#gotham cannot catch a break

[kingoftheu]

Obviously the highest levels of Gotham are allowing the Joker to continue his reign of terror, what with his constant escapes and such, clearly well connected. He, or his family, must have deep ties in city hall and the police department.

Similarly the Joker seems to have a never ending supply of chemicals, bombs, and other materials of mayhem, which would require substantial funding. He must exceedingly wealthy, enough to buy the weapons of slaughter. Maybe even a science division to create new venom.

The Joker is repeatedly beaten up by Batman, yet always manages to recover. Consider who always seems to have injuries from 'skiing accidents', always treated by the finest (and most private) doctors money can buy.

See the tight and revealing outfit of the well known accomplice of the Joker: Harley Quinn, outfits that a playboy would appreciate.

The Joker has often made public attacks at major events for Gotham elites. But one man always seems to slip away from the crowd.

Finally there is the matter of motive. Clearly some trauma triggered the insanity of the Joker. Mayhaps the murder of his parents before his very eyes?

Bruce Wayne is the Joker.

QED.

[boughkeeperdain]

I have never seen Danny phantom nor read a batman comic but my gosh if I havent been sucked into rhe batpham void these last few weeks

Theyre all so incredible and if I ever write anything I will base my knowledge purely on what I have read.

[blog-moved-lol]

Reasons Why Bruce Wayne Refuses to Take a Break:

1. Why should he?

2. Because fuck you, that's why.

3. He's scared that if he ever actually stops to take a break, completely relax, and fully drop his guard, something horrible will happen to Gotham and/or the people he cares about and he won't be able to stop it because he wasn't prepared OR the years and years of burn out and physical/emotional pain will finally catch up to him (because he stopped running from it) and it'll hit him so hard that he'll finally have to face the trauma he endured as a child when he saw his parents die (which he is not physically capable of coping with, because the event fractured his identity into Batman, a man with childish morals and an inability to make exceptions [such as not killing a petty crook OR a mass murderer and thinking they should be dealt with the same way] and a childish sense of justice that cannot exist without him blocking out his trauma [so if he had to face that trauma his very identity would cease to exist]) therefore his mental health would be destroyed to such an extent that he'd be unable to even pretend he was alright, which in turn will make the people he cares about worry about him, and because he hates when people worry about him it'll cause him to lash out which will further isolate him from the world and from any form of human connection, leaving him sitting broken at an empty table in an empty mansion on an empty island just like he did when he was a mere, insignificant, hurt, orphaned eight year old who hadn't yet made his mark on the world-

4. He doesn't wanna >:[

[chikaras-garden]

Batboys as things that go bump in the night

So what if he’s not human?

Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x fem!reader

Contains: Monsterfucking. Dubcon. Unprotected piv sex in Dick’s, Jason’s, and Damian’s. Blood in Bruce’s. Somnophilia and light breeding kink in Dick’s. Knotting in Jason’s. Oral sex (f!receiving) in Tim’s. Degradation in Damian’s.

Notes: 18+ or you’ll be blocked. Happy Halloweekend angels!

BRUCE WAYNE 🦇

A loner. A constant shadow over Gotham. A collector of all things macabre. And now, he has his sights set on you. You’re a pretty thing, dressed in all black at a late-autumn gala, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze on you even when your back is turned.

So it’s no surprise that, when you tempt fate by rounding a corner into a deserted hallway, you are not alone.

Stepping out of the shadows, Bruce’s hand clamps around one side of your throat, leaving just one side—the side of your pulse—exposed for his lips. He kisses you there far more than he kisses your lips, nibbling and suckling the soft flesh over your pulse. Your heart beats faster and faster as your knees go weak, but his arm tightens around you.

“I have you, darling,” he husks. His skin is cold against yours, but perhaps that’s because the all-consuming presence of a man like this makes your blood run hot.

His other hand comes up to cup your flushed cheek, thumb dragging along the shape of your face as if he’s trying to memorize you.

“So warm. Such soft skin,” he murmurs, bending his head low and kissing your neck. “Such a beautiful creature.”

Something twists in your stomach when he says that—creature. An instinct tells you to run, but you quickly realize that the look in his eyes has you completely enthralled. He’s watching you with purpose, always keeping your eyes locked as if looking away from you will break the spell he has you under.

“I have to taste you,” he whispers, voice raw with a strain whose source you cannot place. He inhales deeply and lets out a low, feral noise before you feel a twinned shock of pain that makes you gasp: blood rushes to your neck and spills from your broken skin onto his waiting tongue, which greedily laps at the sweet nectar he just stole.

DICK GRAYSON 🦇

You never remember what happened the morning after your nights with your blue-eyed visitor in black, but you can’t stop the way your body aches for the mysterious stranger. At first, you thought he was a dream, but even you know that your unconscious can’t conjure up something as beautiful as him.

He wakes you by laying on top of you, pushing his hot-as-Hell flesh against yours. You didn’t go to sleep naked, but you’re naked now; your clothes are gone, but you’re covered with him, his mouth latched onto one of your nipples, one of his hands painfully squeezing the other, and his red-tipped cock already bullying its way into your slick folds. 

It hurts, but the ache is so dizzying that you can’t bring yourself to care, especially when you’re aware that you won’t remember this by morning anyway. You feel as if you’re being burned alive and made new in just the way he wants you. And that feels good, doesn’t it? Why else would you have woken up with your pussy soaking wet? 

He picks his head up just enough to watch you watch him while his tongue traces the outer edge of your areola and flicks your nipple in slow strokes, teasing it into hardness with just the tip of his tongue. He’s kneeling between your legs, and his free hand slides down to gently stroke your belly—which is when you notice that his fingers, like his cock, are tipped with blood-red skin.

Then comes his dark murmur, “Let me fill you, pretty thing. Let me give you a little gift to help you remember me.”

Your breath catches and, once again, he latches on—teeth first, this time.

At the same time, he thrusts into you, cock heavy and fire-hot, searing your skin and all but tearing you open while you keen and grasp at him, fingernails scraping down his back. His warmth is inescapable as he thrusts into you with inhuman force.

And you swear that, when he comes, filling you with his infernal seed, you catch a glimpse of a ruby glimmer in his once-blue eyes.

JASON TODD 🦇

Honestly, you handled finding out that your boyfriend is a werewolf remarkably well. But because you’re a human, he has one rule: no knotting. That is, until an October full moon has him more feral than usual, trapped in a rut that he’s powerless to fight against.

Jason has you hiked up against his chest, barely balanced on his thick thighs with your panties shoved aside. One finger is pressed firmly against your clit, the claws that come with his half-transformed state lightly grazing your sensitive skin. He’s already buried inside of you, thrusting so shallowly that he may as well be humping your innermost walls.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. His skin rages with heat while his muscles tremble, lips mouthing along any inch of your skin that he can reach. Head heavy on your shoulder, he rasps out broken sentences, each cut off by animalistic whimpers and whines. “God, fuck— I can’t— I shouldn’t— You’re—”

You have one hand tangled in his hair, thumbing the soft black-and-white fur that crawls up along his hybrid ears. His cock, impossibly thick already, stretches you even more open than you already were, and you throw your head back to let out a moan of mixed pleasure-pain.

“Fuck,” he whispers, because he feels it too. “Baby, I’m— It’s—”

“Let it,” you gasp, feeling lightheaded with the pain of Jason filling you so completely, cockhead swelling so full that he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. “Please, please, Jason, I need it.”

All that gets you is another guttural groan from him, a sound as close to a howl as he can make without being fully transformed. Still swelling, his cock is thick, heavy, hot—pulsing inside of you, begging to stay there, to fill you, to mark and mate with you. You can’t imagine what it must look like, but you know that the feeling is divine: this oneness, this wholeness, is something you’ve never felt before. It’s almost enough to dull how much your pussy aches.

“Jason,” you moan, tears filling your eyes.

“I know,” he soothes, trying to stay sturdy and stable for you even though his whole body is trembling. “Fuck, it— Baby, you feel so good. Such a good fucking girl, letting me mate with you. Gonna make you feel amazing, I promise.”

TIM DRAKE 🦇

“Stay still,” Tim teases, clawed fingers clamping down on your hip. “Or no rewards.”

Your back is pressed against the chilly, damp wall of the bat cave, and your clothes are shreds around your feet. You know this is all your fault, that you should have avoided the man who has only made his obsession with you painfully clear. As soon as the half-dragon spotted you—his treasure, his paramour, his little human love—he pounced. 

Half changed with pewter green scales climbing up his skin and pupils narrowed into reptilian slits, Tim wastes no time in turning your clothes into ribbons of fabric in effort to get to you.

And then he drops to his knees, burying his face in between your legs.

The forked tongue laves up and down the folds of your pussy, skirting along the outside of your sopping hole until you’re shuddering, clinging to him. His hand digs in harder, talons piercing the soft skin of your ass, scaly palm forcing your cunt against his mouth until you feel the sting of sharpened teeth against your mound.

Even though his teeth sting your pulsing flesh, even though his licks are too fast to be completely pleasurable, you feel yourself grow slick around his tongue. Your head falls back against the wall and you begin to pant, heart beating so fast that you start to feel faint, teetering on the edge of consciousness.

His forked tongue reaches impossibly deep within you. The fleshy muscle feels wrong but also so good, skin fading from soft pink to greenish-black, its texture rough and bumpy, stimulating you from more directions than you have ever felt at once. 

