#fic: batw

[scyllaya]

im on my annual reread of bend around the wind (it’s like my 10th time) and I just had to thank you for writing that fanfiction…ive read so many fics in my life but batw will forever be my favorite

Thank you so much. It's special in my heart too, it ended up as such a huge odyssey of a story, but I loved writing every chapter.

Especially it being my first fic for the MCU. Always lovely to still get comments, even if I'm terrible at replying to all on Ao3.

I got behind on replies and now there are hundreds more I did not reply to, so I'll never catch up.

[marypsue]

30. Talk to me about the role dreams play in your writing life. Have you ever used material from your dreams in your writing? Have you ever written in a dream? Did you remember it when you woke up?

[from this meme]

The most direct example of the influence of dreams on my writing is one that I mentioned in the director's commentary for Reincarnation Blues. These lines:

Stamped into the starry void around them like an artificial horizon was a massive ring, parallel lines glowing red like gashes cut into the dream to reveal an inferno on the other side. And between those lines, all around the horizon, burned familiar symbols.

Were based on a nightmare that I had actually had, that involved Bill Cipher, while I was in the middle of writing RB. It was a deeply weird experience, because that dream was one I had shortly prior to the release of NWHS, and it was extremely meta. I was having a different unrelated nightmare, and then realised I was dreaming and tried to wake myself up. At that point, the whole horizon of the dream lit up with this glowing red circle of arcane symbols which rose up, wrapping around the entire sky like seeing Saturn's rings from a position standing on the planet, and Bill Cipher's awful cackle echoed over the dream the way sounds you can hear in the real world sometimes do while you're asleep, as the whole dream started to disintegrate. And then I woke up, scared half to death...to see the shadow of a four-fingered, noodly black arm splashed across my ceiling, reaching toward me, outlined in blue light.

...it turned out to be the shadow of a tangle of power cords in the light from the power bar they were plugged into. But that is probably the third closest I've ever come in my life to having a very real heart attack.

(Also, when NWHS came out, the ring of symbols around the portal looked extremely familiar for some reason I couldn't place. I don't remember what they actually turned out to be, but they weren't invented for the show, so I'd probably seen them somewhere before NWHS came out and forgotten about it. But I am still at least 75% convinced that I also saw them in that red ring around the horizon of that disintegrating dream.

Brains are weird.)

Oh! And the original idea that sprawled into the road goes ever on was inspired by a snippet of a dream about Shit Going Extremely Wrong in the secret evil Russian mall basement. Be grateful I left out the bit about batwings.

Usually I'm not quite that directly and literally inspired by dreams, though. I'd say the most frequent way dreams influence my writing is when I'm trying to capture a sense of unease or dread or unreality - I often go back to how nightmares feel.

I don't remember ever writing in a dream.

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

How is this child so shaped

@sketchbookweek Day 3 - Sun & Moon / Family

you know I had to bring up my sketchbook kid Mattie for this one. in my mind this is like…impromptu midnight storytime bc someone woke up the entire household and now she’s almost settled no one wants to get up or go back to bed

(Kaisa has become a little more comfortable with openly doing magic by this point, partly because of reconnecting with Tildy in season 2 and partly because no matter how shoddy her spells come out, they never fail to entertain her kids, especially her youngest. Kaisa does the best stories in this house. no child can resist magic floating pictures)

[solelifauna]

So this NOT to imply the writing is bad

But so far the Batfam fic as me genuinely shaking in anger , the fact that dick is convinced that y/n as to prove herself to be "worthy" genuinely got to me to the point I need a pallete cleanser

Could we please get a small drabble of reader growing close with one of the "outside" batfam members?

Like maybe Kate(batwoman) and Luke (batwing) because they are under used

Or hell, maybe to really grind the family gears, reader gets close to azrael

(you know Bruce would've able to do shit if reader got close with Kate, she would fucking eat him alive)

Hey, You're all good bro! I also just want to put out that my fic is based on an au! The portrayals of any characters in my fic are based off of their canon and fanon counterparts, just with my own twist. Since this is a darker universe/au, the Bats along with other heroes are going to be a lot more brutal and jaded.

Also love your idea bro. But, I'll do you one better. Constantine. Bruce absolutely can't stand him and the reader being friends with/getting along with him? Oh, that's bound to grind Bruce's gears. It would also be easier to meet Constantine too.

Let's just say one day the reader gets caught up in some Justice League Dark stuff that Constantine is trying to solve. She gets kidnapped by a cult that wants to use her as a sacrifice. I mean, she is a pretty huge target, being the daughter of a Billionaire after all. Anyways, shes kidnapped, nobody is coming to get her, not from her family at least. Long story short, Constantine arrives too late to stop the ritual, but things don't go according to plan for the cultists anyway. Turns out that the person sacrificed wouldn't be killed, but would instead become a vessel.

Great, now you have some old, eldrich being living rent-free in your mind. The being is old, donning the title "Keeper of Hell", but you'll just call it (they? him? her?), Adam. Yeah, Adam wasn't too happy with the name. When Constantine arrives, however, hes pleasantly surprised to find you alive. When he realizes that you, a 15-year-old, now carry the presence and power of an eldritch being older than Gotham itself, he groans while lighting up a cigarette. Looks like he'd have to deal with you now.

He checks over you making sure you have no internal and external injuries before explaining your situation. He feels a little sorry for you, but he is in no condition to train you. He asks around to other JL dark members, hoping to see if anyone is willing to help you control your new powers. He sighs again when nobody steps up to the plate, too busy with their own sidekicks and quests.

Reluctantly, he tells you he'd help you figure stuff out. And there begins the blossoming of the amazing "Grumpy old man and kid they didn't ask for" troupe. When you tell Constantine your name, he blanks, because of course he gets stuck with one of the bat's kids. However, based on your tone of voice when discussing your family (and the way you begged him not to let Bruce/Batman know of your predicament), he's guessing things aren't all too great between you all. Well, thats not his problem, his only job was to train you and make sure you don't end up accidentally killing someone.

Yeah...like that thought process is going to last. Training sessions start out bleak and professional, he's only doing a job. Then as time continues, he finds himself enjoying your company, your enthusiasm to learn and your rambunctious/sarcastic comebacks always have him fighting off a smile. It's been a while since he's had company like this. Soon, you're both going out on missions, and then ice cream breaks afterward. He lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, drooling all over his trench coat after particularly difficult missions and he can't bring himself to mind.

He's fond of you, although he never admits it out loud. It's okay though, because even though he's never said it out loud, his actions speak louder than words. You could feel his love and pride for you. Although he wasn't exactly your dad per se, he was still something to you, maybe the wine uncle? You don't know, and you don't particularly care to put a label on what Constantine was to you, you're just glad that he's there.

Shit hits the fan, however, when one day you decide to go on a solo mission. It's nothing crazy, just getting rid of some poltergeists and low-level demons and shades. Now, were you given permission to go on this mission alone? No, but in a normal teenage manner, you decide to go anyway. Everything was fine, you got rid of all the poltergeists in the area and even some of the shades too! It's all going well until you realize that the demon mentioned before was not as weak as you were told. You gulped when its blood red eyes turned to you.

"Well shit." Constantine was going to kill you.

It immediately lunges at you, you barely rolling out of its sharp claws. You hit it with a couple of spells, causing the demon to roar out in pain, burn marks now littering its side. Its tail whips at you, colliding with your stomach as you fly into a wall with a loud thud. You groan as you pick yourself up, clutching your ribs, each breath a jagged pain that ripples through your chest. Your arm is slick with blood, the gashes from the demon's claws burning as if its very essence were trying to sear your flesh. You grit your teeth and weave another spell, calling on Adam’s power to knock the demon back. This time, a burst of raw energy slams into it, shattering its leg with a sickening crack.

For a brief moment, you think it's over, ready to strike the final blow. But the demon’s leg snaps back into place, bone and flesh knitting together as if the injury had never happened.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath. “Why would this be easy?”

The demon lunges again, and you’re just a split second too slow. Burning pain flares through your right arm as its claws tear into you, ripping through your flesh like paper. You scream, the sound involuntary, but you push through the pain, refusing to go down without a fight.

Drawing back, you unleash another spell, a sharp projectile of energy aimed at its neck. The demon flinches, letting out a low growl. That reaction—panic—gives you the first glimmer of hope. Its neck. That's its weak spot.

With renewed determination, you gather every ounce of strength you have left. The cuts across your body throb, and your arm feels like it’s on fire, but you push it all aside. You can do this. You have to do this.

You unleash a volley of cutting spells, each one aimed at the demon’s throat. It fights back viciously, throwing you around the room with a strength that makes your vision blur. Every hit you take feels like your bones are splintering, but you keep going. You keep attacking.

Finally, one of your spells strikes true.

The demon lets out a gurgling screech as your spell cuts deep into its neck. Blood—thick and dark—pours from the wound, and it claws at its own throat, choking. Its body spasms violently, and then, as if collapsing in on itself, it begins to disintegrate. In a few seconds, all that’s left is dust.

You stand there, panting, barely able to process the fact that you did it. You won. A grin spreads across your face, and despite the pain radiating from every part of your body, you let out a weak cheer.

But the celebration is short-lived.

Pain cuts through you like a knife, sharp and sudden, reminding you of just how battered you are. Blood is still oozing from the various gashes across your body, and your arm feels like it’s hanging by a thread. You stumble, nearly falling, but catch yourself at the last second.

“Crap… I’m bleeding out,” you mumble, wincing. “Whoops.”

With what little energy you have left, you remember the spell Constantine taught you, the one that would tether you to him no matter where you were. He warned you not to use it unless it was an emergency—and bleeding out from demon-inflicted wounds definitely qualifies.

You lift your shaking hand and cast the spell, a sluggish flick of your wrist sending out a ripple of energy. A portal forms, shimmering and unstable, but functional enough. Without much grace, you stumble through it, disappearing from the demon’s lair.

What you didn’t know, however, was that Constantine was currently in a Justice League meeting.

The first thing you feel is a sudden drop, like the ground beneath you has vanished. You barely register the sensation of falling before you crash, hard, onto something solid. Groaning, you blink through the haze of pain and find yourself sprawled across a massive table.

You can hear voices—muffled, alarmed—but the world is spinning too much for you to focus. All you know is that you're lying on something cold and hard, and you’re absolutely drenched in blood.

Forcing your eyes open, you see several figures standing around you, staring in shock. Your vision is blurry, but you can make out Superman’s cape and Wonder Woman’s armor. You try to process what's happening, but the pain in your arm and ribs keeps pulling you under.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow. Fuckkkk." You cry out.

Suddenly, the scent of smoke fills the air. You don't even have to look to know who it is. Constantine’s familiar trench coat brushes against your arm as he crouches beside you, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. His eyes flicker with a dangerous mix of exasperation and barely concealed anger.

“What in the bloody fuck, kid?” he snaps, his tone harsher than usual, but the concern underlies his words.

You wince, the situation hitting you all at once. Crap. Now I've got to deal with this.

You muster a weak, sheepish grin, wincing as you turn your head to face him. “Heyyy Constantine, how are ya?”

His brow furrows deeper, and he’s clearly not amused. “What did you do?”

You swallow hard, trying to think of how to explain yourself without getting ripped to shreds—verbally or otherwise. “I—well, promise you won’t get mad?”

“Too late for that, kid. I’m already halfway there,” he growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks over your wounds. “Now get to it.”

You bite your lip, trying to find the least disastrous way to explain. “So… I sorta… mighta… gone on a solo demon-hunting mission,” you blurt out quickly, hoping he’d just move past it.

The way Constantine’s eyes widen, and the immediate twitch in his jaw tell you that he’s definitely not going to move past it.

“You did what?!” His voice rises as he stands up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh bloody— I thought I specifically told you not to go by yourself! And this is what happens!”

“Hey, well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” you say, grinning nervously, trying to play it off.

“That’s besides the point!” He throws his arms up, pacing as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Bloody hell, I should’ve known better with you kids. I swear, this is why I never—”

Just then, a dark, grim voice cuts through the chaos, and your heart nearly stops.

“Constantine,” Batman’s tone is low, authoritative. “Why is my daughter bleeding on our table?”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not now.

