed in his ears, and the crimson stain of blood that never seemed to wash away.

A slow blink, and it was gone, but the heaviness of it lingered.

Gordon, noticing Batman's reaction, spoke quietly. "We really need to go man," a subtle nudge back to the task at hand.

Turning to leave, the Bat couldn't shake the image of the boy's tear-streaked face, clinging desperately to Maryam. The way she whispered reassurances, as if her very presence could shield him from the horrors that Gotham had already stolen from him. 

It was a brief scene ( one that Vengeance had witnessed in various forms countless times ) but it struck deeper than he cared to acknowledge.

The boy’s trembling form, the mix of fear and trust in his wide, haunted eyes, reminded him too painfully of the toll Gotham exacted on its children. The city he swore to protect was a machine that ground innocence into dust, teaching its youngest citizens too early that the world wasn’t kind, and monsters were real. 

Gotham didn't just steal lives; it stole the ability to dream, the hope that there was safety to be found. And that was something Bruce could never seem to stop.

And yet, in that brief, fragile moment, as the boy buried his face against Maryam’s shoulder, there was a flicker of something pure, something almost miraculous. A sliver of hope clung to him, however faint, a belief that someone, anyone, could still hold the darkness at bay.

It was a fleeting, fragile thing, this hope, like the weak flicker of a church candle, struggling against the wind, its flame trembling, moments from being extinguished. It spoke of redemption, salvation, the divine — things Bruce had long since abandoned. He wasn’t a believer. Gotham had taken that from him, along with his faith in anything other than the grim reality of what the world truly was. 

Hope was a luxury for the naïve. It was an illusion, a threadbare cloak draped over the bones of the damned.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, reveled in breaking people. It tore down its citizens, stripping them of their faith, their hope. 

He was the living proof of it.

Bruce Wayne was no fool. He knew better.

He wasn’t some martyr, nor was he a man of miracles. He was a realist. 

And in a city like Gotham, there were no saviors, only those who fought the darkness, even knowing they would never see the light at the end of the tunnel. Bruce had been fighting it for years, and the more he did, the more he saw the truth : the city wouldn’t change. People wouldn’t change. Not unless they were shown, the hard way, what the consequences of their choices were.

But watching that woman, with her quiet strength and pure gentleness, something inside him ached. Maybe that's what Gotham had taken from him, too — the ability to offer comfort in the way she could. He had become the embodiment of fear to keep others safe, but gentleness?

That was something he had long since buried. 

But not her. 

Not the medical examiner. 

Not Maryam.

Even with the ghosts that seemed to haunt her, she had found a way to reach out, to give warmth in a world so cold. 

And that, perhaps, was what the boy needed most.

next chapter (chapter two)

Tu’burni (تقبرني) : Literally meaning, “bury me”. it means you hope that they put you in the ground before them because you couldn’t bear living without them.

habibi : darling

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

battinson drabbles

by ellesthots collection of drabbles involving battinson

[cinnamongrl2006]

Thx for tagging meee Addie! ♡

Lamb, definitely. Idk, I want to prance around a field eating grass, sun on my skin, no worries

cotton dress and a hoodie. I LOVE wearing skirts and dresses, usually I'll throw on a cotton maxi dress and a hoodie, some sneakers or mary janes and call it a day.

Vampireeee, babyy. I've always loved vampires and felt an affinity to them, idk

I have a very “different” personal style, lots of vintage (50s and 60s inspo), lots of pastels (especially pink, I have a pastel pink strand of hair in my bangs), and LOTS of runway inspo (loveee margiela, old blumarine, 70s ysl) 

I can’t handle regular milk so I try out different plant based options, I like oat milk the best.

milk first, but I don’t find that a big deal, it really depends on the day lmao

I am NOT a violent person, so probably poisoning (very much like Merrycat from we have always lived in the castle)

@ellesthots, @minorlyatfault, @dntaed

(previous reblogs) thanks for the tag my beautiful besties!!!! @ennabear and @orphicsun

get to know your mutuals ♰

if you could be any animal which one would you choose to be? (can be fictional) (and you can explain why if you want to)

what would you choose when you're in a hurry and have nothing to wear?

are you a witch, vampire, fairy, dryad, siren or a mermaid and why do you think so?

what is your style?

regular milk or plant based milk?

which one do you put first milk or cereal?

fav way to kill someone? (idgaf if you never thought of it now you have to think of something and make it at least a bit cool I'm begging)

i would want to be a very chunky house cat who does nothing but sit in the sun all day and get pets from my very kind human

leggings and a tshirt always

fairy cause they're cute and live in the forest. yeah

erm when i actually try its like if grandmacore was goth

im not a fan of milk in general but i love cashew milk

cereal first

large table, rope, circular saw

and i tag.... @comatosebunny09 @archangeldyke-all @vaaaaaiolet @mandalhoerian @lambilegs