He licks all the way to your cervix—a thing no mere mortal man could ever do to you—greedily biting, sucking, and growling against your throbbing, abused pussy until finally you come with a pitiful, worn-out scream.

You feel his ice-cold lips pull into a smile as he breathes, “Good human. Now give me another—or three more. Maybe five.”

DAMIAN WAYNE 🦇

You go to the guardian of an ancient library for help but, poor you, the sphinx’s riddles prove too challenging for you. In accordance with the legends, you expect to be smited on the spot, or at least banished, but instead—the sphinx shifts to his human form and decides that you are his.

How lucky it is that Damian decides he likes you enough to keep you captive instead of simply killing you as punishment. How lucky it is that he is clever enough to find a use for your frail human form. How lucky it is that he doesn’t find mating with you as repulsive as he originally thought.

“At least work for it,” he drawls, stifling a yawn while he leans back on the emerald-green settee. His arms are spread, powerful shoulders and biceps making him look even bigger than he already is. No, he never touches you—that would be demeaning—but he does offer you the privilege of riding his cock until you make yourself come.

You close your eyes and drive your hips forward and down, trying to strike the spot inside you that only he can reach. No sooner than your eyes flutter closed, though, he snaps his fingers in front of you.

“Look at me, pet.” His head rests on the back of the chair, lips parted with every breath that makes his chest slowly rise and fall. His face looks warm and you wonder what it might feel like to kiss those plush lips—but you’re also coherent enough to realize that he’s measuring his breaths on purpose.

You’re getting to him. You think. You hope. Maybe if you please him, he’ll let you go. 

He shifts his hips up and you cry out, nearly losing your balance on his powerful thighs, but a warm hand suddenly cups your ass to drag you back into place. He leans forward, stomach flexing, and murmurs in your ear, “Can’t even do this without help, can you? Useless little human.”

[incorrectbatfam]

Batfam at the dentist HCs/incorrect quotes, please?? 🤲 I have a big surgery coming up and I'm terrified

Dick: What's up, doc?

Leslie: What are you doing?

Dick: Daffy Duck. I'm thinking of a new career as a voice actor.

Leslie: Okay but can you not do it with a mouthful of sharp objects?

———————

Cass: *brings a punch card and a knocked-out tooth*

Leslie, sighing: Here we go again.

Leslie: *stamps the card*

Leslie: Your next one is free.

———————

Leslie: *in the middle of the checkup*

Steph, getting up: Hang on, my Uber Eats is here.

Leslie: You ordered takeout to a dental appointment?

Steph: Efficiency.

———————

Leslie: You have a helmet. How did you still break your tooth?

Jason: *flashback to throwing his helmet at Dick, missing, and it bouncing back*

Jason: Enough with the questions, okay?

———————

Leslie: Ever consider braces?

Kate: I don't want any part of me to be straight.

———————

Leslie: Oh, you're early! Just check in with the receptionist and take a seat until I call you.

Bette: *goes up to the receptionist*

Bette: Checking in for Bette Kane.

The receptionist: Sorry, I don't have you down here.

Bette: Maybe try my full name? Mary Elizabeth Kane?

The receptionist: Still don't see you.

Bette: I should have an appointment for 2:00 today.

The receptionist: *typing*

The receptionist: I see you now. The doctor's right, you are early. Your appointment is tomorrow.

———————

Selina: *using cat claws as a toothpick*

Leslie: This might be an issue.

———————

Leslie: Say "ahh."

Tim: *screams*

———————

Leslie: You're bleeding because you don't floss.

Harper, who came in after a mission: ...

———————

Leslie: —but I cannot stress this enough, it's important to wear a mouthguard for all contact sports. And some non-contact sports. And training. And patrol. And walking through Gotham. And whenever you're around the Waynes. Actually, I'm just gonna give you the box. Take your time. Pick whatever colors you want. If you need me, I'm gonna be in my office questioning my life choices.

Luke:

Luke: ...I just asked how her day was.

———————

Bruce: Are you sure there's no tooth fairy? Because the Justice League has state-of-the-art tracking system that can locate them. I really think we can form a contract to expand social programs for children.

Leslie: Just shut up and let me do my job.

———————

Leslie: Everything's looking good except for a few minor spots.

Barbara: Yeah, well, call me when they invent stainless coffee.

———————

Leslie: I recommend removing your wisdom teeth.

Alfred: But that's where I keep my wisdom.

———————

Leslie: I see you still have one last baby tooth. It should've come out by now.

Damian: Father said to keep it in.

Leslie: Why?

Damian: He wants me to stay a baby.

———————

Leslie: Cullen, you're next.

Cullen: *climbing out the skylight*

Leslie: Wow.

Leslie: That's actually impressive for a non-vigilante.

———————

Leslie: Hey, Helena. I thought you were off duty this week. How'd you knock a molar loose?

[earlier]

Students: *fighting in the hall*

Helena: Break it up! All of you go to the office! And delete that video!

[present]

Helena: I need a raise.

———————

Carrie: I don't get it. I brush twice a day AND floss. How do I still have cavities?

Leslie: What do you brush with?

Carrie: Toothpaste, obviously.

Leslie: And what do you floss with?

Carrie:

Leslie: Carrie...

Carrie: The British call it candy floss for a reason, don't they?

———————

Leslie: Well done today, Duke. Have a sticker.

Duke: Why are they all the Justice League?

Leslie: Funding comes with a catch.

Duke:

Duke: *picks the Flash*

[miryum]

☆ 18+ minors dni ☆ (ish. Not descriptive at all)

So I’ve done Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd, right? Well, what about Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd?

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd would have a totally different vibe and I will die on this hill

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, instead of playing the long game like Brother’s Best Friend!Jason Todd, would think to himself, right when he met you, “that’s who I’m gonna marry”

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, from the moment you entered his home, would have his eyes set on you because holy shit you were so innocent and lovely and had no idea what you were walking into 

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would be envious of his little sister, Stephanie, for being friends with you, but also extremely thankful that you two were friends because it’s how he met you

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would hang around Wayne Manor more and more often just for the chance of seeing you. Of course, Alfred was the first to catch on. Then Steph, then Bruce, and slowly the rest of the family

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who didn’t care that you were only in college and he was nearing thirty – you were his

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would stare at you when you and Stephanie were studying together in the Wayne library. He would literally just stand in the doorway, arms crossed and staring in your direction, a deadly smirk on his lips. How else was he supposed to flirt with you? Ever since the Lazarus Pit, his perception of… social awareness was off

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would contemplate whether or not he should ask you out because you were Steph’s best friend and he didn’t want to insert himself into your friendship

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would take his contemplations out on one of the punching bags in the gym. Dick eventually had to come in and check on Jason after he had broken two punching bags

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who hung around Steph for days on end, gaining up courage to ask her if she was okay with him asking you out. Steph was definitely suspicious and finally just bluntly asked him what was wrong

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who breathed out a sigh of relief when Steph squealed happily and cried out, “of course! Oh, you two will be perfect together!”

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who then waited two and a half more weeks to ask you out because he was too nervous. He would send you winks and even drove Steph back to Gotham University after break just on the off chance of seeing you. He did and he had never smiled more widely in his life

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who groans and burrows his head in his hood whenever Steph teases him about you or when Dami asks, “I do not see the problem. If you cannot ask a girl out, Todd, then perhaps you are not fit to fight villains”

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who finally asks you out after you and Steph had a sleepover at Wayne Manor. He got up extra early that morning and began stress-making pancakes, as any rational person does

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, after sliding you a plate full of pancakes, stutters over his words and scratches his neck and heat fills his cheeks, is relieved when you’re the one to ask him out

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, later, would insist that he wasn’t nervous and would tell everyone, even your grandkids, that he was the one to ask you out

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who caved under your smirking glare and eventually admitted to your grandkids that he didn’t have the courage to ask out the love of his life

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who takes you wherever you want with Bruce’s money – even if you only ask to go browsing at the bookstore, he would buy you any book you looked at

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, as I’ve said earlier, doesn’t really know how to act at first and doesn’t know how to show his affection. So, he buys you gifts and gives you the key to his apartment two months in

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, after spending the first (non-sexual) night with you, suddenly realised how touch starved he was

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who then did not spend another second not touching you. Whether it’s an arm over your shoulder, holding your hand, or pulling your feet up onto his lap when you two are sitting on the couch

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would slowly move you in without you even knowing. At first it was a couple clothes, and then a book or two, and then a couple picture frames here or there, and then oh well, it just makes sense that you move in

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would decorate your skin with open mouthed kisses after your first (sexual) night with you, whispering over and over again how much he loves you

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who wouldn’t have to introduce you to his family because luckily, you already knew them all! 

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would join you and Steph for girls night and paint his toes and gossip and let you run your hands through his hair (and maybe braid it)

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who would be the epitome of a gentleman and open doors for you, stare down other guys who looked at you, and gave you his leather jacket when he took you out riding on his motorcycle (and if you got a little handsy, he wouldn’t mind)

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who didn’t dare get you into the Red Hood/vigilante business and god forbid a villain got ahold of you

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who threatened your safety and then afterward hold you close, whispering sweet nothings as he lets Tim and Cass take care of it

Best Friend’s Brother!Jason Todd who, even after years of being together, would still kiss you like there’s no tomorrow and remind you that he loves you every five minutes

[haveihitanerve]

Bruce makes it in time to get to Jason. But… is it enough to save him?