You freeze, your mind going blank as you feel the weight of Batman’s presence at the end of the table. You slowly, painfully turn your head to see him standing there, cape draped over his shoulders, his gaze icy and locked onto you. His usual stoic expression somehow looks even more intense.

“Ah… shit,” you mutter under your breath, groaning inwardly as you realize you’ve just landed yourself in the absolute worst situation imaginable. “I completely forgot he was still here.” Wait, did you say that out loud?

Constantine gives you a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, kid, you did. And now we’ve got more than just your wounds to worry about, don’t we?” He sighs deeply, rubbing his temples, already anticipating the fallout.

Batman’s eyes narrow, arms crossed as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low and dangerous. “Care to explain yourself?”

You’re still bleeding, your head is pounding, and you’re pretty sure at least a few bones are broken, but none of that compares to the fear creeping up your spine as you look up at your father. Your mind races for an answer, but every excuse you can think of feels flimsy at best.

Constantine clears his throat, sensing the rising tension in the room. “Right. Let’s get her fixed up before this turns into an interrogation, yeah? Kid’s bleeding all over the place, and she’s already taken a beating. We’ll save the lecture for later.” He waves his hand, muttering something under his breath as he kneels beside you again.

The tension between Constantine and Batman lingers in the air, thick and heavy, but Batman finally relents. His eyes soften—slightly—as he watches Constantine work to stabilize your injuries with magic.

You can feel yourself growing weaker, the adrenaline finally wearing off as the pain becomes unbearable. Constantine mutters a healing spell, one that slows the bleeding and knits some of the less serious cuts together. It's not perfect, but it’s enough for now.

“I think it’s time to get you all fixed up, huh?” Constantine says softly, his earlier anger tempered by concern as he helps you sit up, his hand firm on your back to support you.

You nod weakly, not daring to meet Batman’s eyes again. You’re in deep trouble, but for now, at least, you’re still breathing. As Constantine gets ready to teleport you to a safer place to heal, you hear Batman’s voice, calm but steely.

“We’re not done here.”

And with that ominous promise hanging in the air, Constantine picks you up, and the world around you shifts once again.

Constantine gently carries you through the halls toward the Justice League’s med bay, muttering curses under his breath with every step. You could feel his frustration radiating off him, and now, in the quiet aftermath of the fight, guilt begins to settle in your chest. The adrenaline from the battle has worn off, and now you're left with the consequences of your reckless actions.

“Hey, Constantine… I—I’m sorry for not listening to you. I really am,” you say, your voice soft and heavy with regret.

He sighs, not looking at you, but his tone is stern. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m not mad at you, kid. You didn’t just ignore my warnings—you put yourself in danger. There are rules for a reason. What if you got seriously hurt and couldn’t cast a spell back to me? Even worse, what if you died or got possessed?”

His words hit you hard, and you wither under the weight of them. You know he’s right. All those rules and restrictions aren’t just him being overprotective or controlling, they’re because he cares. He’s seen the kind of darkness that can swallow people whole, and the thought of that happening to you terrifies him, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

By the time you reach the med bay, the guilt feels like it’s pressing down on you as much as the pain in your ribs. Constantine lowers you onto a cot, tucking you in with a gruff gentleness that only he could pull off. He sits down on the side of the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick of his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What I’m trying to say, kid,” he starts, exhaling a cloud of smoke, “is that I care. I care about you, I care about what happens to you. I don’t want—” He pauses, his voice softening. “I don’t want to ever have to find your body one day. So please, from now on, let me know before you do something stupid like this.”

His words hang in the air, raw and unfiltered. You nod, trying to process it all, and then something clicks in your mind. Wait… did he just say let him know?

“Let you know? Does this mean—” Your eyes widen as realization hits you. “Does this mean I can go on solo missions?”

Constantine lets out a resigned sigh. “Yes, yes, you can start going on solo missions—”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, sitting up a little too quickly. Pain shoots through your ribs, but you can’t help the excitement bubbling inside you.

“—but, only the ones I sanction and authorize,” Constantine finishes, cutting through your excitement with a stern look. You deflate a little at his words, but it’s still a victory in your book.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, ignoring the sharp pain it causes in your ribs. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!”

He chuckles, patting your back awkwardly before pulling away. “Yeah, yeah, I know you won’t. Now, lay back down and get some rest. You still have dark and brooding to deal with.” He gestures toward the direction of the meeting room, clearly dreading the inevitable confrontation with Batman. “And by extension, I do too,” he adds with a heavy sigh.

You groan, sinking back into the cot, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “I don’t know why he even cares. If he did, he would’ve figured this out ages ago.”

Constantine glances at you, his expression softening for a moment. He takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking. “He cares, kid. He just… doesn’t always show it the way you want him to. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”

You scoff, though part of you knows he’s right. “Yeah, well, doesn’t feel like it.”

Constantine stands, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it into a nearby ashtray. “Doesn’t matter how it feels right now. The Bat’s going to want answers, and if I know him, he’s going to want to have a very long talk with you. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

You wince at the thought of the upcoming conversation, knowing that Batman’s interrogation will be thorough and far less forgiving than Constantine’s.

“Great,” you mutter, closing your eyes and sinking deeper into the cot. “Just what I need.”

Constantine gives you a small, almost affectionate smile before turning to leave. “Get some rest, kid. You’ve earned it. I’ll deal with the big bad Bat for now.”

And with that, he walks out, leaving you alone in the med bay. As much as you’re dreading what’s to come, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief. Despite the pain and the mistakes you made, you know that Constantine’s got your back. And, maybe, just maybe, Batman does too, even if it’s buried under a mountain of brooding and silence.

For now, though, you let the exhaustion pull you under, trusting that everything else can wait until tomorrow.

-

As you rest, your body finally succumbing to the exhaustion, your breathing evens out and your mind drifts into sleep. The med bay is quiet, sterile, but the tension in the air lingers, waiting for the inevitable. Eventually, a dark, caped figure glides into the room silently, his form casting long shadows across the walls.

Batman—no, Bruce—stands over you, his sharp eyes tracing every bruise, every cut that mars your face. His jaw clenches as a million thoughts swirl in his head, none of them offering any comfort.

What the hell happened to you? Why are you and Constantine so close? How did you even know Constantine? How much had he missed—how little attention had he been paying—to not notice any of this?

Bruce sighs, a deep and frustrated sound. He removes his cowl, setting it on the side table with a weary hand. Without it, he seems less intimidating, less imposing. He stares down at you, seeing the cuts and bruises marking your skin, but what hits him harder is the way your face, in sleep, is still so achingly young. You're his daughter, and yet it feels like you're a stranger to him now.

How did you get so far away?

He knows the answer. The fault lies with him, with the choices he made, the excuses he repeated to himself—telling himself he was too busy, telling himself he would check in later. Later never came, though, and the space between you widened, until it wasn't just him you were drifting away from, but your brothers too.

Bruce noticed the way your brothers treated you, the harsh words, the cold shoulders. He saw the distance, but he justified it, telling himself it was sibling rivalry or something that would pass. He didn't step in. And now, as he looks at you lying there, bruised and battered from a fight he wasn’t even aware of, the reality sinks in: he has no excuse.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce reaches out, his rough but careful hand carding gently through your hair. The gesture is tender, hesitant, as if he's not sure whether he has the right to touch you like this anymore. But as his fingers comb through your hair, you stir in your sleep, a quiet murmur escaping your lips as you unconsciously lean into his touch. It's such a sweet, innocent moment, and for a brief second, Bruce allows himself to feel the warmth of it.

But the moment is fleeting.

He feels the presence before he sees it, the unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke filling the room. His jaw tightens as his hand stills. He doesn’t turn right away, but his voice cuts through the silence.

“Constantine,” Bruce says, his tone gruff even without the cowl to disguise it.

Constantine steps into the room more fully, leaning against the wall, a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. He regards Bruce with that same nonchalance he carries everywhere, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something more cautious.

"Thought you’d still be brooding over in the corner," Constantine says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His eyes drift to you, lying peacefully on the cot. “Didn’t expect to see this version of you.”

Bruce doesn’t respond right away. He pulls his hand back from your hair, his gaze hardening. "What happened?" The question is direct, but underneath it, Constantine can hear the concern, the frustration Bruce doesn't voice aloud.

"She went off on her own," Constantine mutters, taking another drag before blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Went after a demon. Got roughed up pretty bad, but she handled it in the end. Strong kid. Stubborn too. Wonder where she gets that from, eh?"

Bruce's eyes narrow. "And you let her?"

"Let her?" Constantine laughs, a short, sharp sound. "Mate, I didn’t let her. She went behind my back, just like she’s gone behind yours for who knows how long. Difference is, I’m the one she actually came back to.”

That lands like a punch to Bruce's gut. He doesn’t react visibly, but Constantine can see the tension in his posture.

"I didn't know she was…" Bruce starts, then stops, shaking his head. The words feel inadequate. "I didn't know she was involved with this stuff, i didn't even know she was a meta. Or that she knew you."

"Yeah, well, she found her way to me," Constantine says with a shrug, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall. “And she's not a meta by the way, she's a vessel for some eldritch being"

A vague expression of surprise appears on Bruce's face.

"I don't blame you, mate. I was surprised to find her alive afterwards. Not just anyone survives that kind of transformation, she's strong.”

Bruce crosses his arms, his gaze flickering between you and Constantine. “I know she’s strong.”

“Do you?” Constantine raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his tone. “Because she’s been running herself ragged trying to prove it. To you. To herself. And, hell, maybe to me too, but at least I see it.”

There’s silence for a moment. Bruce clenches his jaw, turning to look at you again, sleeping soundly despite the tension in the room. He knew Constantine was right. You'd been pushing yourself, fighting to show that you didn’t need them—that you were strong enough on your own. And he had let you. He'd let you because he didn't even care to notice.

Constantine sighs, sensing the weight of the silence. “Look, I didn’t come here to throw stones. But you’ve got to get your shit together with her. She’s tough, but she’s still a kid, and she’s your kid. She needs you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. He watches you, the soft rise and fall of your chest, and feels the regret gnawing at him.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce finally says, though the words feel hollow.

Constantine gives him a long look, then nods. “You better. Because if you don’t, she’ll be right back with me..”

With that, Constantine pushes off the wall, flicking away the last of his cigarette. “I’ll check in on her later. Try not to fuck this up, mate.” And with one last glance at you, Constantine leaves, the tension in the room ebbing with him.

Bruce remains, standing over you, his mind a whirlwind of regret, guilt, and the desire to fix what’s been broken for far too long. He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead—something he hasn’t done in what feels like years—before stepping back, pulling the chair beside your bed to sit vigil over you.

He’s still not sure how to bridge the gap, but for now, he stays. It’s a start.

Well, thats all folks! I really enjoyed writing this au, so thanks for the idea! Maybe ill even make a pt. 2 to this? Who knows? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it.

[m2ok]

Golden Salvation

pt.2

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Male Reader

A/N: HI GUYS!!! IM BACK!!! It’s been… a hot minute, and I apologize for my sudden disappearance (And all the unanswered asks which I will eventually get to don’t worry!) But here is a fic to make up for it! This is just part one, and while I have the rest planned out let me know if you guys even like this and want me to continue :)

             

   Batwing doors opened, a heavy squeak following their movement as the result of rusted hinges, Heavy footsteps hit against equally creaky wooden floors with slow and methodical steps. One Simon Riley came waltzing in… a smirk on his face and his hat tilted low over his eyes as the other people in the saloon looked away.

Everyone knew of him; it was damn near impossible not to with his reputation. He sat down on a worn stool, a gruff sigh leaving his lips as he took his hat off and rested it on the bar in front of him. His eyes, you would swear, glimmered when he looked up at you from his place on his seat, a rare moment when you were taller than him.

“Hi, pretty boy” he cooed “Miss me much?”

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips, rolling your eyes as you set the glasses you had been polishing down. Without so much as a word yet you leaned over, plucking his hat from the wood it was settled on to place it on your head instead, a sort of teasing only you could hope to get away with.

“Hey there, Cowboy” you said, flicking the hat, his hat, up over your eyes so you could see properly. “’Course I missed ya… yer my favorite customer after all” Though you teased, you both knew he was much more than a regular customer.

Simons lips curled into an easy smirk as he gazed up at you, eyebrows quirking with intrigue.

“Well now, aint you looking pretty as a picture” he drawled, reaching up to trace his thumb along your jawline. A low chuckle rumbled deep from his chest- he always did love your teasing spirit.

“Favorite, huh? Reckon I’ll hold ya to that, darling” His eyes darkened just a touch as he leaned in, breath whispering against your skin. There was an unspoken question there, a hungry gleam that promised all sorts of trouble if you chose to indulge him.

For now, Simon simply toyed with the worn brim of his hat atop your head, satisfaction radiating off him in waves.

“Sure, do feel mighty fine seein’ my colors on ya. Been far too long” he’d comment.

You would hum as you leaned into his gentle touch, an almost laughable dichotomy when compared to the blood that had been spilled by them. You gazed up at him with adoring, devoted eyes.

“I could be in your colors every night if youd stay” you’d whisper, your words for him and only him to hear. It was almost impossible to get Simon to stay with you longer than a week anymore and he would get antsy to hit the wild again, his soul calling for him to wander from town to town.

Simon’s breath hitched at your words; eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he savored the simple intimacy you graced him with. Things were never simple with him – his was a dangerous line of work that more often than not left him with a target on his back.

And yet…the way you looked at him, like he hung the very stars in the sky…it was downright bewitching. Made a man forget all his wrongs and want to be redeemed.

“Darlin’” he sighed, rough palms gently cupping your cheek. His expression was unusually soft and vulnerable, a rare peek behind a steely façade. “Aint nothin’ I want more than to stay wrapped up in you forever…but ya know I got debts to pay, and it aint safe…”

His voice trailed off, unspoken realities lingering heavily in the air between you two. Staying was a risk he wasn’t sure he had the right to take, no matter how much you stirred his soul.

You would nod, glancing away from his eyes as you slowly leaned back up from where you were resting on your elbows, allowing his hand to leave your cheek as you created a space of distance. Both physically and mentally.

All you wanted was to be his entirely, but it wasn’t in the cards for you. “I know…” you’d acknowledge, a sad sort of smile permeating your lips. Part of you believed he liked the outlaw life, and could you rightly blame him? Going from town to town with nothing tethering you down for too long. Being able to leave with the sunrise, the only person you were answering to being yourself.

But oh how you longed every night to be the thing he wanted to come home to, to be the reason he would stay.

You would carefully take the hat off your head, placing it back down on his own, your actions a silent understanding of his words.

Simon would frown as you withdrew, immediately missing the reassuring presence of you in his space. He knew this life caused you pain – knew he was the source of it, in a way. But old habits die hard, and walking the outlaw’s path was engrained deep in his blood.

Reaching up, his fingers curled carefully around your wrist before you could pull away fully. Not to stop you, merely to offer quiet solace in his touch.

“I ain’t never meant to string you along, darlin’” he said gruffly “Fact is… part of me does like ridin’ the wind. But another part…” His gazed flicked meaningfully to where his hand held you, imploring you to believe the sincerity in his eyes.

“Another part thinks it might be time to settle. Plant my feet somewhere they can’t be dug up so easy. And there ain’t no other plot of soil that calls to me like you do”

It was as close to a declaration as Simon had ever come. His walls were crumbling away piece by piece in your presence.

You would carefully pry his hand from his wrist, picking up your rag and a fresh glass to polish, avoiding his eyes as you worked. “I believe you Simon, really I do…But that’s only part of you” Youd say, stealing a glance over at him.

“I couldn’t ask you to ignore that other part, what kinda man would I be if I asked that of you?” you’d say.

Simons fingers flexed instinctively as your hand slipped free, the loss resonating deep in his core. He sighed, long and low, tipped hat casting shadows across his weathered features.

You spoke the brutal truth – he was far too wild a creature to ever truly be named. And you, with your heart of gold…you deserved someone whole, not half a man forever torn between two worlds.

“I reckon yer right, as usual” He said gruffly, rueful smile playing at his lips. And yet his eyes remained dark, conflicted, as if desperately seeking an alternative solution you both knew did not exist.

This was your tragedy, written in the stars from the beginning. Two souls who fit together perfectly, if only the fates had not made them for different paths.

Reaching out, Simon gave your hand a final gentle squeeze before releasing in once more. “Ya never stop amazin’ me darlin’. I sure as hell don’t deserve ya. But I aim to prove myself worthy, one of these days.”

His words trailed off into weighted silence. For now, this was goodbye. Somewhere deep in his soul Simon swore it wouldn’t be the last, couldn’t be.

Simon rose from the stool with a grunt, his hat settled over his brow as he gave the saloon one last lingering sweep. Memories of your sweetness lingered in every splintered beam, in every scratch in the wooden floor where his bootheels had worn down the polish of years past.

This place had become more home to him than any house of sticks or stones ever could, all because of you.

With a sigh, Simon pushed through those familiar batwing doors out into the dusty street. Sunset painted the sky a flaming orange, shadows stretched long across the dirt. Another night was falling…and he had a debt to collect before morning came.

But in his heart of hearts, he felt a seed had planted, a hope that one day he might return to stay. For good.

You would retreat to your little home for the night after closing the saloon, doing your best to put the conversation in a box in your mind as you slipped into bed for the night. Another evening with the other side cold as the steel Simon holstered. You could only bite back tears as you closed your eyes, desperate to find solace in sleep.

It wasn’t but three hours later, after you had long drifted off into the reprieve that was your dreamscape, that you were awoken to the sound of glass shattering. You would jolt up, heart nearly beating out of your chest as a figure stalked into the room, their movements slow and at ease before they stepped into the moonlight and their face came into view.

“well well well…” the man said, a dark glint in his eyes “If it aint Ghosts little plaything” The man grinned, hand on the hilt of his belt as he took out his gun, pointing it right at you.

[pseudowho]

Infiltration, Chapter Six: Exposed

Nanami Kento and the reader must pretend to be married to infiltrate a deadly Curse-user cult and take it down from the inside.

*SMUT/NSFW/18+*

A slow-burn fic with fluff/comfort, angst, smut and heroics from our favourite salaryman.

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In the dead of night, as you slept, warm and dreamless and naked in Kento's arms for the first time, the village centre flurried. Its residents (shopkeepers, tearoom staff, enthusiastic knitters) were as ants abandoning an anthill, a hive of activity. Their queen, powerful and renewed, was to lead them to a new hive; for the old colony was in danger, infiltrated by two who were not of their kind.

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"Wake up." A gravelly whisper against your neck brushed the surface of your wakefulness, and a soft nip to your nape penetrated deeper. You rose as if from a deep dive, blinking and warm as you met sunlight. Wrapped in strong, scarred forearms, you felt so profoundly safe as you pushed back tenderly into Kento's strong body. He hummed his approval as your soft legs slid between his.

Tipping your head back on the pillow to look at him, his nose met yours, rubbing gently before his lips planted to yours in a pliable morning kiss, warm and musty and sincere. As Kento moved to pull away, you wound one arm upwards around his head and neck to pull him back. He chuckled against your lips, evolving into a low, slow moan as your tongue slipped against his, his broad-palmed hand sliding up your waist to cup your breast, his thumb grazing appreciatively over your pebbled nipple.

"Part of me was worried," Kento mumbled against you, voice sandy with sleep, "that I'd wake up and you'd be gone." You nipped Kento's lower lip intently punishment, and he groaned into the sting.

"Never," you whispered, sinking your fingers into his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp as he shivered against you, his cock solid and smooth against your lower back.

The warm tumble in the sheets evolved naturally, uninterrupted by clothes or duties. Kento hooked your leg up and over his hip, reaching round you and pinning you back to him with one large hand pressed over your belly, as he pressed into you, thrusting gently against your soft sighs, neither of you yet willing to let go of the night.

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You were unable to wipe the smile off your face as you whisked eggs in the kitchen. The muffled pattering of Kento in the shower, and the feeling of his t-shirt alone on your deliciously aching body, had you breaking into blushing grins, with the memories of your first night together flickering over your vision as you tried to make breakfast.

You heard the dull little bleepbleep, bleepbleep of your pager behind you, and, laying the eggs aside, you rustled in the pocket of your coat to find it. A reply from Ijichi, you noticed, having sent him information regarding the six outlying cult members only the evening before. His response was in decipherable code.

1 X, 2 X, 3 X, 4 X, 5 X, 6 ???

You inhaled deeply through your nose, slipping the pager back into your pocket as you returned to making breakfast. All but one of the cult members eliminated with ruthless efficiency...it was only a matter of time before number six was taken out.

The bathroom door opened, steam tumbling out into the living room. Kento stepped out, a towel hung loosely around his waist, steam still rolling off his shoulders as he bent to rummage in his suitcase, thick downy-haired thighs flexing as he squatted. You ogled him openly, eyes rolling over the taut cords under his broad shoulders, the batwings of muscle between his armpits and ribs, the stretch of his abs trailing downwards. Your eagerness to feel it all beneath your tongue and fingers was fresh and adventurous, and you ached for him as if he hadn't already had you gasping his name in bliss for half the night before.

You looked away as he looked up. Kento's eyes burned up the back of you. The gentle curves of your legs to your round arse, all too visible in the light fabric of his t-shirt. His t-shirt. While you made him breakfast. The domesticity of it all was now no pretence, and it thrilled Kento in a way that he would never have understood in his teens. His eyes darkened to wonder how wet you were, if his cum was sticking your thighs together from his relentless overnight attention. He approached you slowly, light-footed and predatory. Breakfast can wait, he thought as you gasped, his fingers slipping into the slick of your pussy from behind.

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"Ken-- toooo-- aaaaah!" Squeaking every time Kento pounded into you, his thrusts felt like he was bypassing your pussy to hit your belly instead, and you gripped onto the counter he had you folded over, gasping as your hips rucked forwards and your toes scraped the floor.

"'Aaaah!'" He mocked lightly, pitch raised in imitation, "Never seen you-- so-- aah-- speechless," he gasped, revelling in the bounce of your arse every time his hips slapped against it. You squealed, reaching back for support, and Kento gripped your hands, lacing your fingers with his. His hips increased in pace, Kento smirking as he continued imitating your delightful little noises as you blushed, mortified.

With a particularly harsh snap of his hips, you mewled, begging for release and Kento huffed out a laugh, kissing your shoulder in apology for teasing you, reaching under you to stroke practiced light caresses on your tender, overstimulated clit.

"You brought this on yourself," Kento growled, landing a sharp smack to your thigh as you trembled and whined, your noises shooting jolts of arousal through him.

He surveyed you, eyes clouded with lust and panting with his approaching orgasm as you squeaked and whimpered beneath him. Kento gripped into the fat of your hips, chastising you as he watched his cock, soaked in your arousal and his own pussy-warmed cum, plunge into you again and again.

"I just-- in my shirt-- making eggs-- what the fuck did you-- haaaah-- expect me to do?"

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"Do you want some company in the shower? It can be...lonely."

"Shut up and eat your omelette, Kento."

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"What are you doing?" You giggled at Kento, watching him stretching gingerly over the cloudy onsen water to reach his discarded trousers from the night before.

Kento grumbled at you, "My pager. It's gone. I bet it's still in there...or at the bottom of the water." Kento snagged his trousers-- "Aha!" -- as you remembered the message from Ijichi.

"That reminds me," you explained, sitting at the table to eat your own breakfast as Kento slapped his wet trousers to the stone, beginning to rustle through the pockets, "I updated Ijichi yesterday with the information from the library. He messaged back-- they've already taken out five of the six we told him about."

"Amazing," Kento announced abruptly, sincere in the rare praise of his colleagues, "that's the kind of efficiency I can get behind." You hummed in agreement, blowing steam off the surface of your mug. Kento huffed, a frustrated low growl as he stood, shaking water off his arms as he frowned down at his trousers.

"Not there," he rumbled, rolling the sleeves of his knitted jumper down as he sat opposite you at the table. His brow furrowed in thought, he reached one hand  absentmindedly across the table, plaiting your fingers in his, brushing his thumb over the inside of your palm. You lowered your mug, thoughtful.