“Master Bruce-“ “I’m almost there Alfred.” Bruce bites back, almost breaking his wrist by how hard he twists the motorcycle accelerator. And he is. He can see the warehouse. Bruce lands, not even bothering to slow, leaping off the bike as it crashes into the trees and he sprints for the doors, terrified he’ll make it too late, that he won’t be fast enough for his son. The door slams open, Bruce not even bothering to check if it’s locked or not, just plowing it down, and hurries inside, spotting his son within a moment. Jason opens his eyes in surprise, mouth curving to form a perfect O. “Br- Batman.” He whispers, voice hoarse with disbelief. Bruce rushes to his side, cupping his cheek, cradling the boy- his boy, to his chest. “Jay. Jay bird. Jaylad. Hey firecracker. Hey bud.” Jason’s eyes fill with tears and Bruce does his best to wipe them away, to press a kiss to his son's forehead. “You came.” Jason whispers, tears clogging his throat. “Of course baby.” Bruce murmurs, rocking back and forth. “Of course I came, baby. I will always come for you. Always.” He presses another kiss to Jason’s head. “I love you son. I love you, I love you, I love you.” “I love you too-“ Jason rasps, but his eyes catch something on the wall behind him. “Dad, wait- the bomb-“ the explosion shakes the very earth, and Gotham seems to curl in on herself, screaming with a pain and rage that is unimaginable. In a basement cave in the middle of Gotham, a butler's hands go cold. A man, wearing a blue mask a city over, suddenly feels a chill sweep over him, and something inside him, probably his heart, feels like it’s been torn in two.

Their bodies are found, or at least what’s left of them, two days later, the larger man wrapped almost completely around the smaller, cradling his boy to his chest. Nightwing almost beats Joker to death and is only stopped by three others, all of which seem just as inclined to kill him, but resist. Gotham mourns, earthquakes shaking the ground, warehouses crumbling to dust, and Joker is found drowned in the harbor, the fishes whisper of a presence so old and strong even the biggest fish feared her, and Aquaman shudders. Gothamites mourn their fallen Prince and his adopted son, but Gotham mourns her prodigal sons, her children, her oldest and youngest, and cradles the last survivor to her chest, cloaking him in shadows and gifting him all the things she did not give the others, the things she thought they wouldn’t need so long as they had each other, the things she had not yet granted them ready for. She drapes them over the young, jaded hero, gifting him sight and smell and sound, allowing him to control her shadows and her streets and most of all… gifting him flight, the way his namesake first claimed, the way her firstborn child and her youngest were never able to. The Vulture takes to the Gotham skyline like a moth to open flames, perhaps a little less withdrawn with his punches, perhaps a little more protective of young boys, but belonging to Gotham all the same. The Joker stole something from her, and she will never allow it to happen again. The Vulture gains followers, friends, the Starling, the Goldfinch, the Owl, the Crow, the Cardinal, and Robin, all under Gothams protection, and she has him watch, from his watery prison, as they protect her, defend their city from the ilk like him, not giving in to their rage and revenge, but helping, rebuilding Gotham in his image. Their image. The man who saw hope, and his son. Batman and Robin.

(In case it was unclear, the three people pulling dick away from Joker are Babs, Kate and Luke, and then the Vulture is dick, and his friends, in order as listed, are Stephanie, Duke, Babs, Cass, Tim, and Damian. Also Gotham does kill Joker because she knows dick cannot but she also keeps him half alive, suspended in time, destined to drown for all eternity and watch as the bats succeed in honor of Batman the man he fought against.)

[mokulule]

The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached - Part 9

First|Masterlist

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Warnings: angst, depression, canon typical violence.

Jason was not angry he was frustrated. There was a difference. A distinct difference that Jason knew very well.

Ghost kept running. He would steal a thing. Evade some goons, cause he often stole from the rogues. Then evade some bats, lead them in a new direction, sometimes changing overall direction mid chase, there really was no rhyme or reason to it.

And then, when Jason showed up, he’d invariably be standing on another rooftop and disappear. All the while Jason could feel his longing and sorrow, a call for help he wouldn't let Jason answer, and it was frustrating and confusing, but mostly frustrating.

Because Jason was not angry.

He may have snapped at Dick, when he made a joke about his princess being in another castle, but he hadn’t actually laid hands on anyone. He made sure nobody made the mistake of touching him.

He ducked his head, never stuck around and ignored the looks he got. Worry, pity, wariness, Jason flip-flopped how he interpreted the gazes. A loose canon, that’s what they thought he was. But Jason was not. His chest burned, but Jason was not angry. Because he knew the difference, between himself and the pits. He knew. But they didn’t. They didn’t understand and Jason could not explain - not without him sounding unstable. There was no way he could explain things and keep cool. They wouldn’t understand that he kept away for their sake. At best he’d be benched.

Benched, a bitter voice mocked, locked up and thrown in Arkham more like. Criminal, murderer, crazy.

He shook his head. Pushed the thoughts away. He couldn’t allow himself to be benched. He needed to catch Ghost - to make him listen and explain just for a moment so he could understand what was going on with him and the pits.

As long as Jason didn’t cross the line, they wouldn’t try anything. He had to believe that.

Oo o oO

Bruce was at a loss.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Jason hadn’t pointed a gun at any of them, Bruce would have thought they’d gone a year or two back in time. He was tense and curt and kept himself at a distance. Always out of reach.

It wasn’t like he joined their patrols regularly normally, but he could usually be counted on if something big was going down. Now Bruce wasn’t so sure he’d want to ask him if something happened. It seemed like he was nearing breaking point and Bruce feared what way he’d fall.

The thief, Ghost, was at the center of this. Something was going on there, but it was like he was missing crucial information. Jason was downright frantic to catch him.

Danny Fenton. The name was still a dead end. The DNA sample useless. His contact at Star Lab had gotten back to him and informed him they’d had a break in weeks ago, before the thefts started in Gotham - nothing had been stolen, the invisible perpetrator had been found out because of the electromagnetic disturbance his stealth tech gave off, or rather that was what their reports said. The recorded disturbance matched the readings they got off of the Ghost.

It was quite possible there were many more unrecorded thefts before the Ghost came to Gotham. He’d already informed Tim and watched him pale from the realization that they actually had no idea how far the Ghost was with what he was building. If building something was indeed what he was doing with the eclectic mix of parts he’d stolen. Tim had a theory, that much was obvious, but he was not at a point where he felt he had enough evidence to share it.

When Bruce had told him of the Star Lab incident, he’d glanced towards where they’d stored the spectral calibrator, before his shoulders had forcefully relaxed.

Bruce was no slouch when it came to technology, but mostly when it came to operating it. He could infiltrate systems and extract information fine, but it he was honest, the kids were better, and since he rarely worked alone these days, he didn’t get as much practice - he wondered momentarily if this is what it was like growing old.

It was something he’d never expected when he set out on his mission as a young man, growing old that is.

Besides while Bruce had designed a fair few gadgets in his time, and assembled the Bat computer himself back in the early days when it didn’t have near the capabilities it did today, he was not an inventor. Lucius was the one who’d made his more fanciful ideas workable in the early days.

And now he had all these talented kids.

It didn’t matter most of them were adults, they’d always be kids to him. Here he went again getting distracted.

He rubbed his forehead. Point was, Bruce couldn’t see what the parts could be used for but Tim could. And it was something that worried him, which in turn worried Bruce and like always these days his thoughts circled back to his worry for Jason.

He’d given him time, like Dick had said - three weeks so far in fact. And instead of things calming down they’d become worse. The Ghost’s continued escape was winding Jason up, there were no two ways about it. They needed to capture him.

Bruce had to be honest with himself, if it wasn’t for Jason, the Ghost would be very low priority for them. He wasn’t hurting anyone, just a thief. Before the day Jason had tackled the Ghost on the rooftop, he had been low priority. Amusing in fact, with the way he riled up Damian with his continued escapes, it had been low stakes - safe in a way many of their missions weren’t.

But now, Tim was working frantically on ways to capture the Ghost, they’d tried nets of various materials (some even Martians had trouble phasing through) with no success. Barbara was still trying to unearth more information from the phone, also with no success.

Steph and Cass had been steadily and stealthily working on changing the cameras throughout the city connected to Barbara’s network to ones with better filters and built in detectors for electromagnetic disturbances over a certain threshold - a very bothersome process since most of the cameras technically weren’t theirs and had to be indistinguishable from the originals and send visuals to the real owners of the same (low) quality they’re used to in case somebody decided to take a closer look.

Damian was giving him long looks, when he thought he wasn’t noticing. He was hiding something and he’d been sneaking off on his own. Bruce was trying to convince himself to leave it alone. He’d nearly lost Damian in the past because he was too controlling.

Trust, it was something he was trying to practice but it irked at him not to know. What if he got in trouble? He had to forcibly remind himself, it was most likely that Damian was just sneaking off to some wild animal he was hiding and nursing back to health.

Duke had just gotten back from a three month exchange program abroad, he would have to be caught up to speed. Maybe his abilities would give them some additional insight.

Hopefully.

Oo o oO

Jason was not angry, he was livid. Ghost was on another rooftop. About to do his disappearing act, again again again.

“Come back here!” He yelled.

Fear not his own hit him in a sickly yellow haze. He gasped and struggled not to throw up. Ghost was gone again. Of course he was. His one chance and-

“Jason…” the words were quiet, barely audible, Bruce. Jason grit his teeth. Bruce was a fucking hypocrite saying his name in costume like that.

A step forward was heard, a purposefully made sound to announce his approach, and Jason spun.

“Don’t touch me!” His guns were pointed at Bruce. He stood frozen, the hand he’d no doubt been reaching toward Jason was pulled back. It served him right.

Jason didn’t trust him. He should shoot him, teach him not to get too close. He knew Batman’s armor, he knew the weak spots. It would be easy. A rubber bullet wouldn’t kill, but it would hurt.

Jason wanted him to hurt; like he hurt.

He wanted-

He wanted-

He couldn’t remember loading his guns tonight. The realization struck him like a splash of ice water. Rubber bullets or live ammunition?

He didn’t know!

He followed the aim of his still raised guns, pointed at his dad’s chest, the armor could only do so much at such a close distance.

Real bullets or rubber?

Jason took a step backwards in horrified realization. It didn’t matter. Not at this close range. Both would be lethal. He knew that. He knew guns. Why had that even been a question? Why was he still pointing his guns at Bruce?

A wounded sound escaped his throat and he turned and ran.

He’d crossed the line.

-

Poor Jay, huh? Can Danny keep escaping the bats? Will Jason be okay? Tim POV next time, we're in serious need of a plan here, come on Timmers.

Next

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[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

This, my greatest masterpiece (this, a curse unmatched)

Day 2 of The Long Halloween - event masterlist here

pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gender neutral)

length: 7.2k

genre: horror, fluff, hurt/comfort

warnings: gargoyle bruce, vague religious imagery, pretentious artist but I write it with love, reader falls off of the tallest building in Gotham so I hope you're not afraid of heights

a/n: me ??? write a bruce wayne fic ??? ig finally

"You know they said," you murmur mostly to yourself, smoothing over the block of marble with your palm, "that you're to be my greatest masterpiece. What do you think, hm? Will you live up to it?" Your hand raises, hammer held tightly in your palm as your other hand presses a chisel against the solid stone.

And then you let your arm swing down. The chisel chips away fragments of marble in flying flashes. The project begins. 

It will be a gargoyle, one day, much like all of your other pieces. That is the name that you've carved for yourself in this city - that is the fame that you've sculpted. You're commissioned quite often to build these creatures, to twist them and warp them into something akin to art, having them placed on top of buildings like solitary statues of the night. Monsters twisted out of blocks of stone.

"You know," you continue on as you carve, your breath coming out in a heavy sigh as you sniff and tip your head back, your arms already beginning to feel the weight of the chisel in your hand. "The Mayor, when he asked me for this, I mean - he asked why I choose to do this." 

You readjust your grip, running a thumb over the work that you've done. You'd never carved out of marble before. Other stones, yes - limestone, mainly. It's cheaper and softer - easier to break, easier to bend to your will. But marble? Marble seems to take on a life of its own.

And you will have to break it, you know. You will have to bend nature to your impossible will.

"I told him," you continue, your voice echoing through your studio as you stare at the block of marble, at the creation to be. "But I don't think he listened. They never really do, do they?"

Gargoyles, you'd reminded the Mayor as he'd signed your cheque, are purveyors of evil, creatures that drip malice and violence onto the darkened city below. However, it has also been believed that gargoyles are protectors against evil, that they act as great guardians that watch over cities and towns to keep the evil away. It's been thought that they hold curses at bay.

It's always seemed to be a bit of a mystery, then, that Gotham has so many gargoyles dotted along its rooftops and lining its skyline. Because Gotham is where curses are born. It's where they fester and breed. 

"Sometimes," you continue on, stepping back to stare at one of your sketches and chewing on your lip in thought. "I think that you just… Well, it's that you sort of just catch all of the evil in this world. Someone has to shoulder it. Someone has to swallow it." You glance around, then, at the various sketches and designs and photographs of old pieces that are scattered around the studio. Every gargoyle, every face - they all have their mouths open, snarling and snapping. 

"That's why I make you," you say easily, raising the hammer again. "Someone has to be the villain. Someone has to take the fall."

But it's not quite fair, you think, for Gotham to swallow all of the evil in this world. It's not quite fair, you consider, for you to be the one cursed with creating that evil. It's not quite right, you feel, to create these creatures over and over as they swallow endlessly, a hunger living within them that cannot be satiated.

"You're going to be alone, though, you know," you point out, running your hand along the veins of the marble. "That makes you different, I suppose. City Hall only wants one." But maybe you get it, you think, as you stand back and stare. 

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they told you. One creature, alone, looming on the rooftop and looking out onto the city.

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they'd reminded you as you'd taken the cheque, folding it and tucking it into your pocket. It's to be the city's pride and joy. 

"May I ask?" you'd said at the time. "Why me? There are plenty of artists in this place who'd kill for something like this."

"I'm sure you know why," the Mayor had huffed. "And this is important, so don't blow it."

"That's why I'm asking," you'd pressed. "Why me, to create something so holy?" The Mayor rolls his eyes at the question, crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, but he humours you nonetheless.

"People talk about your work," he explains, like the words are being pulled from him against his better judgement. "They love to say that… well, I'm sure you've heard it. People say that your statues come to life at night."

"It's just a figure of speech," you soothe, but your grin makes him scowl.

"Of course it is," he snaps. "They're not real, they're not alive. But… but…" he begins to search for the words, struggling as you laugh.

"It's the soul, of course," you murmur to the block of marble, brushing away stray debris and dust. "You have to carve a soul into things to make people feel for them. And I… want that. I need that." Your chisel chips away more of the stone and you grip onto it tighter. You need it, you think. You need to make people swear that your creatures stand and stretch their wings and come alive by the light of the moon.

The days begin to feel endless after that, and the work continues on and on and on. There are much smaller carvings, busts and faces and hands - little elements of practice and failure scattered around countless tables that sit in your studio. But the floor has a large spot cleared in the centre, now, for the huge, looming block of marble to sit.  

The work is hard. It makes your arms ache and your muscles burn as you spend neverending days chipping away at the stone. It takes much longer than it had for any of your other carvings for this one to begin to finally become something. It feels like time stretches endlessly before the figure of a man is finally apparent, rough and undetailed and jagged, with two shapes that will soon be huge wings sprouting from his back. 

But that's how you leave him, one night, a white sheet thrown over him. You pause on your way out of the studio, one of your hands rubbing at your shoulder as it aches under the constant work. The calluses on your palms have begun to throb, the skin ripping and bleeding in places. Your head pounds, as well, the tension in your arms and shoulders twisting and clenching your muscles until the pain radiates through you.

He'll be worth it, you tell yourself. He'll be your greatest masterpiece.

You find yourself more than slightly unprepared, however, for your return to your studio in the morning. You find yourself more than a bit taken aback by the sight that awaits you. You're just pushing open the door, rubbing at your forehead and grumbling about your poor night's sleep to yourself when you step on something just inside the doorway of the great room.

When you lift your foot, you realize that it's a small piece of stone, broken and jagged and crumbling.

Something, you think immediately, is wrong. Your skin pricks in alarm as your heartbeat hammers in your ears and you look to your sides, finally seeing the state that your studio is in. 

The entire room has been turned in on itself. Faces and busts have been smashed and the pieces are strewn across the floor. Sketches that you'd made painstakingly in preparation and had pinned up are torn and shredded. A table by the window has been knocked over and crumpled pieces of stone are strewn around. 

And then there's the marble. In the barest shape of a man, he's not in the crouching position that he'd been in when you'd left him. He's not in the shape that you'd designed him to be. He's caught, instead, lunging toward the door of your studio with the white sheet that had been draped over him now tangled around his torso and legs. There's a desperation in his unmoving form, as if he was trying to escape, to flee this place that's brought him into creation. The breath leaves your lungs in one freezing gasp at the sight, and your eyes widen as your hands tremble and your mind begins to spin.

There's a crumpled piece of paper clenched in his closed fist, you realize, as you take the smallest step forward. Your legs are beginning to feel numb, waves of shock rolling over you in painful rhythms as you take in the sight before you. It takes a fair bit of slow stepping and trembling before you finally pry the scrunched-up paper from his stiff marble hand and unravel it, smoothing it out so that you can see what it is.

It's him. It's the finalized sketch that you'd done of the piece. It's the face that you're going to give him, snarling and violent and cruel, fangs bared like a bat while he spreads his wings out behind him. Your thumb smooths over the writing at the bottom of the page and you breathe out a heavy sigh.

You always name them, of course. Every gargoyle that you've carved, you've given a name. You've breathed life into them in that way. In this finalized sketch, you have his name written across the bottom of the design in scrawling, messy writing.

Bruce.

But he shouldn't be alive, you think desperately as you shove the sketch into your pocket and begin to circle the statue, tapping your knuckles against the solid marble. He's not, you think. He's not, he's not, he's not. He's unmoving, unbreathing, unwaking. He's not alive. He's not alive. He's not alive.

But he was, you suppose, breathing deeply as an eerie sort of calm begins to wash over you. Morning's light begins to stream in through the tall, narrow windows of your studio. The rays of the early sun shine down in beams to shimmer against the cold stone and dance across the rough, half-finished surface.

This is to be your greatest creation, they'd told you. This is to be a curse unmatched. 

The Mayor comes to visit eventually, curious to see how it's taking shape - curious to see how the city's money is being spent. Your studio is in disarray, although if it's again or still, you're not quite sure at this point. You'd cleaned and tidied it at first, putting everything back in its rightful place and sweeping up the debris. 