"You really can't find it?" You enquired, worried about the loss of your only shared means of communication. Kento shook his head.

"Like I said, unless it's at the bottom of that onsen, it's gone." Your lips pursed as you got up, walking to the onsen yourself and retrieving the long net used for its maintenance. Silently, you scoured the onsen. After five minutes, you admitted defeat, shaking your head at Kento with a grimace.

Kento pressed his forehead to his fingertips, mentally scolding himself. He shot you a dark look-- "You go nowhere alone, unless it's to get you to safety. Promise me." Your grimace turned to a gently chastising frown, your mouth opening to argue; Kento, sensing your disagreement, crossed the room in a few long strides, clutching the sides of your arms and lowering himself to your eye level, as he stared into you.

Completely disarmed by Kento's fear for you, you grimaced again, nodding slowly as your hands came up to cup his cheeks. Kento sighed through his nose, rubbing it against your palm and placing a soft kiss to your inner wrist.

"I can't...I couldn't bear the thought of you in danger even before we came here, but now, I-- I don't think I'd--"

Kento broke off, cold fear gnawing away at him, the stakes suddenly so much higher now you had both fallen into this promised life together. You shushed him gently, pulling him close to you, pretending to be brave, but deeply terrified by how far Kento would go to ensure your safety.

"We've got this," you urged to Kento, "all we need to do is take out the Fathers, and deal with whatever it is they've got hidden in their dirty little shrine, and we're done. You know what these cults are like...once the figureheads are gone, they basically dismantle themselves."

Kento grumbled into your hair, disquiet in his soul as he remembered the Cursed-energy he had felt approaching the shrine, still infuriatingly unable to place where he had felt it before, grasping for the memory but unable to gain purchase. The Fathers, Kento was confident he and you could manage; the thing in the shrine was such an unknown entity, that approaching it with no back-up was obscenely foolish. Kento knew that fortune did not favour the unprepared.

"Listen," Kento toned, leading you back to the table and sitting opposite you again, each with one hand clasped across the table and one hand wrapped around a warm mug, "before we make our move on the Fathers, we invite the other Sorcerers in. We don't know how many of the cult will stick around for combat, and we don't know what level the Curse in the shrine is at. Or if it even is a Curse...everything we know about it so far is based on what we felt on our way to the shrine."

You nodded slowly, eyes distant as you partook in formulating a plan, "Alright. We can page Ijichi when the time comes. We can make our move against the Fathers tonight." Kento nodded in agreement, playing with your fingers as he took a swig of his coffee.

"With everyone else in the village asleep, as long as we're sly, the back-up will arrive by the time we're ready to deal with the Curse," Kento declared, sounding confident but still plagued by uncertainty. With a moment of clarity, he glanced at his watch.

"We're expected at the village meeting first, though. Do you think you could pretend to be in love with me for a little longer?" Kento teased, eyes glimmering at you with devious affection. You bit your lip, foot sliding against his leg under the table.

"I can manage it...if we practice a little bit more, first." Kento huffed a quiet laugh, raising his eyebrows at you as he cracked his knuckles.

"It will be my pleasure," he rumbled, leaning over to take your lips against his again.

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"I'm upset that we're putting clothes on, at a time like this," Kento grumbled, only half-serious, shrugging his coat over his broad shoulders. Eyeing him unashamedly, you were delighted to see him dressed casually, in a knitted grey jumper and jeans, hair styled loosely,with thick-soled boots. He approached you with a twinkle in his eye, and took your hand, raising it to his face to breathe deeply against your palm before placing a soft kiss to its centre.

His intimacy bold, but understated, he slipped your gloves onto you, pinching the ends of the fingers to position them perfectly. Pinching your chin affectionately, Kento pondered out loud.

"So, what do we know?" He mused, eyes distant, "What have we learned?"

"That you like it when I lick your--"

"No," Kento snipped, flicking you lightly on the nose as you laughed a dirty laugh, "bad.  Stop it. Behave yourself. We are--"

"--professionals," you said together, parroting him. He nodded mulishly at you as you continued.

"The Fathers' quarters are on the top level of the Temple. There's...something in the Shrine, and they performed a...a ceremony yesterday?" You and Kento both grimaced, "Which is...alarmingly vague." Kento rumbled at you, pulling his gloves on at the wrists.

"It's the Village meeting today, so we can pick out the main threats...I suppose Emi and Keisuke will be there." You almost shuddered at the memory of your bloody fight with the venom-spitting Curse-user at the party on your first night. Kento felt your trepidation, slipping his arms around you to hold you close while you mused aloud.

"So...act normal. Call the cavalry. Kill the Fathers. Take out whatever's in the shrine...and straight on 'til morning."

You nodded, reassuring yourself that you and Kento were close to the end, your heart thrumming with excitement for your bright new future with him, once the mission was complete. From how he gazed down at you, his eyes glazed over with saccharine warmth, Kento was feeling the same. You leaned up, grabbing his face firmly and pressing a kiss to his lips, hard. Kento kissed you back, enthusiastic, before leaning away slightly, rubbing his nose against yours-- "ow," he whispered, his smile lopsided.

"Sorry," you insisted, still pressed tightly against him, "cute aggression."

Kento felt his heart thud against his ribcage in a burst of affection so strong, he had to resist crushing you in his arms. Teeth gritted as he gave you a restrained squeeze, Kento felt the icy trickle of fear down the back of his neck, memories of the dead never far from his thoughts. Gulping them back, he smiled tightly at you, and opened the door into the crisp winter afternoon.

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The lower hall of the temple opened directly into its courtyard, its peaceful gardens sullied by the bitter afterthoughts of violence. You tucked your arm deeper into Kento's elbow, reaching your hand up to squeeze his bicep, a self-soothing action; he responded in like, pressing your hand firmly between his upper arm and ribs.

The hall was full, with a dozen six-person tables arranged in a circle around a little stage, set up for congress. You were amiable as you moved to sit down opposite Kento, smiling warmly to other couples around you, catching a few familiar eyes, but not the ones you were searching for. Kento covered your corner of the table with his hand as you bumped against it, distracted by the absence of Keisuke and Emi.

Kento was mathematic in his assessment of the room; plenty of Cursed power, but none of it particularly strong. Probabilities ticked across his vision; with none of the strongest sorcerers you had encountered so far being present, Kento felt how acutely exposed he and you were, outliers in a room of Grade Threes and below. Opposite him, fingers tapping lightly against the table, he saw you reaching the same conclusions.

The room buzzed with low conversation for some time, the stage remaining curiously empty. Ten minutes, turned to thirty, grew to fifty. Kento was a patient man, not unnerved by the passive passing of time. The sun sat low in the sky, and was quickly blotted out by thickening clouds, threatening a deep wintery gloom as the first flurries of snow blew on a breeze into the Temple. As the whistle of the wind died, hollow footsteps approached the hall.

An older gentleman, pale and rheumy, accompanied by a now familiar figure in a kimono, skirted apologetically onto the stage, bowing in a crescent to all of the attendees before beginning to speak.

"You've all been so patient, and for that, the Fathers send their most gracious thanks. You do all, of course, know that you are here today to pay your respects to our benevolent Mother on the hill." The gentleman gestured wanly towards the Shrine, obscured by skeletal tree limbs up the winding hill. Kento's eyes narrowed, and you felt uncertainty bubble up in your gut.

The pale-eyed man continued; "Your companions, the first half of our blossoming community, have already enjoyed their visit. I am pleased to say, they have found themselves overwhelmed by the Mothers' power." He stepped from the stage, gesturing invitingly towards the crowd, "If you would all follow me to the Shrine, you too can share in our glory."

The crowd rustled to life, man and wife sharing excitable glances, and Kento moved smoothly to you, ducking his head to whisper to you, before being gracefully interrupted by the kindly old woman in the kimono.

"I hope you don't mind," she cooed, sleeve rising to cover her lower face, "but Father Tatsu has asked to see you personally, Mr.Tsuda." Kento blinked slowly, cool and questioning.

"Oh?" Kento inquired, feigning disappointment, "That is a shame," he lied coolly, "we were quite excited to meet the Mother." The kimono lady demurred, head inclined in gentle apology.

"I am sure the Fathers will be pleased to give you a personal introduction, in recognition of your sacrifice on this occasion. I understand you have not had the opportunity to display your abilities to the Fathers, yet?" Kento nodded sagely, appearing to be in enthusiastic agreement. He leaned down to kiss you on the forehead.

"You go home then, my love," he insisted smoothly, and you felt panic bubble up in your throat; separating had not been part of the plan, and you felt an urgent fury as Kento swept the rug from beneath your feet, "I'll see to Father Tatsu. You always know how to keep busy without me, anyway. Stay warm."

While you knew Kento meant to keep you out of harm's way for long enough for you to send the "Rescue" page to Ijichi, you felt the rope pull from your hands as he confiscated your choice to stay with him, to help him. Your nose stung with tears as you were forced to nod and smile, desperate to kiss him goodbye but corseted by company. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your forehead before turning and walking away with his guide.

Kento fought the urge to turn back and pull you into his arms, but he could not ignore the visceral instinct that he was about to walk into a deadly fight. Every nerve in his body screamed out against the wrongness of leaving you behind.

Bile rose in your throat, fearful and bitter. You walked calmly through the gusty Temple, flurries of snow turning heavier, and your steps quickened as soon as you stepped over the threshold into the path leading down to the village. Single-minded, you headed home, fingering the cold plastic pager in your pocket, ready to send a message to Ijichi as soon as you closed the door. You could not make Kento's sacrifice count for nothing.

You walked through the village, which was still curiously quiet, windows shuttered. You felt a sickening realisation that your original assumption that the shopkeepers were all attending the village meeting, was certainly wrong-- not one of them had been present. The cold snap of snow on your cheeks only made you feel more naked, more exposed, and a dry sob heaved out of you; Kento's absence felt like losing a limb.

Your final thoughts before crossing into the lost sanctuary of your house, were only of Kento. A moment of silence passed as you felt for the light switch. A single agonising crack to your temple pushed the earth up towards your feet and your vision blackened from the edges, your hand reaching out hopelessly for your absent lover.

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"You really are quite deadly, aren't you, Mr.Tsuda?" Father Tatsu eyed Kento shrewdly from his seated position in the garden below his quarters, steam idly wisping up from his coffee, untouched.

Kento breathed heavily, overcoat flung off on the floor, a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead from the hoops he had been forced to jump through for the past hour. Weaponless, his raw strength had been assessed from every angle, and he was surrounded by stacks of extraordinarily heavy barrells and rocks, some intact, some roughly hewn and broken by his bare hands. Kento felt the sting of irritation as he swept one broad hand back through his hair, peeling strands off his sweating forehead.

"I wouldn't know, sir." Kento turned on thick booted heels towards Father Tatsu, his dark broad figure blotted, imposing against the drifts of snow. Father Tatsu laughed, lowering the coffee he was about to sip.

"You've never fought? I'm afraid I don't quite believe that." Kento remained impassive, unreadable, as he sat opposite Father Tatsu. Father Tatsu appraised Kento.

"My older brother and I...were considered freaks in our backwards little ditch of a hometown." Father Tatsu's fingers pattered in fleeting remembrance, dank memories clouding his vision. Kento remained still, silent.

"Common, in communities like that, unfortunately. But Shinzu is...we are special. And She proved it to us...when She chose us." Father Tatsu stood, his coffee abandoned, and he paced.

"Here, She-- the Goddess-- offered us all the bounties of her nature, to breed a community of sorcerers like none other before. While others out there do good deeds of ridding our land of the scourge of normal people," Father Tatsu spat, his pacing more frenetic now as he beseeched Kento, "we, the chosen ones, can multiply, ready for a new age of sorcery."

Father Tatsu stopped, one hand in the pocket of his dark suit. He paused for a moment, thoughtful, before bringing out a small black device. Kento's stomach swooped. His pager.

"Until your lot showed up, that is. Five of our members killed in just one night, last night, you know?" Father Tatsu said conversationally, "The sixth member, thankfully, remains in gainful occupation at your dirty little school. He let us know some time ago that we were to expect guests from your end. We had our eye on a few of you...but I was very pleased when our librarian found this in his store cupboard. It did rather give the game away."

Kento was on his feet now, floor creaking under the strain of his boots, Cursed energy rolling off him in waves, chin dipped downwards. Father Tatsu appeared completely unaffected.

"I've accepted that our dream for a perfect community will never flourish, while those in charge of our population fight for the wrong team," said Father Tatsu, bitter and resigned, "But it matters not. Our Goddess is revitalised, powerful, well-fed for the first time in generations. And I...I am well-fed, too." Father Tatsu slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket, and Kento felt a torrent of Cursed-energy slam into him, strong enough to slide him backwards a few inches as the Tatami floor shredded beneath his boots.

"The rest of the community can go hang, as far as I'm concerned. It was my brother's dream, more than mine. He has quite the ability, Mr.Tsuda, and it complements mine quite beautifully." Father Tatsu turned on Kento, whose fists were rolled in a white-knuckled grip.

"You don't want to fight me, Mr.Tsuda. You see, my brother can steal Cursed-energy from one living thing and transfer it into another. That is how we released the Goddess from her earthly confines in the first place. And I...I am the perfect vessel. I'm still not certain what my limit is," Father Tatsu mused aloud, gazing at his open hand and the very air around it distorting with brittle energy.

"You and your wife are the only ones left, Mr.Tsuda. The goddess, in her new body, is surely devouring the weaker members of our community as we speak. The others...well, after my brother had donated their Cursed-energy to me, they were only fit for a meal, too. We knew you would be after us...and we are ready."

The room hung in ringing silence. Father Tatsu's lip curled, observing Kento, expecting some response to his impassioned monologue...but receiving none. Kento simply watched the hands of his watch tick round.

"Well?" He boomed, furious at being denied, "Have you nothing to say?"

Kento sighed, all exasperation and delicate exhaustion, as he finished rolling up his sleeves.

"I'm off the clock, which is unlucky for you," Kento toned, low and smooth, "and I don't play with my food."

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Chapter Seven: The Captive Goddess, LINK HERE!

@angelofthorr @nn-hh192 @vxmethyst @moonmalice @daisynik7 @heyitsmirae @black-swan-blog27 @vocosys @mischiefmanaged71 @silkspunweb @deegausserr

Phew. Two more chapters to go ♥️ Sorry for the delay, for anyone who's been waiting...

[empressgeekt]

batfam meets the justice league fic idea, where Nightwing convinces the JL that the batfam is the last of the race Gotham bat demons...

made on moble so sorry in advance.

Okay so it starts with Batwoman and Nightwing hanging around the watchtower. Eventually someone (most likely either hal or barry) asks how they are related to batman. Batwoman claims to be his sister, and Nightwing obviously says he's his son. When the question of who Nightwing's mom comes up (along with some of the league thinking that Nightwing was an accident, cause they can't see bats settling down), Batwoman simply says, "he doesn't have one."

The convo sudden shifts to the topic of the 'history' and 'biology' of the bat demon race. How they were nearly eradicated by a war with the Amazon's, and Atlantis, only a few really surviving and finding refuge in the caves below Gotham. Hwo they used ancient forgotten magic to remove all memories of this 'war' to keep themselves save. And finally how they reproduce asexually, by reviving the souls of children who were wrongfully killed. Taking the weak dead spirit and carrying them in their own soul until it could put itself back together.

When asked if this was how Nightwing was born, they confirm it.

BW: oh yeah. Actually 'wing was kind of a surprise you could say.

Hal: surprise?

N: YEP! You see I was kinda of dad's first so he really didn't know what he was doing...

BW: and it ended with bossy big brother screaming his head off in an emergence of a batling that he didn't know he was carrying.

Barry: screaming his head off?

N: oh...well the process of soul splitting, emergence, rebirth, whatever you want to call it, includes the host's soul breaking down enough to allow the younger newly revived soul to detach. It's very painful, So I've heard.

BW; so you've heard? Kid please I know you've heard your father when it came to your siblings rebirth.

Needless to say everyone (especially hal and barry), look at Batman the same way for the next few days.

when Bruce confronts his son and cousin, he honestly can't say he hates the idea. UT would throw off any suspicions sound hus true identity. Not mention give him a new way to mess with hal.

The rest of the batfam (let's say standard webcomic cast, with Terry and Matty McGinnis [time traveled/dimensionhopped], along with flashpoint!batman, because they deserve to be in the safe place rhay is the batfam too, for funies), also find this cover story hilarious, and spend all of dinner adding to the bat-demon mythos.

Thomas would've been the last surviving member of the demon army, who retreated and sought refuge in Gotham, along with his human turned immortal companion of Alfred. Bruce, Kate, and Luke (batwing) would his 'children'.

The normal children would all still be Bruce's. Inculding spoiler, as why she claims she isn't Bruce's daughter, she isn't passing up the chance to mess with the JL.

Eventually the idea gets suggested that they should trick the JL into believing that Batman is pregnant with a new batling. The prank idea slowly snowballs from there and Bruce is unable to stop it. So he agrees to join in, ans rhe prank planninf begins. Matty immediately volunteers to be the new batling, because he technically the youngest and doesn't have a vigilante alter ego yet.

The prank starts out slow. Batwoman and Nightwing increase their visits to the watchtower? Specially when batman is there and they are usually in the same room as him.

Bruce pretends to be more tired often, even pretending to take a nap, where the JL can find him. He also fakes head aches.

Eventually Clark asks him if he's alright. And Nightwing responds with

N: of course he's not. He's working too hard.

B: Nightwing...

N: there's a reason me and aunt BW following you, and it's so you don't over do it!

B: nightwing...

N: even grandfather is worried.

B: Nightwing. I have been through this 8 times already. I think I know my limits. Besides your grandfather has always been worried over the thought of a new spawn in the house.

Clark: !!!!

Once more things around batman grow awkward for the next few weeks.

The end of the fic would be the JL visiting the "bat domain" to meet Matty dressed up in a mask and brightly colored suit. And finding out about the literal small army that batman's been building. Not to mention cameo of Thomas in his bat suit scaring the living crap out if the justice league, and having the time of his life.

Edit: Alright its official, this is going to be my holiday special for this year. So, around Christmas time I'll post a link so yall can read this.

Edit 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51963331/chapters/131402920

Happy holidays! hears and early present!

[gargoyleandgremlinpress]

The Dragon by Mairead Triste and Aristide

My final book of Fanfic Writers' Appreciation Day! The Dragon by @the-cimmerians is a casefic horror slashfic (the m/m kind... but really, a bit of both) circa 1999, for the TV show The Sentinel, the origin of the Sentinel/Guide trope in fanfic.

In the late nineties, Sentinel was one of the ubiquitous slash fandoms, up there with due South, X-Files, and Highlander. I fully admit I have only ever seen the pilot and some fanvids, but I absorbed SO much canon and fanon from fic over the years.

At one point, I swear I had a printed, coil bound copy of The Dragon (like the one at the end of this post about Ghosts by Torch) so of course it needed to make its way onto my to-bind list. Gay pining, eventually requited! A serial killer! Folklore monsters!

This was a fun one to play around with some of the visual elements. Black and red and silver for the cover, and I am not sad that the edges got a bit drippy with the splattering. The endpapers are red lokta paper and I went through some contortions with trimming to keep the raw edges on the paper, for the VIBES. The batwing motif fits in with the folklore, and the handprints fit a very specific scene in the story. (THAT one. The under the bed one.) Plus, teeth.

I'm pretty happy overall with how it all came together, and fit with the overall mood and themes of the fic, and with being able to share some older fic and fandoms.

Happy FFWAD, Aristide!

[bitterrobin]

You know what I've realized these past several months on Tumblr and just...years of consuming content?

It's pretty rare for the fandom to acknowledge Gotham as a city. A real, living city with people in it. Like, sure we always get cutesy posts about Batman or the others from outside perspectives or fics that include interesting ocs (I love u if you do that btw).

But what I mean isn't that. What I mean is: does anyone think of Gotham and its citizens as actual people? Because I've sure seen kind of the opposite.

I see constant arguments or heavily biased (mostly misinformed) posts regarding what Bruce does and how the Batman helps the city. That his riches would get lost in corruption and no one can save the city unless there's violence. You could try and make the argument, sure. But we've seen time and time again in comics that Bruce uses his money to the benefit of the city. We've seen in comics that he employs people who are disadvantaged and gives them opportunities. People know Bruce Wayne gives jobs and treats his employees well. He donates heavily to charities, creates his own organizations, funds Leslie Thompkin's clinic, and consistently updates the safety of his own buildings. People (at least post-Crisis) would know that Bruce Wayne did everything he could to save Gotham after the Cataclysm earthquake/No Man's Land - that he went up against Congress. Of course, not everyone would like Batman. Not everyone would trust the Wayne name. They'd see a stranger who prowls nightly and may or may not rescue you. They'd see the privilege of an old rich name who gets to exert his influence over the city. If you go to him for help, you go to him with the fear, and anticipation of rejection or with the knowledge that he will be safe.

I've also seen the (imo) ridiculous notion that Crime Alley citizens would trust the Red Hood. Maybe some would now, after the reboots and actual comic book evidence that he's doing something. But I cannot fathom living in a city with such heavy crimes occurring and then trusting what is essentially a cop. People don't know the Red Hood. They don't know Jason Todd. They would only know: 1. he has tried and succeeded various times to take over organized crime and drug routes 2. he can and will kill if he sees it fit. In some people's eyes, he would be a cop with even less judicial oversight. In some families, he would be the killer of their breadwinner, of their fathers or family members or lovers. A man with a gun. Eyes without a face. If you go to him for help, you go to him for blood.

This doesn't even begin to lay out the insane amount of vigilantes who live/operate in Gotham. The Batman is not the only figure. The Red Hood is not the only figure. If you boil down Gotham to only the conflict between these two characters, you miss the nuances and varied opinions of the city by miles. If you boil down Gotham to just Batman-affiliates, you miss even more.

For every person who doesn't trust Batman, there's someone who'd prefer Huntress. For every child who lives in fear but can't trust an adult, there's Robin or Batgirl. For an abused woman, there's other women out there who help: Catwoman or Black Canary or Holly Robinson. There's people who'd never trust a vigilante but want safety, they'd have Leslie Thompkins (who operates in Crime Alley) or Lucius Fox who could give them a job.

Not to mention, Batman is very obviously white. There would be some people who would rightfully mistrust white men, and would prefer figures like Orpheus or Onyx or Batwing or the Signal or Huntress (post-N52). There's the Creeper, who would be terrifying but some might prefer the monster over the man. There's Ragman, an explicitly Jewish vigilante who was literally called the Tatterdemalion of the Oppressed and trusted by the poor and homeless. There's Batwoman, Mother Panic, Spoiler, Nightwing, Red Robin, Azrael, Bluebird, the enigmatic idea of the Oracle, Anarky, Ghostmaker, Gotham Girl/Boy, Catman, Alan Scott-Green Lantern, Wildcat.

Hell, maybe someone who lives in Gotham would just straight up trust Superman or the Flash or Wonder Woman more than anyone else. Maybe they'd never once trust someone acting for a perceived view of justice and would just trust an employer like Two-Face or the Riddler or any mobster.

I'm stressing my point here: when you write anyone who lives in Gotham City, keep in mind that they don't know they live in a comic book world. Secret identities are foreign to them, they only know the base actions of each vigilante. Each person's opinion will heavily vary. Every experience colors their view of the city and vigilantes as a whole. Just, idk, widen your horizons and consider about what someone living in a place like Gotham would really think.

To that end, read the comics!!! Research actual cities!!! Take in experiences and history!!! It's all interesting and just adds so much more.

You want one comic that shows Bruce helping Gotham and the various views of Gothamites, read Gotham Knights #32, published in 2002 and titled "24/7." Read it online illegally if you have to!!

[delulluart]

Batwings!Copia - for @ghostchems fic here or on AO3

[library-of-random]

Master post for myself and whomever else may wish to use it.

DP x DC

DPxDC fic, prompt, ect. Compilation

Dead Man's Diner, link to master post.