But when you'd come in the next morning, the space had been destroyed again. Bruce, the gargoyle, had been twisted into a new position once more. You'd cleaned up again, admittedly less so than the first time, and then moved along.

The next day, when you flicked the lights on and were greeted by shredded paper and smashed limestone once more, you'd mostly given up on trying to wrangle it into anything other than the mess that it has now become.

The Mayor steps over small piles of rubble, eyeing you and the way that you roll your shoulders and wince. By now, Bruce has moved again, of course. He's turned his back to the door and is reaching endlessly up toward the light streaming in from the windows, the white sheet clutched tightly in his other hand as if he's ripped it off of himself.

It's like he doesn't know, you think, that gargoyles cannot live in the light of day. It's like he's trying desperately to become something that he is not.

"I'm not sure this is quite what we had discussed," the Mayor grumbles, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the figure. You peek your head around the marble torso to look at him, shrugging in an unbothered sort of way.

"It's art, Mr. Mayor," you say slowly, like you're explaining it for the first time. "It takes on a life of its own. That's sort of the whole idea."

"Don't get smug," he snaps back. "If you were only half as talented as this, you wouldn't be getting away with speaking to any of us in this way." You laugh at his words, leaning closer to the gargoyle to work on his face and neck, carving the veins and tendons into his smooth, stone skin. 

One of his massive hands is curled near your waist as you work, his claws brushing against you as you step closer. It's a coincidence, of course, the way that his fingers are nearly wrapped around your waist. It's serendipitous fate, the way that it seems like he's pulling you closer. He's not alive, after all.

"You never know," you say easily, glancing at the Mayor past Bruce's cold, defined bicep. "Maybe it will turn into something completely different again before the end."

"I don't want that," he says shortly. You pout a bit mockingly and put your hand on the gargoyle's chest as you lean up to examine the work that you'd just done on his neck. "I want what I paid for."

"You paid for me," you snap back, a wild sort of grin flashing across your face. "This is exactly that." The Mayor shuffles on his feet, muttering and grumbling as he stares up at the towering figure of marble and the stepladders that you've left scattered around as you've begun to need the height to reach his face.

"What's his name?" he asks eventually.

"Hm?"

"I know you always name them," the Mayor says stiffly. "What's his name?"

"…Bruce," you say eventually, and as you step back one of his claws catches on the fabric of your shirt, momentarily making you stumble as if he's tugged you closer to him.

"Why name him a thing like that?" the Mayor huffs. You roll your eyes and untangle your shirt from the gargoyle's grip, patting his bicep as you step away from him fully to face the Mayor.

"The name Bruce," you explain with a laborious sigh, "is connected to the willow tree."

"So?"

"So," you continue, exasperation seeping into your tone, "the willow tree symbolizes life. New life, rebirth, morphing into something different."

"It's just a statue," the Mayor says dully. "There's no need to act like it's anything more."

"If he's just a statue," you challenge, and when you stand in front of Bruce, his wings spread out behind you like some kind of omen, "then why do you want him so badly?"

There's no response to that, you suppose, as the Mayor just huffs and grumbles and says something about upcoming meetings as he makes a hasty departure. Not that you care much, too preoccupied with staring up at the gargoyle's face and watching him take shape. 

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, right? You may as well make it something grand then, right?

It takes months for the creation to be completed enough for it to be transferred to the rooftop of City Hall. The weather has begun to turn by now, your breath coming out in foggy clouds and your fingers freezing in your pockets as you watch the movers gently adjust the giant sculpture into his new home.

It's here that you're supposed to do the final touches on him, smooth him out and polish him and perfect him. It's here that your art is meant to come to life. As the movers are bickering back and forth about the weight of the thing and how to make sure that it's placed safely, you begin to ignore them and choose to look out toward the city, instead. From here, you can see glimpses of everything - every statue, every carving. You can see every part of Gotham that you've left your mark on, every crack and crevice where you've carved yourself into the lifeblood of the city.

When you look beside you once more, your newest creation stands tall and proud, his marble glimmering under the sun and shining through the everlasting fog of the frantic city. He's to be your greatest masterpiece, you remember as you pull off your gloves and smooth your hand over him. He's to be the protector that bears the weight of the entire city on his shoulders. 

What a burden, you think, as you're handed your kit and you begin to dig around for your tools. What a burden to be built as such a thing.

What a burden, you think, to be the thing that always builds this.

But it is on this day, nonetheless, that he's finished. With a chisel and a hammer, you carve life into marble. You mould and sculpt, like something holy creating something damned. The day wears on until the sun begins to dip below the horizon once more and the two of you are bathed in hues of pink and violet and deep, deep blue. 

It's when the sun finally drops low enough that darkness reigns that you finally drop your chisel, your hands throbbing and your head pounding and your face frozen from the cold. You wonder, as you stare up at the gargoyle's looming form and feel a panic start to fester within you, what on earth you're supposed to do, now that you've fulfilled your only purpose.

That hollowness, you find, sort of sticks with you, clinging to your soul and wrapping around you as you make your way home in the depths of the night. The buildings of Gotham tower around you, your own statues leering down at you from rooftops with vicious snarls, as if they're mocking you for your own hubris… as if they're cackling at the sick karma of it all.

Like Icarus falling from the sun, you wander through the twisting, winding streets and back roads, the darkness blanketing over you and crushing you under the weight of it all, under the curse of this city. 

A shadow flickers overhead and you keep your eyes trained on the ground, almost afraid to look up. It's as if you've become afraid of your own creations, terrified of them outgrowing you and leaving you behind.

You can't even bring yourself to return home, you realize, turning instead to head to your studio and sit in the silence of the now-empty room. There's a large, empty patch of floor in the middle where Bruce had stood for so long, and as you walk through the space, crumbled stone and torn-up paper crunch under your shoes and you feel something hollow eating at you from the inside out.

That was to be your greatest masterpiece, you think. And now he's gone.

When you wake the next morning, it's on the floor of your studio, your jacket rolled up under your head as a makeshift sort of pillow and light streaming in from the windows. The notifications on your phone, though, as you grumble and rub at your sore neck and check the news, have you shooting upright to a stumbling stand. 

News has broken out all over the city of destruction, some kind of vandalism having taken place overnight. Gargoyles all across the city have been destroyed, smashed and battered and knocked from their posts.

You scroll through the news feeds frantically, something akin to dread curling in your gut as you sift through photographs of your creations, crumbled and attacked and lying in pieces across rooftops. 

There are rumours spreading across the news outlets of people having seen a dark, flying shape swooping over the city. Some, mainly a few of the rather less reputable news sources, claim that it was the Mothman.

But you just shake your head and scoff at that. People will believe anything these days, you think.  No one knows who could've done it. No one knows how it really could've happened.

But as you stare at the wall of your studio, finished photographs of Bruce on the night before he was transported out of this space hang on the wall and mock you. You stare at them and something settles deep in your gut, a knowing sort of pain stabbing into you there. 

You know what happened. You're sure of it.

It doesn't take long to weasel your way into getting roof access at City Hall - something about needing to make final touches on the gargoyle and how you're sure the Mayor wouldn't be happy if you weren't allowed to work. You just claim that you need to see the carving again - you need to fix something, need to put your hands on it one more time.

Sure enough, when you get up there you're faced with the evidence of it all. There are chips and gouges in Bruce's fingers, his claws dulled and broken - like he had spent the night clawing and breaking and destroying across the city. 

He looks… like a protector, you suppose, with his scars and his dents and his looming wings spread wide. And you… you are his creator, after all. So you sit in front of him, trying to rub the cold from your fingers before taking his huge, freezing hands in yours so that you can polish and smooth and repair the damage that he's done to himself and you. 

You're trying to rub the feeling back into your fingers, your hands trembling from the cold and the pressure of your work, when the sun finally begins to dip below the horizon. You'd finished your fixing and your polishing hours ago, leaving Bruce to, instead, sit by the edge of the roof and simply wait. You sit with your back to him, staring out toward the endless, cursed city and you wonder if this is what it's like to be one of your creations - if this is what it's like to wait for something holy to happen.

When the sun finally does disappear beyond the skyline, the impossible wall of fog hazing the colours of dusk, you begin to hear him behind you. It's a creaking sort of noise, marble grinding and crunching against itself as he begins to move, as he begins to breathe life into himself.

So it's true, you think weakly, standing ever so slowly and keeping your back to him. He's alive, he's alive, he's alive.

Still, knowing it in theory and seeing it with your waking eyes are two different things, and when you turn to face him it's like all of the air has been punched out of your lungs. Bruce stands in front of you now, huge and powerful and terrifying, with razor-sharp claws that gleam in the darkness and wings that spread so far that they black out the horizon behind him and around you.

You stand frozen and you watch him and you wonder in a dizzying, endless sort of way what sort of a thing you are for creating a creature like him. It's a bit like staring god in the face, you think nauseously, when he stares down at you with his towering, imposing gaze. 

And you can't really help it - it just makes you wonder… are you anything like a god for making him? Or is it all… him? Can you claim responsibility for bringing something like this to life?

You're beginning to spiral, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest that if you had a bit of rational thinking left, perhaps you'd be concerned about it bursting from you. But then Bruce reaches for you, wrapping one giant, clawed hand around your waist and lifting you up as you shriek and he spreads his wings to bring the two of you into the sky.