Green Works robots, Danny's eco clean up crew

Danny Has Batwings, Batboy; Nightwing's Robin

Ghosts Tell Me, apollo's little helper

The Joker Is Dead, self explanatory

Dead Serious, Dr. Danny M.D., Not Batman's Sidekick and To Babysit a Mafia Boss, masterpost

[butcherlarry]

Weekly Fic Recs 69

Howdy everyone! I come with fic recs! I also had two asks this week for some more specific fic recs, so I linked to those as well :)

(If I had planned this out better, I should have done a whole list of extremely horny/pwp/nsfw fics. But, alas, I did not 😔 Maybe some other time...)

Bruce centric, angsty, batfam fic list

Bruce with batwings fic list

essence of iridescence by scarletazure - Superbat, complete. A magic user casts a spell on the Earth so no one can see colors until they find their soul mates! Luckily, the JL is on the case :)

for all the things my eyes have seen series by susiecarter @susiecarter - Superbat, complete. A series of fics written for Kryptonite Week 2024! This series is all Superbat related, and deal with a variety of colors and types of kryptonite :)

rise by moonwatcher - Superbat, complete. A lovely little pwp fic. I love how fun and playful Clark is with Bruce :)

10 Things Every Brucie Fan Needs in Their Life by pomeloquat @pomeloquat - Superbat, Bruce/Everyone, wip. Brucie Wayne is America's Boyfriend™ and has a whole product line based off of the concept. He has a lot of fans, from regular civilians, to heros, to rouges.

Misforture and Manbats by DragonDart @dragondart - Batfam, wip. Bruce gets turned into Manbat while on patrol. Shenanigans ensue!

prelude by TheResurrectionist @frownyalfred - Lex/OC (Dan the Alpha!!), complete. Omegaverse! Despite what Lex says, he goes into heat while patrolling the pack's territory around the Lake House. Dan the Alpha is there to help :)))))))))

La clarté dans la confusion by thebatandtherobe @batblobinarobe - Superbat, wip. Identity shenanigans!!! Everyone knows Bruce is Batman, except Clark, who thinks Bruce and Batman are Dating. Bruce is also not aware that Clark doesn't know he's Batman. So, so much shenanigans ensue.

(Love) Triangles Have Multiple Centers by frozenpotions @froizetta - Superbat, wip. Another update to a identity shenanigans fic! I loved the outsider's POV of Clark and the relationship woes in this chapter. I could watch an entire sitcom of the shenanigans the Daily Planet gang gets into, LOL.

Patchwork Pod by Ktkat9 @ktkat99 - Superbat, Batfam, wip. More of the mer Bruce fic! Clark is out of the hospital and visits Bruce and Damian, and Tim wakes up!

Bedrock by crucifixinhell @crucifixinhell - Batlantern, wip. I am really digging this Batlantern fic where Bruce and Hal get an accidental telepathic connection. The latest chapter was really sweet, especially the end with Damian 🥺

Happy reading!

[thebigbadbatswife]

Internal Conflict (Part 1 of 3)

Pairing - Batman x F!Hero!Reader Series - Under Your Skin Part 2 here | Part 3 here

Summary - While Batman is at war with himself, some members of the Batfamily start picking up on his odd behaviour.

Warnings - None that I can think of.

A/N - What's that? Is there some actual plot here? My, I think it is! 😂 I know, it's been quite a bit of time between updates again. Sorry about that, this (and the next couple of parts) took a while to outline first and then obviously life kept getting in the way. But it's here now! And the time between updates shouldn't be quite as long. Thank you for being patient with me. Anyway, enough rambling, enjoy! 💜

Taglist - At the end of the fic. Please message me if you would like to be added/removed.

Word Count - 2.5k

The wind ruffled his cape, making it blow out behind him. He was still on the rooftop, a frown on his face. You were already gone, having stormed off a few minutes ago. Your blood boiling, no doubt. Much like his was right now. The only thing he didn’t know was whether his anger was directed toward you or himself.

You had a talent for getting underneath his skin. In record time as well. It was something that he had quickly discovered not long after you had accepted the invitation to join the Justice League. Somehow, you were worse than Hal and Oliver combined. All week you had been pushing each other’s buttons and tonight you both had finally hit your boiling points. It was bound to happen at some point. In truth, he was a little surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. And while he was sure you had meant every last word you had shouted at him, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t thought about it. The filter between his brain and mouth failing as he snapped. He supposed he should count himself lucky that you could, mostly, see through his bullshit. If you didn’t he imagined that you would have quit long before now. Though, after tonight, there was now a very real chance that you would. And if you did, he was positive you would make sure it was known why you had walked away. He could already invision the line of people that would be ready to deck him for it.

With you long gone and the crisis in Star City now averted, Bruce left the rooftop. Grappling and gliding to where he had left the batwing.

The entire flight back to Gotham he replayed the argument over and over again. Analysing it. Like always.

“At first I thought it was because you wanted to make sure that I was cut out for this…”

That was true! When it came to flying solo, you were more than capable. It was one of the things about you that had caught his eye. Obviously, working with a team was far different. You had more than just yourself to worry about. He had to make sure you could do that.

“...now I think it’s because you want me to quit… For whatever reason you’ve decided I’m no longer good enough…”

That wasn’t true. He didn’t want you to quit. In the short time that you had been a member of the League, you had quickly become an invaluable member of the team. To say that it would be a shame to lose you was an understatement. Not that he was every going to say that aloud. Especially not after tonight. Chances were you wouldn’t even believe him so why waste his breath?

You had been right to call him out. If he had thought you incapable or not good enough, then you really wouldn’t have set foot on the Watchtower. But you were good enough. You were more than good enough. He knew that better than anyone. He had looked into you, put your name forward. Not that you knew or needed to know that, as far as he was concerned. And to say that he was nitpicking just to rile you up to have sex was ridiculous. Sex was just a byproduct of adrenaline caused by the arguments and being in such close quarters. It was a surprise that it hadn’t started far sooner.

It had become a vicious cycle. That he could admit to. And now it was one that had finally been broken by you. Not that he cared. He didn’t need to have sex with you. There were plenty of people out there that he could sleep with instead. Besides, you were teammates and relationships like that could get messy, fast. It was best that it was brought to an end before something happened that would jeopardise future missions. If you hadn’t done it tonight, then he certainly would have.

The sound of his boots on the metal platforms and stairs that made up this portion of the batcave, that hung over a dark abyss were loud and echoed off of the walls. The bats, high above him, squeaked in dismay, dropping from their perches to either fly deeper into the cavern system or leave it altogether.

He tugged his cowl off, setting it down onto the desk of the batcomputer as he took a seat, sighing deeply.

“Another fight with Mr Queen?” Alfred asked as he set a silver tray down, a cup, teapot and a plate of cookies on it, and poured him some tea.

Bruce grunted in response. All he wanted to do now was focus on the keyboard and screen in front of him, no longer wishing to think about what had happened tonight. There was still a few hours before dawn and he had a lot of case files to look into. He also really didn’t want to get into this with Alfred. It wasn’t any of his business.

“As talkative as ever, I see,” he muttered as he walked away to tend to other things. Alfred had decided a long time ago, since this whole vigilante business had started, that if Bruce wished to sulk over something then he could bloody well do it alone.

According to his phone, the sun had risen several hours ago. He had yet to even think about making his way up into the manor and toward his bedroom. His mind wouldn’t still, the gears just kept turning. Focusing on the argument, no matter what he did to try and steer his mind away. The anger in your features, that weren’t hidden by your mask, and your body, the venom that had dripped in each word, the clenching of your fist as you debated whether to try and deck him or not. In the end you had decided not to. Likely because he would have easily caught your hand had you tried. 

He shook his head. It shouldn’t be bothering him this much. And yet…

His thoughts were broken by the sound of boots marching toward him. He frowned, turning away from the disassembled equipment on the workbench to see who it was. Diana. Of course. She was angry, a storm dancing in her eyes and her fists clenched by her side. The only thing that he could think was that you had actually done it. You had quit and let her know that he was the reason you were walking away. Bruce swallowed thickly and composed himself, ready to be run through with a sword.

“And what did you say this time?” she demanded, stopping in front of him, crossing her arms against her chest.

“She quit?”

“Not yet, but I don’t doubt she’s thinking about it,” she replied. 

You hadn’t quit? He felt relieved, a weight he hadn’t been truly aware of lifting from him. He couldn’t dwell on that feeling for long, as Diana continued speaking.

“Now I’m not going to pretend like I know what’s going on between the two of you, but whatever it is I suggest you figure it out.”

“You’ve had this same conversation with her?” 

“I will be. I came to talk to you first since you’re the one continuously instigating these arguments.”

He grumbled in response. Instigator?” It made him sound like a damn child.

“I’m not apologising–”

Diana scoffed. “When have you ever apologised for anything. Just figure it out.”

It had been weeks since Bruce had last fought with you. Of course, he had barely said two words to you, outside of missions, because you never stuck around for too long. You were keeping your distance from him. Not that he could blame you.

He couldn’t lie. The distance, it bothered him. And it wasn’t because of the looks that he received every time you left a room he entered. Outside of all of this he lived in the public eye. He was used to dirty looks being thrown his way. Thing was he couldn’t put his finger on why it bothered him so much. It wasn’t affecting missions. You were civil and you fought alongside him like nothing had ever happened between the two of you.

Was it the result of your own conversation with Diana? Or had you decided on this shortly after Star City?

His own conversation with her had continued to lingered on his mind. It had made him wonder if it was possible to start over with you. It was clear to him now that no, that wasn’t possible. You wished to have nothing to do with him, outside of missions, and he would respect that. He told himself that things were better this way. Less complicated.

The sound of your footsteps passing by the laboratory broke Bruce’s thoughts, as well as his focus on dismantling Lex Luthor’s newest kryptonite weapon. Looking away from the weapon, he frowned. He could sworn that he was the only one left awake on the Watchtower.

The battle against Lex had been hard on all of them. The corrupted billionaire’s newest mech hitting harder and causing more destruction than any of the previous ones combined. Things certainly would have gone much smoother had Diana been with them, but the warrior goddess was off elsewhere. Busy dealing with gods and monsters and other things he would rather not think about. The battle had also served as a reminder that the production of his own mech, meant exactly for situations like that one, was taking far too long.

It also had him concerned. Super villains breaking out and working together, all of Lex’s newest tech, his own city being a little too quiet. He wasn’t one to overly rely on gut feelings, preferring physical evidence and facts, something that he could see, but he couldn’t shake it. Something big was headed their way and this was simply the start of it. They needed to be ready.

The kryptonite weapon attached to the mech meant that Clark had suffered the worst injuries out of everybody. As soon as Lex had been apprehended, he had been Bruce’s focus, making sure that he didn’t die. Lois would likely kill him if that happened and he wished to avoid that. It hadn’t stopped him from noticing you though. The way you were favouring your leg, the tear in your suit where blood was running from your thigh, making its way down your leg.

Bruce had been worried about your injury, like he would about anyone of his other teammates, of course. Years as a vigilante had taught him how bad a leg injury could be. He had wanted to see to it himself. With his training and degree, he would be the best option to, but Clark took priority and you refused to be in the same room with him.

Honestly, he was still worried. Before he could stop himself, he was already out of his seat. Making his way out of the laboratory and down the hallway. He was already halfway down the hallway when he heard one of the zeta tubes starting to fire up. He picked up his pace.

In his head, he had it all planned out. Like any concerned teammate, he was simply going to ask if you were okay and if you would like from him to take a look. Make sure that it wasn’t severe. That was it, but when he entered the room, he didn’t get a chance to even open his mouth before you were stopping him.

“I’m really not interested, Batman,” you told him, looking at him over your shoulder, your voice cold and gaze hard. You moved away from the console in front of you and stepping into the blinding light. Leaving him alone on the Watchtower.

In hindsight, he probably should have expected that.

As he headed back to the laboratory, he made a mental note to give Dinah some information she could send your way to help with your injury. You were close with her and it would be easier than trying to corner you.

Bruce worked well into the night after that. Or at least he tried to. His mind refused to focus on the task at hand. Instead it constantly drifted back to you. More specifically how it had felt to have you beneath him. The sweet noises spilling from your lips that sounded so much better than when you were arguing with him. It left him aching and missing those moments. Which he found ridiculous. The two of you hadn’t even been in a relationship. There wasn’t anything there to miss.

One thing was clear to him, he never should have dragged you into that storage room to begin with. He really didn’t know what he had been thinking. That time or any of the others. All it had done was make everything worse and that now there was no way in hell it could ever be fixed. Not that he could see anyway.

None of it mattered in the end. Things were better this way. Less complicated. Less chance of emotions getting in the way and less chance of missions going awry.

It was only after Diana had finally returned to the Watchtower and disturbed him, that he finally realised the time. It was well into the next morning and, no matter how much he would prefer to stay here and continue working, Bruce Wayne had places to be. Huffing, he locked up the now disassembled weapon and left the laboratory and began to head back to his cave.

Dick flipped through the air and landed on the mat. He had come back to Gotham for a visit because he missed Alfred’s cooking and Tim and Barbara had messaged him about Bruce acting strangely. He stepped off of the mat, grabbing his water bottle and taking a sip just as Bruce returned to the batcave.

“Finally! We were about to send out a search party!” he called out to him. He didn’t get a response like he expected he would. Not even a grumble, grunt or a glare. Instead he was simply ignored.

“Told you something was up with him,” Tim said from where he was sitting, eyes still glued to the laptop screen in front of him.

“Yeah.” He took another sip from his water bottle. “Selina’s not in town right now, is she?”

Anyone who knew Bruce knew about the very long and very complicated relationship that he shared with the world’s greatest thief. And no matter how hard they tried to make things work it always ended with two broken hearts and an even broodier Bat with an even shorter fuse. It had always been that way, for as long as he could remember.

Tim shook his head. “Barbara already checked. Selina is out of the country and has been since their last break up.”

Dick nodded. “Interesting.” And it was interesting. If it wasn’t Selina that had him acting like this, then who did? Who had gotten underneath his skin so badly? “Looks like we have an investigation on our hands.”

“He’s not going to be happy about that,” Tim frowned, finally looking away from the laptop screen.

He shrugged. “He’s rarely happy about anything. Come on, we should meet with Barbara and figure out where we should start.”

*

Taglist - @the-last-twin-of-krypton @bakugous-bakahoe @fromfoolishpeopletodeadpeople @little-rivers @callalily2000 @geminicinderella @warsaur @theclassicvinyldragon @aniya7 @bluebear19 @jdream55 @thedeadlythoughts

[thechaoticdruid]

Seeing the headcanons of Ascended Astarion being able to grow huge batwings and I love it! Someone please pass the idea along to Larian or a modder.

Imma go think about how to work that into my fics now.

[dewedup]

running down your face (phantom ghoul)

Fresh tears build as his fingers start moving again, trying, and failing to follow the video, hair ending up in a tangled mess. Even here, in the safety of his room, he feels like he’s doing something wrong. He’s not a good enough ghoul, unable to stop the thoughts of trying these things out and liking the idea of how he’d look with pretty nails or cute makeup. He’s also apparently a failure at being a ghoulette also.

an art/fic collab with the wonderful @kamonart (it's honestly perfect, i bow down to your talent)

as always my trusty @jimothybarnes went through the trenches to beta this for me, hyping me up through the writing process and just giving the most big-brained ideas to add to this piece - forever grateful and always excited to read their edits

SEE THE GORGEOUS ART HERE

words: 2,731

under the cut but can also be read on AO3

Phantom purrs happily as Cumulus runs her fingers through his hair, pulling with just enough tension and twisting delicately. His chest rumbles in satisfaction as he closes his eyes at the feeling. Cirrus is bent over Aurora’s foot, methodically dipping her brush into a bottle nail polish, dragging careful stripes over her toenails, eyes squinting in concentration. Bubbly pop music plays from the speaker Aurora pulled from her room, she’s singing along softly as she tries a new eyeliner technique that resembles a batwing. Phantom opens his eyes to watch longingly as her fingers move with self-taught precision. He feels warm to his core, happiness coating his skin, the scent of his euphoria so thick you can taste it on your tongue.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” Swiss shouts from the couch on the other side of the room, thumbs flying around the controller in his hand as he snarls at Dew. The fire ghoul is moving his fingers erratically on his own remote, his other hand hovering in front of the multi ghoul’s eyes, blocking his view of the television. Rain giggles from his perch on the recliner, legs thrown over one side as his back stretches over the other armrest, neck craned at an impossible angle to keep his eyes glued to the screen. Mountain is grinning on the floor, head titled back and resting in Rain’s lap as he also moves his car around the track in the video game they are playing.

Phantom thinks they called it Mario Kart, but this Mario character sure seems to be causing quite the discord amongst the ghouls.

His eyes travel across the common room before he stops and does a double take.

Everyone is hanging out together but there seems to be a clear divide between the ghouls and ghoulettes, the only outlier being himself. His mind is moving swiftly, eyes trailing over Dew’s long, blond hair, hanging down his back unrestrained. He lifts a hand to his own head, fingers brushing along the intricate pattern Cumulus has created, strands weaving in and out in a smooth line. Odd.

“Hey bug, you want me to do yours next?” Cirrus asks from the floor, staring up at him from under her lashes as she blows softly on Aurora’s freshly painted toes, eliciting peals of laughter from the tiny ghoulette. Phantom hesitates as he glances over at the group of ghouls, eyes searching the different hands holding onto controllers. He doesn’t see any sort of colour on any of their fingers, a little dirt under the nails but that’s it. Uncertainty looms like a cloud, blocking the previous air of happiness, the rumbling in his chest coming to an abrupt halt. Is this something that ghouls aren’t supposed to do?

“Uh, no thank you.” Phantom replies sheepishly, a blush burning across his cheeks in what feels like embarrassment with a hint of shame. His confusion must be apparent on his face because Cirrus looks ready to say something else, he quickly clears his throat and rises to his feet, drawing multiple pairs of eyes to himself. “I’m actually really tired, I think I’m going to go lie down.”

He escapes before anyone can question him further, hoping no one catches a glimpse of the tears starting to form in his eyes as he retreats to the safety of his room.

-

“Then cross the right strand over and into the middle, be sure to add some hair from the same side…”

Phantom’s fingers move clumsily, trying to follow the YouTube tutorial steps, he’s pretty sure he’s doing exactly what they’re saying but their braid looks completely different than whatever the fuck is going on in his hair. He glances at the mirror warily, trying to identify where he went wrong.

“Get it together,” he spits at the reflection staring back at him pathetically. The stain of tears trail down his face, emphasized by the mess of eyeliner he’d used to try and recreate Aurora’s batwing look with. Her thin, delicate lines had become black smudges, closely resembling a raccoon’s eyes. As if that wasn’t just fucking perfect, he also had black polish in places he didn’t even know he could get it. It pooled in the bed of his nails, coating the surrounding skin more so than the nails themselves. Phantom didn’t know you had to wait for it to dry, he’d blown on it a few times like he’d watched Cirrus do, but then when he started attempting his hair it had gotten there too, most notably in strands lacking any colour.

Fresh tears build as his fingers start moving again, trying, and failing to follow the video, hair ending up in a tangled mess. Even here, in the safety of his room, he feels like he’s doing something wrong. He’s not a good enough ghoul, unable to stop the thoughts of trying these things out and liking the idea of how he’d look with pretty nails or cute makeup. He’s also apparently a failure at being a ghoulette also, unable to do something that the others made look so easy the other night.

Defeat sits heavy on his chest as he collapses to the floor in a heap, shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his hands, the smell of nail polish tickling his nose in a taunting way. He bites his lip to stifle the sounds of his sobs.

-

Phantom starts the next day trying to shake off the doubt and self-loathing lingering from the previous night. He had spent hours trying to scrub the nail polish from his body, the soap and water only worked so well, leaving evidence of his failure in his nailbeds for everyone to see.

The siblings of sin watch his every move, or at least it feels that way. He hears laughter from a corner of the hallway and sees a group of sisters giggling and sneaking glances his way. His heart stops as he stumbles over his own feet, just barely catching himself. Nothing can stop the flush that covers his entire body as he quickly shuffles down the hallway, their laughter echoing in his head. Did they see his nail polish? They couldn’t see his hair, covered, thankfully, by the mask he wears. The uncertainty kicks in as he glares at his fingers, begging the remnants of the black to disappear with willpower alone.

Phantom shakes his head as the feelings of doubt rears its ugly head. He feels trapped, confined in this new body, this new place. His hands shake as panic sets in, his breathing becoming laboured as he turns down another hallway, grasping desperately at the stone walls to ground himself. He can’t breathe, wishes he could rip his mask off to help get in more oxygen. He sinks to the floor, chest heaving for air.

A hand on his back startles him, he recoils like he’s been burned as he turns to meet the cool, blue eyes of Cumulus.

“It’s okay bug, just try and breathe through it.” Her words are calm, soothing, and Phantom tries to follow her instructions. “Hands on your knees and head between your legs, you’re safe, it’s okay.”

He does as she says, her hand rubbing soothingly up and down his back as she breathes loudly, setting a pace for him to follow as he works through the worst of it. I can’t even walk down a fucking hallway without losing it, his thoughts turn sour, picking and pulling at his already crumbling self-image.

Maybe he’s not meant to be topside, things were so much easier in the pit. He knew who he was there, without all this outside influence. This world is overstimulating, so many thoughts and feelings, he’s overwhelmed. He thought being summoned was a chance at freedom, to live a life he had a say in, while still following the ideals of the Ministry. Yet here he was, fucking it up royally. Cumulus would tell the pack about how weak he was, that he can’t even control his own mind and body, and they’d send him back.

As soon as he gets his breathing under control, he’s on his feet, sprinting away from the air ghoulette who watches with calculating eyes. The scene in the hallway replaying as she tries to find the trigger for his panic attack.

-

Cumulus sits at the table, nursing a mug of tea as the other ghouls mill about. All except for Phantom, who seems to be hiding away in his room as of late. She’s been mulling over recent events, trying to find out what’s haunting the normally light-hearted and easy-going quintessence ghoul.

“Does Phantom seem off to you guys?” She asks at large, eyes darting around the room as the ghouls seem to take in her words. Mountain and Rain look up from their crossword in confusion, but Cirrus seems to pause, her spoonful of ice cream hanging in the empty space between her bowl and her mouth.

“I think it started when I asked to paint his nails. Do you think I offended him?” She seems troubled by the thought, her pretty lips pulling down into a frown as she tries to recall the incident. Swiss reaches over the table, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder as he shakes his head at the notion.

“No Cir, that doesn’t seem like him. He was letting Cumulus braid his hair when that happened, it wasn’t a stretch to see if he was interested in more.” He reassures her, his tone soothing but he turns to Cumulus with raised eyebrows, wanting confirmation that he isn’t wrong in his line of thought.

“I think Swiss is right, it doesn’t seem like he’s mad, maybe more confused?” She adds as she takes in the new information from Cirrus, trying to connect the dots.

“Maybe he just doesn’t want to partake in your little ghoulette nights and felt obligated?” Dew offers, so deep in thought that the marshmallow he’s roasting over the palm of his hand catches fire, turning black faster than he can shove it into his mouth. Rain laughs as Dew chews noisily, black smoke escaping his mouth as he swallows down his treat.

“Wait!” Cumulus shouts, then stops as it all starts coming together. She lowers her voice as she leans into the table. “You don’t think he’s confused about what he can do? I ran into him in the hallway earlier and he looked like he wanted to glare his hands off, and when I got closer, I noticed some nail polish on his fingers.” She doesn’t mention that she only got a good look at his fingers while he was breaking down and had firmly placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

A tiny throat clears from the entrance to the kitchen, and Aurora steps forward, wringing her hands together uncertainly.

“I mean we’re both pretty new to this whole thing, y’know being topside and whatnot? It’s complex and confusing. The ghoulettes have done a great job at teaching me how things work, explaining emotions to me and stuff. It’s all very human, and not something we’re familiar with in the pit. Have you guys had similar conversations?” She directs the question towards the ghouls, who look at her in surprise, before turning to look at each other.