He soars up and up and up, keeping you in a firm grip with one hand and pressing your back against his chest to keep you steady. Not that that comforts you much as you cling onto his bicep and forearm, digging your nails impossibly into the marble as the tangled, twisting streets of Gotham flash by underneath the two of you. 

He brings you to the clock tower eventually, dropping you ever so gently and letting you steady yourself with gasping breaths and shaking knees. It's the tallest building in the city, and your head spins as you look out and can see the whole of Gotham sprawling out at your feet. 

"Oh my god…" you murmur as you stare out with wide eyes, able to see, from this vantage point, all of the destruction that he'd caused the night before. "Bruce… what have you done?"

"What have you done?" he says in response, his voice rumbling from behind you in a deep bass. "You are what made me, after all."

"No!" you shout as you whirl on him, glaring up at him with panicked eyes. "I didn't make you into this. I didn't make you do this."

"You created a monster," he responds calmly, reaching for you. You let him, your breath held as you tremble. But he's gentle, brushing a stone knuckle across your cheek and wiping away a tear that you hadn't realized had fallen. "You cannot be upset when monstrous things follow."

"You were… you were supposed to protect the city," you respond quietly, your brows furrowing as you look up at him. "That's what you were made for. I… I gave you life, perhaps, yes. But - why use it for this?"

"You are my creator," Bruce responds simply, and his massive hand trails down to wrap around your throat with a delicate, barely-there touch. "I am made of you. My weight is on your shoulders."

"No!" you shout again, pulling away from him and stepping back. "I have made you, yes, but I've… I've released you out into the world. You've taken on a life of your own, have you not? You are made of yourself now, aren't you? You… you brought yourself to life… didn't you?"

"Did I?" he muses, but there's an uncertainty in the stone rumble of his voice. "I'd always thought that it was you. You drew me, after all. Carved me from a block of stone."

"You… I - what?" you ask desperately. "Bruce, I… you remember all of that?"

"Of course," he says simply, and when you clutch your chest and make a panicked sort of noise, he steps toward you. "I was there when you built me. I was there when you carved me out of nothing and turned me into this. And I have to wonder…" He steps further, still, until you have to crane your head back to look up at him, at his stormy eyes and furrowed brows and snarling face. "I wonder… if you made me, why… why turn me into something evil?"

"I didn't," you say weakly, stepping away from him and glancing back as the edge of the roof gets precariously close. "I didn't… who brought you to life, really, Bruce? Are you sure it was me? Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"Are you saying that you didn't?" he questions, stepping toward you for every step that you take back.

"I'm saying that I don't know," you answer desperately, an edge to your voice. "I'm saying that maybe - it's… it doesn't matter, Bruce."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter who built you. Can you not just belong to yourself now? You belong to yourself, don't you?" He frowns at your words, stepping closer still. When you step back this time, your heel catches the edge of the roof and your heart lurches painfully in terror at the drop behind you. 

"You made me," he says, pressing further.

"You belong to yourself," you repeat. "Learn… learn to live for yourself, Bruce. You are not mine anymore. You belong to yourself." He snarls a bit more at that, taking another step forward. This time, though, you have nowhere left to go, and when you step back there's only open air and the crisp fog of night to catch you.

So you fall… from the impossible height of the clock tower and toward the city that writhes with malice, you fall. And you think, as you feel the air rush past your ears, that perhaps this is the only way that it should be - death by your own creation, by your greatest masterpiece, thrown off of the highest point in a city that you helped to build. Perhaps this is how it feels to really, truly take a fall.

But it's not the ground that meets you. It's the feeling of cold, solid marble, instead, that wraps around you and hauls you up and up and up again. It's Bruce, with his arms keeping you pressed against his chest until he has you safely back on the top of the clock tower, this time with him standing between you and the edge of the roof. 

"You… saved me," you say slowly, your words coming out in halting gasps as your teeth chatter from the cold and the shock of it all. 

"How could I not?" he responds easily, and he reaches forward to smooth a large palm over your cheek gently. "How could I not come for you? How could I not follow wherever you go?"

"You don't have to," you say quietly.

"But I will," he responds in that sturdy, solid way of his. You lean against the solid wall of the large clock face and sigh, your knees buckling slightly at the weight of it all as you look up at him with anguish.

"Is that what it was all about?" you whisper. "The… the studio, the… the things you did there?" You think back to it all, to the destruction of your space, to the ripping up of the sketches and the smashing of the practice busts. You think back to him, frozen mid-movement, always clawing at himself, trying to rip himself from your grasp. 

A tear rolls down your cheek and your bottom lip trembles. Bruce just shushes you gently, brushing his clawed thumb against the frozen, bluish tint of your lip and stroking your cheek.

"You created me," he says lowly. "So why did you turn me into something evil?"

"I didn't…" you say, your voice catching and warbling. "I didn't know. I didn't know I could create anything that wasn't that. I didn't know that my hands could shape anything other than malice."

"How foolish," Bruce murmurs gently, cupping your face in both of his hands now so that he can wipe away the tears that have started streaming down your cheeks, "to think such a thing when you made me with this love. How foolish to think… when you made me love you like this." His face is close to yours now, so close that your noses brush together and his eyes bore into yours.

"Can you?" you say quietly. "Can you really love someone like me? Can you fall in love with the thing that made you?"

"That depends," he responds simply, so close to you now that your lips brush against his. "Can you ever really love me back?" The way he kisses you, then, probably proves that you both can. He presses you against the clock face, hard marble leaning against you and keeping you steady as your head spins and you grab onto his biceps. Around you, the city rages on, swirling and moving and tangling in on itself as night blankets the two of you and he wraps his wings around you, shielding you from the outside world.

"Bruce," you say quietly, parting from him just enough to speak. "Why did you destroy all of the others? They aren't - they weren't even alive. Not like you. You're… you're the only one like this. Why did you do it?"

"Because," he offers honestly, trailing his lips across your cheek and down the side of your neck. "I didn't want you to ever love them more than you love me."

"How foolish," you quip back, but its effect is dimmed by the breathless quality of your voice as Bruce presses further against you and tightens his grip on your waist, "to think that I could ever love anything more than I love my greatest masterpiece." Bruce laughs at that, an action so carefree that it feels almost holy as he throws his head back and lets his wings spread wide.

You look past him as he moves, staring back out towards the endless, mangled streets of Gotham and the curses that fester within them. Bruce smoothes a hand over your back and sobers as you look out with furrowed brows, glancing over the rooftops and the crumbled remains of your work. The past spirals endlessly before you and behind you and a need takes hold, a burning drive to move forward, to reach further.

"Have I…" you begin quietly, still looking past him. "Have I been protecting it? Or have I just been… feeding it?" You look up at Bruce again, then, something desperate and imploring in your gaze. "You belong to yourself, now, Bruce. You have to move forward. I - we both do."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks somberly. "What am I supposed to do with a life that I did not choose?"

"Anything," you answer simply, spreading your arms wide with the city at your back now. "You own the night, Bruce. You own Gotham City. You can do anything."

"But," he begins, frowning. You just shake your head and continue, the freezing night air making your breath fog between the two of you.

"It doesn't matter, Bruce… It doesn't matter how you were created. It doesn't matter what you were made to be. It only matters what you choose." 

"What…" he begins slowly. "What am I to choose?"

"Anything," you stress. "The night belongs to you, Bruce. Choose what you want to do with it." He blinks, then, rolling his shoulders back and he stares past you and out toward the shining city. 

"It's beautiful, you know," he says, his voice a smooth, pleasant rumble.

"What?" you respond, a bit distracted as you try to rub warmth back into your fingers. He looks down at you rather fondly, then, before he gestures to you with one of his massive hands. And that's all that it takes, really, to have you closing the distance between the two of you. He wraps his giant arm around you, tucking you into the safety of his side as he wraps a wing around you, blocking the frigid wind and letting you shiver. 

"Gotham," he clarifies, and you look up at him while he looks out, his eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously close to love as he stares at the city. "It's beautiful."

"You know," you muse, letting one of your hands rest against his chest as the other searches for his own hand so that you can curl your fingers around his, "I'd never really… I don't know. I guess I've just never really looked at it that way."

"How could you not?" he questions, but there's no bite to his voice and when you look up with your nose wrinkled, he laughs once more.

"It's easy, I think," you explain with a shrug. "It's easy to just… get lost in it. All these years I spent being paid to build this city into something more, I… I guess I never really stopped to look at it." Bruce hums in confirmation, rubbing his hand up and down your arm as he continues to shield you from the cold.

"You know," you continue thoughtfully. "Someone really does need to look out for the city."

"What?"

"Gotham… Gotham needs a protector. I'm - I'm not saying you have to. It's… it's your life, Bruce, it's your choice. But I just - I don't know, you…"

"Go on," Bruce says gently, tearing his eyes away from the city to look down at you just as fondly. "Say it."

"I… I made you," you say slowly, a heaviness to your words. "I breathed life into you - I didn't know that I was doing it at the time but - I did. And I can't take that back. You were built to be Gotham's protector, to keep it safe and watch over it through the night. I want you to do that - if you want to. I think… I think you're good at what you're made to be. I think that, maybe, we both are." Bruce sighs at your words, a contented sort of thing as he reaches to smooth a thumb between your furrowed, anxious brows. 

"So I was right," he says easily. "We really are just the things that we were made to be, at the end of it all."

"Maybe it's just… not so bad?" you offer waveringly. He smiles down at you, a monster making peace with the malice that drips from his bared teeth, and something feels like it sort of just… settles into place.

"It doesn't have to be bad at all, I don't think," he offers gently. You sigh and let your forehead thump forward against the cool marble of his chest.

"Where would I be without you?" you murmur. A laugh rumbles through him, jostling you as you lean against him. 

"Victim of the Mayor's wrath, no doubt," he jokes. You lift your head to glare up at him, flicking his solid marble chest. 

"The Mayor loves me," you say haughtily.

"He does not," Bruce responds easily, but when you begin to splutter out protests he's quick to silence you with another kiss, bringing you closer to him with a tight grip.

"What will you do now?" he whispers against your lips. Something in you lurches painfully, a panic stirring.

"Oh," you say hollowly. "Right. I…" But then you look out toward the city, toward the ruin and the failure. Your greatest masterpiece having already outgrown you, you can feel yourself begin to spiral endlessly, your hands itching to bring life to something, to do something that makes you worth it. 

But then your fingers twitch, the calluses on your palms burning from the cold air, and you feel a sort of calmness overtake you as you look out toward the crumbling statues with new light. 

"I think," you say carefully, "that I have some things to rebuild. I think I have a new life to make for myself." Bruce hums in understanding, a hand stroking over the back of your head. "But," you continue, tipping your head back to look up at him with big, round eyes. "I certainly wouldn't mind working more often at night now. What do you say?"

"How could I say anything but yes," he rumbles back, "to my creator?"

"You're an awful distraction," you murmur as you work, chisel in hand as you feel a razor-sharp claw trace delicately up the length of your spine underneath your shirt. You're on the rooftop of the Bank of Gotham, night wrapping around you and Bruce as you work at recarving and smoothing out the mistakes of the past, buffing them out with new stone and new hope. If only there wasn't a slinking, skulking gargoyle who doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself. 

"I'm not sure what you mean," Bruce muses as he curls around you, his wings churning the night air. It's warmer these days, the cold front having passed months ago to make way for hotter, stickier nights. 

"Yes you do," you quip back, but your smile gives away your lack of real annoyance. He's an awful distraction, yes, but it's so worth it to be intertwined with him, you think. The artist and the muse, tangled endlessly just like the city that created them.

"I'm helping," Bruce murmurs stubbornly, burying his head in your shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. 

"You've already helped plenty," you say slyly, but the way that he hums in confirmation and presses closer has heat rising to your cheeks.

"I could always help again -"

"No," you splutter out. "Bruce, the sun is going to come up soon. You need to be back at City Hall before the night is over."

"I'll make it in time," he says distractedly, training his lips over your neck and slipping his massive, clawed hands under your shirt.

"You will," you laugh at him as you squirm away from him, standing and teetering on the edge of the rooftop. Bruce frowns and reaches for you, wrapping a secure arm around your waist to keep you steady. "You will," you repeat calmly, "because you're going to leave now. I'll come up and sit with you in the morning if you'd like. I have some sketches to work on."

"It's not the same," he says, a frown still tugging at his lips.

"I know," you soothe. "But it's only during the day."

"Promise me something, then," he whispers as he draws you in to wrap around you one last time before daybreak.

"Anything," you respond honestly.

"Come back for me," he says lowly, pressing a final kiss to your lips. "Come back to put your hands on me again when night falls. Come back to turn me into something good."

"You've already done most of that for yourself, you know," you murmur back, your lips brushing against his. "But… always. I'll always come back for you." And you mean it, of course, as you reach for him one last time before he has to flee. You'll always stand next to him while he moulds himself into something new, day after day after day. Just as he will always do the same for you.

Morning really has begun by the time you're making your way out of the bank, trying yet again to roll the everlasting tension out of your shoulders as you walk outside. The sun is cresting over the city, making the buildings shimmer as the newer gargoyles shine with flecked limestone on top of the towering rooftops. 

But there's still only one of them that's made of marble, and he stands, now, on top of City Hall. You stop outside of the bank to look up at Bruce, staring at the way that his wings splay out as he snarls. The sun is rising up from behind him and it begins to bathe the gargoyle in a holy, glowing halo of endless golden light that fights through the constant fog of Gotham.

He looks sort of like an angel, you think as you giggle to yourself, the calluses on your palms burning with the memory of carving him. He looks like something holy. 

But really, you know… you know that you did not tell him to stand like that - that you did not carve him in that pose. You know that you did not lift the sun to shine down onto him. He did that for himself. 

As the sun crests even further, shining past him and onto your face, breaking through the murky, polluted air just enough to breathe warmth onto your skin, you know that you've done it for yourself, too.

[emo-batboy]

Really imagining Bruce having like an armada of fans who both baby him and think he’s the hottest man on earth, completely devoted to him. Usually, they’re pretty quiet unless there’s another public sighting of him (rare but it happens) UNTIL the bomb goes off in his tower and everyone learns Bruce was the target and suddenly they’re like “oh no poor little meow meow :( he doesn’t deserve this” but this time: it gets Global attention

Gotham’s crime is usually like a Jersey Thing TM where people make fun of how bad the streets are “Look Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” “But what about that shadowy place over there?” “That is Gotham. You must never go there, Simba.” It’s just that one town along the Jersey Shore that is always draped in shadows, and you can’t swim there or you’ll get cursed.

But then The Riddler happens, and it’s kinda a bit bigger than usual? Their entire political sphere is murdered?!? Unusual. Suddenly, Gotham is underwater?? National crisis! But then BRUCE WAYNE, RICHEST MAN IN THE WORLD, ALMOST DIES VIA MAILED EXPLOSIVE and now shit gets serious!!!! (They don’t know about Aquaman yet. Shhh)

Some people are like “why tf do we care about this rich guy” and others are like “wait there’s someone richer than Lex Luthor?” and so the Bruce Wayne fanbase is like my time has come and they post his entire history of charitable donations all over the internet. His tragic backstory resurfaces (now featuring his mother’s, thanks Ed :/) and the “Poor Little Meow Meow Bruce Wayne” agenda goes global.

The Riddler’s video gets fact-checked, and the press concludes it’s like 90% cicrcumstantial and has nothing to do with Bruce anyway. News of Bruce Wayne paying for over 2/3 of the city’s infrastructure after the flood is put on blast. Paired with accounts saying “And also look at him. He’s hot af” and Bruce cannot catch a break.

Suddenly Bruce Wayne is The Celebrity of 2k22. Everyone wants to know his life story. He gets memed to hell and back because he’s “relatable.” Old TV specials of his parents’ unsolved murders pop up on daytime. It’s revealed that he’s been funding Gotham Pride for ten years now. That one time he was caught making out with Harvey Dent turns him into the bicon of the century.

He still refuses to speak to the press. It just makes people like him more because he’s “mysterious.” And for the first time in his life, Bruce can’t just get away with being a recluse anymore. On the bright side, this Soft, Gentle, Introverted Billionaire image that’s been thrust upon him is deterring the public from linking him and The Batman so maybe it’s a good thing??

[luxaofhesperides]

For ghost lights prompts: eldritch/creepy/weird Danny + shy/flustered Duke + hand holding

Your ghostlights fics are giving me so much joy RN I cannot express how much, if this prompt doesn't spark a brain worm for it I get it but I'm excited to read all the others you may wind up posting

There’s a new kid at West Robinson High School. 

This normally wouldn’t be a big deal. They get plenty of new students, being an average high school; not prestigious like Gotham Academy, but not terrible like some of the schools in the lower South Side. New kids are hardly anything to make note of, but something about this student has everyone paying attention to him.

It’s not charisma. The guy doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not attractiveness, because no one really knows what he looks like under the tattered hoodie he wears all the time. It’s not curiosity, not really, because the student body moves around him like he’s dangerous, not like they want to pry all his secrets out into the open. 

It doesn’t help that Duke sees things around him. 

He considers briefly telling someone about it, but then remembers having to argue for returning to West Robinson High School instead of being put in Gotham Academy and decides that Bruce can continue to mind his own business. It’s not like this new kid has done anything bad (yet) and Duke can handle investigating this on his own.

So he watches, catching glimpses of the new kid—Danny Fenton—in hallways during passing period, hiding away at lunch, disappearing into the streets as soon as the school day is over. They even share a class together, French Language and Culture, but Danny is always in the back corner, ignored and made invisible by everyone else. 

Well. That’s not quite true. 

There are shadowy figures that surround Danny and they never leave him alone. Even when he’s got his arms folded on his desk, head down, looking as if he’s asleep, these figures pull at the hood covering his head or reach semi-transparent hands down to pet his hair. And Danny reacts to them, lightly batting their hands away or turning his head away from them.

Duke has no idea what they are. Ghosts are his best guess, but he can’t confirm it. As far as he knows, ghosts are magic and can only be seen by magic users, which Duke very much is not. They do lead to cold spots, keeping the temperatures noticeably colder around Danny, and make the shadows darker, which only makes other students more nervous about being near Danny. 

Through his week of observing Danny, beyond the ghostly figures and visible unease he causes in everyone, what Duke learns is that Danny is lonely. 

No one talks to him. People barely look at him. Teachers avoid calling on him when they can. 

And Danny accepts it. He fades into the background, keeps out of the way, shrinks in on himself. 

No one else sees it. No one else wants to see him.

It’s breaking Duke’s heart, just a little bit.