“Fucking idiots,” Cirrus hisses, smacking Swiss’ hand off her shoulder as she throws a glare to each ghoul, her lips curling back over her fangs as Dew holds up his hands in defence.

-

Phantom rolls out of bed, dreading the day like he’s gotten used to. He feels weird in his own body, going through the motions of getting ready, a semi-permanent frown etched onto his face. He’s so tired. It’s bone-deep, sleep escaping him most nights and when it does come it’s unsatisfying.

With a sigh he opens his door, making his way down the hallway and into the kitchen of the ghoul den. He grabs a bowl of cereal and sits at the table in silence, chewing monotonously on his Fruit Loops as he thinks over what he needs to do for the day, and how he can accomplish it the quickest so he can return to the safety of his bed.

He’s lifting the bowl to his lips and slurping up the last of his milk as Dew enters the kitchen, going over to the coffee pot and pouring himself a mug. Phantom chokes on his milk as he notices Dew’s hair, braided neatly in a French (or Dutch, honestly, they looked the same and the tutorials were both too confusing to make sense of. And what does nationality have to do with a braid?) style. His hair shines in the morning light as he adds an unholy amount of sugar to his coffee watching Phantom over the brim of his mug as he takes a sip of what can only be scalding liquid.

Phantom’s eyes widen as he stares at the fire ghoul, who simply shrugs his shoulders before turning and going about his day, leaving Phantom’s head reeling.

-

Phantom spends his day lost in thought, Dew had looked so casual this morning, maybe he has it all wrong? Maybe he lost a dare? He can’t seem to make up his mind. He’s spent so long thinking negatively about himself it seems too easy to just brush it to the side.

He’s still walking on a cloud as he enters the dining hall, moving robotically in line as he waits for his turn to grab food. A hand with black-painted nails hands him a plate, he takes a second to admire the cool art on the thumb before he grabs the plate, a ‘thank you’ already leaving his lips as he looks up and is met with the grinning face of Swiss.

The multi ghoul tosses him a wink as they work through the food line, Phantom’s brain short-circuiting as he trails behind him like a shadow, not even paying attention to the food he adds to his plate. His confusion must be written on his face because Swiss takes pity on him, grabbing his hand and lacing their fingers as he leads them to the table the rest of the ghouls have taken to calling their own.

Phantom sits on the bench and places his plate down, taking a second to breathe before he raises his head, looking around at his pack. Dew still has his hair braided, Sunshine seems to have found some pretty flowers and is ignoring her food in favour of twining the stems through his hair as Dew eats, acting completely oblivious to the ghoulette’s current task.

His eyes scan the rest of his group before he doubles back, staring at the water ghoul in shock. Rain glances up at him, a smile pulling up the corner of his lips as he nods at Phantom. It’s the mascara coating his long lashes that catches the quintessence ghoul’s attention, the black makeup enhancing Rain’s eyes, making them more striking than they already are.

Is this okay? The siblings of sin don’t seem to bat an eye at the group of ghouls. A weight is lifted off his shoulders, he visibly relaxes under the soft smiles of his pack. A sense of belonging fills him as the uncertainty and doubt slip away into the deep recesses of his mind. He smiles, staring down at his plate as he thinks back to how easily this had spiralled out of control. He should have come to his packmates once he started feeling off, but he didn’t know how to vocalize his thoughts and feelings, terrified of being turned away by the only family he has.

“Hey Phantom, I got a new curling iron that got delivered this morning, would you mind being my model to try it out on?” Aurora speaks up from the other end of the table, her bright smile filling Phantom with a sudden happiness, so much so that it surprises a purr from him, chest once again rumbling in contentedness for the first time in a while.

“Hey!” Mountain protests from beside Phantom, frowning as he leans forward to look at the ghoulette. “You asked me first,” he accuses. The look quickly turns into a grin though, as he bumps Phantom’s shoulder with his own, suggesting in a whisper that they could take turns.

[apollo-likes-writing]

June of Doom Day One - "Help Me."

Characters: Bruce Wayne/Batman, Clark Kent/Superman, Alfred Pennyworth, Ra's Al-Ghul (mentioned), Tim Drake/Red Robin, Damian Wayne/Robin, Stephanie Brown/Spoiler, Dick Grayson/Nightwing

Summary: Bruce has always been stubborn, much to the dismay of those around him. It's only when he has no other option that he actually decides to ask for assistance.

Word count: 1603

Tags: Light angst, light gore, injuries, depictions/recountance of injuries and violence, medicine/medical terminology.

Author's Note: In comparison to other angst fics I've written, this one is incredibly tame. Call it the calm before the storm for this challenge lol. Enjoy! As always, feel free to like, comment, and reblog. It helps me out a bunch.

@juneofdoom

Masterlist | Day Two

The Dark Knight is revered across the world as being untouchable. Unbeatable. The stuff of legend that you tell your kids about so they will behave. “You better be good, or the Batman will come and get you in the night!” It works a treat. There are some people in the world who don’t even think He exists. They believe it’s clever CGI or paid trauma actors or a talented cosplayer (as to what they’re cosplaying is up for debate, for obvious reasons). Like on of those fake movies where people on social media work together in their thousands to gaslight people into thinking they exist when they don’t. It’s not true, of course. Batman is as human as any other person on Earth (except for the large variety of aliens that also call Earth home, but that’s another thing to ignore). He is human. He has skin and lungs and teeth and a tongue; and with such things comes vulnerability. The Dark Knight is not untouchable, and he certainly isn’t unbeatable. 

Especially considering the state he is currently in. 

It is well-known throughout the hero community that Ra’s Al-Ghul is not a man to be messed with. Whenever his name pops up on mission briefs it is always given to the more capable heroes in the Watchtower. Usually the Big Three: Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman, and today was no different. When the small-time hero of somewhere unimportant came shuffling over to his office to timidly poke his head through the door, Batman was surprisingly quite understanding. 

“That must have been a formatting error. I’ll handle it, don’t worry. Ra’s Al-Ghul isn’t a villain for the regular hero. Thank you for bringing this to me, Jerry.” 

How on earth he knew the man’s name was between him and the gods. He scampered off and out of Batman’s office before he got the chance to ask, his own fear getting the best of him. How heroic. 

Now, while Bruce is clutching his side and using his cape as an impromptu bandage across his torso, he wishes that Clark and Diana were not on their respective breaks. 

“The kids are on school break. I’m going to take them to visit Ma and Pa for the weekend. Shout if you need me, Bruce.” 

“My sisters in Themyscira have requested my presence for a ceremony of some kind. It is apparently important, so I will be back in about a week.” 

He can’t blame them, of course. Superhero work is tough, and everyone is in need of a break now and again. Jon and Kon are important to Clark, as are his own children to Bruce, so he understands. And the surprise birthday party for Diana has been in the works for months. Being the only naturally born Themysciran, it is a ceremony worth celebrating for the Amazons, so Bruce can’t fault them either. He just wishes their departures could have been spaced out a little more so he wouldn’t have to deal with Ra’s alone. 

Now, in the middle of god-knows-where in some North African country, he is alone. Crippled by some sort of Lazarus Pit magic that was blasted across his thigh and various sword-related wounds dotted around his torso and legs. He’s been in worse situations, but he’s also certainly been in better as well. With Alfred piloting the Batwing from the safety of the Batcave, he’s got about four hours until it arrives, and he can be brought back to his own domain. Back to safety. He hesitates at the idea of calling for help from Clark. The man has his own priorities, and it’s been an incessantly long time since he’s had time alone with his family without the stress of hero work. 

However, some priorities overrule others. 

“Clark, help me,” he whispers, voice cracking and hoarse after hours of fighting and sustaining injuries. As he treks away from the arena where Ra’s and Bruce fought (some secluded spot in the middle of a dessert - Bruce would personally guess Ethiopia due to the landmarks surrounding him, but he has been wrong before and wouldn’t be surprised if he was at this moment as well) and with the fact that Ra’s has been defeated in mind and handed into the local authority, he pushes forward. Every step through sand dunes feels as if he’s walking through treacle, and he can’t help but struggle with his own body as he reaches the crest of a particularly large mountain of sand. In the distance, the sparkling lights of a large city twinkle at him with the promise of assistance, but he highly doubts he’ll get there before he collapses to dehydration or his injuries. He’s already exhausted the little water he had in his utility belt and the bandages in it have already been used to patch up wounds of the highest severity. The strange green magic that Ra’s used on him made the material of his trousers stick to his left leg painfully, so he had to cut the cotton-Kevlar material off.  

So, there he is: trudging in the middle of some desert in the middle of nowhere in the dead of night - dehydrated, injured, and miserable with his incoming support not available for another several hours and half of his costume in disrepair. He can’t help feeling a little irritable towards his comrades for this, even if he is completely aware that it isn’t their fault. He was the one who deemed it too dangerous for his children to come with him to combat the Demon’s Head and made the incredibly intelligent decision to go alone. Even Alfred had urged him to go with one of his more mature children, but his fear of losing them after what happened to Jason put the rational part of his brain on autopilot in favour of the worried parent in him to disagree with every alternative. He can just hope that either his family or Clark finds him before it’s too late. 

That’s the last thought he has before he collapses, face first, into the sand. 

— 

He’s in and out of consciousness for a long time. When he’s got half a mind to take in his surroundings, Bruce notices that he is travelling. Rapidly. When he blinks, he’s in a vehicle, then lying down on something, then surrounded by darkness. He hears voices too, but they’re often mixed and warped together until he can’t discern whose is whose. Eventually, the soft timbre of Alfred reaches him, followed by the worried voice of his eldest son. It’s then when he realises he’s back in the Batcave and safe, so he closes his eyes again and stays like that for a while; not particularly in the mood for waking up. 

When he properly regains consciousness, he’s met with a pounding headache and a sharp ache overwhelming his legs and chest. Bruce opens his eyes and is immediately blinded by the bright LED of a medical light glaring down on him. He squints into it and brings his arm up to cover his eyes with a groan, and the room, which he didn’t realise was occupied by others, suddenly went silent.  

“Bruce? You’re awake!” That was the voice of his third son. 

“It was about time, Father. How was Grandfather?” That was his youngest. 

“Stop pestering him! Let him get his bearings before you overwhelm him with questions.” His eldest daughter. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t overwhelm me with questions at all. At least, not yet,” Bruce grumbles, attempting to sit up without triggering a massive headache and failing miserably. He slumps back on the hospital cot, closing his eyes. He feels a cool and damp fabric being placed on his forehead, realising that Alfred is busy doing his medical ministrations as he always does. 

“You gave us quite the scare, Master Bruce. I hope this acts as a lesson to not fight the League of Assassins without correct backup,” the butler states. Bruce sighs, the act causing pain to shoot through his ribcage. Ah, so he broke them.  

“I won, didn’t I?” he states, attempting humour. The joke falls flat in the now silent room and the man represses the urge to sigh a second time. 

“We all know that’s not the point here, Bruce.” His eldest son, Dick, steps forward and stands next to the cot where his father lies. “You gave Clark quite the scare.” 

That’s what gets Bruce to open his eyes. 

“He’s here?” 

“He’s upstairs in the Manor. He wanted to give you space.” 

He can’t suppress the sigh this time and it turns into a wince. 

“Damn it. Can you bring him down here? I want to apologise for keeping him from his family.” 

“Visiting hours are closed for a few hours,” Alfred states bluntly and shoots a poignant glare behind him at the several others in the room. They all look away, shuffling around awkwardly. “Unfortunately, your stubbornness is apparently hereditary.” He turns to face them all. “Children, Master Bruce is awake. You can come back later when he’s in a better state of mind and body.” As if on cue, Bruce groans in pain after a failed attempt to move his legs into a more comfortable position. 

“Right- yeah. Sorry, Alf. We’ll go.” Dick begins to turn away but stops himself halfway to the door. Once the others have left, he gives a meaningful look to his father.  

“Stop thinking you have to do everything alone, Bruce. You have friends. Act like it.” 

With that, he leaves, leaving the Dark Knight in the care of his butler and his own thoughts.

--

Will be posted on Ao3 later on :)