He’s lucky that he’s not an outcast at school. With his meta gene awakening and his free hours taken up by Bats and fighting crime, it’s hard to have much of a social life, but he still has a few friends during the school hours he can hang out with. Danny doesn’t have anyone, and the more Duke sees how isolated he is, the more upset he becomes.

Which brings him to step two of his investigation: befriend Danny.

So what if he has some ulterior motives! He also just wants to give this guy someone to hang out with! What little glimpses of Danny’s face he’s able to get show him a tired teenager, worn down the way Alley kids are when they’re at the end of their rope and have nothing left to give.

Duke’s first attempts at befriending Danny fail so fast it’s almost funny. It’s as if Danny knows when someone is seeking him out, because every time Duke goes to where he is, Danny up and disappears, hurrying away and vanishing in the crowded hallways, or in the alley a few buildings past the school, or into the fucking restroom, which is always empty when Duke goes in after him. Trying to use his powers to see where Danny goes next doesn’t help either; all he sees is some glowing figure resembling Danny walk through walls, which is either due to Danny being a meta or from Duke’s powers deciding to be unhelpful.

He’s about to resort to Tim level stalking to finally have a conversation with Danny when his French teacher blessedly (and unknowingly) aids him on his mission.

“Find a partner, everyone!” she instructs with a clap of her hands near the end of class. “This is a translation project, and you’ll be doing them in pairs to check each other’s work and decide how to best interpret something into English. If you don’t have a partner in the next minute, tell me and I’ll assign you someone.”

The class is a flurry of movement just as the last word leaves her mouth, friends turning to each other or running across the room to make sure they’re partnered up before anyone else can butt in. 

No one looks at Danny. Which means Duke can just skirt along the wall of the classroom until he’s next to Danny, gently knocking on his desk to get his attention.

Danny looks up, and Duke sees a flash of blue before Danny averts his gaze, tilting his head down again. “Yeah?” he says, and his voice is much softer than what Duke imagined. He expected something hoarse and rough, a little deep, intimidating. Instead, it’s gentle and quiet and smooth. 

It’s a nice voice. It’s a shame that no one else has really heard it.

“Wanna be partners?” he asks, as if he’s offering a choice. They both know no one else is going to ask Danny, and if he wants to avoid talking to the teacher, then he has to work with Duke.

Danny sighs. “Sure.” 

And then he puts his head back down on the desk. 

Duke backs off. This is the best he’s going to get right now. Now that he’s got an excuse to spend time with Danny, he can take his time breaking down his walls and getting to know him. He watches as a figure from the usual group that hangs around Danny breaks away and gently brushes a hand against Danny’s arm. Then they turn to Duke and reach for him.

He moves without thinking, stepping out of the way. The shadowy figure fades back, almost invisible even to his eyes, and Danny’s turned his head to lay his piercing gaze on Duke.

…There’s no way that blew his cover, right? 

He didn’t just reveal one of his meta abilities from taking a single step to the side. No way. 

But Danny’s eyes are a deep blue that seem almost endless as he keeps his attention on Duke. It feels as if he’s staring into Duke, seeing more than what he wants to reveal. 

“Alright, looks like everyone’s found a partner! As you head out, be sure to grab a practice packet from my desk to work on some translation. There are due the next time we meet, and I will be handing out your individual passages once these have all been turned in.” Their teacher sets a large stack of papers onto the corner of her desk, then gets to work erasing the whiteboard just as the bell rings. 

Students grab their bags and rush to take one of the packets before heading out to their final class of the day. Duke stays behind with Danny, waiting for most of the class to leave before swinging his backpack onto his shoulder and grabbing a packet for both of them.

He hands one to Danny, who takes it with some hesitancy and a quiet, “Thanks.”

He leaves before Duke does, and though it’s only a second between his leaving and Duke stepping out the door, Danny’s already vanished from sight.

As soon as school ends, Duke heads for the Hatch, hoping a quick evening patrol will help clear his mind. It’s a quiet evening, though, so he’s left with his thoughts more often than not, staring out over the city long enough that Oracle asks him if he’s alright.

Against his better judgment, he says, “I’ve been looking into something, but I’m not finding much. Can you do some research on Danny Fenton?”

Oracle is already typing before he finishes asking. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything. He’s… strange. I don’t know if he’s a meta or just lightly haunted. But there’s something up with him.”

“Do we need to be keeping a closer eye on him?”

Duke considers. None of them ask Oracle to look into specific people unless they’re dangerous. But danger is not the sense Duke gets from Danny. It’s more like he’s hiding, shying away from the world, constantly on edge. “No. If anything, he might be in danger. Something happened to him, because no one ends up like that by living an average life.”

“I’ll let you know what I find. Turn in for the night, it’s quiet out and you’re too distracted to patrol properly.”

“You got it, O.” He salutes the nearest camera, knowing she’ll see it, and makes his way back to the Hatch to change back into civies and get started on his homework.

When he next goes into his French classroom, all the desk has been rearranged so they’re all in pairs, side by side. Already, patterns are filling up the desks, so Duke heads for the back and sits down where Danny usually hides away. He’s not here yet, which is making Duke realize that he’s never actually seen Danny walk into the classroom and head to his seat.

Did he just never pay attention? Has Danny always just slipped in unnoticed until attendance was taken? How did Duke miss that?

There’s movement in the desk next to him. Duke goes to say that he’s waiting for his partner, so please sit somewhere else, when he realizes that it’s Danny who managed to sneak in yet again.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, hoping his surprise is hidden.

There’s a pause, and then Danny returns, “Hey, Duke.”

That’s all they have time for before class is starting and their teacher goes around to collect homework. She then hands out new packets, each one a different section of L’Ecume des Jours, and gives them the rest of class to begin working on translating it. 

Duke is already dreading it as he flips through the three pages they were given to translate, stapled to each other beneath the two page instructions of how to format the final translation, how to document their previous translation drafts, and what to include in the reflection essay. 

There’s no way he can get all of this done in a week. 

On the other hand, it gives him a week to learn more about Danny. He needs to make the most of it.

“This is a lot,” he comments, hoping to prod Danny into conversation.

Danny shrugs.

“Can we work on this together after school today? Or do you have plans?”

“We can work on it today,” Danny says, voice barely louder than a whisper. He’s already scanning the pages, underlining certain words and phrases. 

Duke hurries to get to work as well, trying to parse out meaning from the text through single words scattered on the page. 

Qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la vie, vous? 

J’apprends des choses, dit Colin. Et j’aime Chloé. 

Duke nods to himself. He definitely doesn’t know French. Well, he knows qu’est-ce que. He knows vous. He know j’apprends and j’aime Chloé. Also dit Colin. Fairly simple, but with the missing pieces to the rest of those sentences, he really doesn’t know what’s going on beyond the fact that it’s a conversation and Colin loves Chloé.

When he glances at Danny’s desk, he’s shocked to see that his partner is already translating the first few lines into something that reads like normal English.

“Oh, wow,” he says, leaning over to get a better look, “You’re definitely better at this than I am.”

“I just like languages,” Danny replies, turning his paper so Duke can read it more easily.

“Have you been hiding your French skills this entire time? I could have definitely used your help before this.”

Danny goes still for a moment, eyes flicking towards his right where a shadowy figure has placed a hand on his shoulder. Then he turns to fully face Duke and says, “Better late than never. What do you need help with?”

“Everything.”

His immediate answer makes Danny smile, and he begins talking in that soft, soothing voice of his. He talks about not trying to translate everything into English immediately, but to understand the French and take it in as a whole language itself. He talks about getting the idea of the text first, the feeling of it, before trying to fit it into English. He talks about splitting up the text into sections to make it easier.

And then he reads the text, entirely in French, and Duke did not have a thing for voices or multilingualism before this, but he sure does now.

“Qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la vie, vous?” Danny reads, reaching the end of the first page. The syllables come to his easily, his French smooth and steady. “J’apprends des choses, dit Colin.” His eyes dart up, off the page, and fix Duke in place. “Et j’aime Chloé.”

Duke has never been happier that he doesn’t blush so visibly with his dark skin because he feels downright romanced. It’s a mix of the French, of Danny’s addictive voice, of their closeness, of how intimate this dark corner of the room feels, tucked away from the rest of the class.

“We can work on the other pages after we finish translating this one,” Danny says, leaning back at bit. 

Duke nods, swallowing to chase away the dryness of his throat. “Sounds like a plan!” 

They work in silence for the rest of the class period, and once the bell rings, Danny says, “I’ll wait for you by the bus stop down the street,” before he slips out of reach and disappears into the throng of students heading to their last class. 

He’s beginning to think that he’s in way over his head. Duke can handle being in the middle of all the action, risking his life, fighting for others. He can handle staring down rogues and criminals and Gnomon. He can’t handle feelings and romance and other such things. Those are much scarier than a criminal shooting at him. At least with the criminal, he knows what to do and doesn’t just freeze up like he did with Danny.

The school day ends faster than he’s prepared for. As promised, Danny waits for him by the bus stop down the street, where other students are also waiting. 

They don’t wait for a bus, though. Danny just meets his eyes and begins walking away, leaving Duke to follow after him, matching his pace so they can walk side by side.

The shadows in the alleyway seem to reach towards them as they walk down it. Something about it doesn’t feel right, so Duke tries to quietly use his powers and force them back. 

He only has time to think, Oh, that was a bad idea, before Danny is shoving him against the wall, getting them both out of the way as a shadow solidifies and lashes out at them. He’s kept in place by strong hands on his chest, and Danny’s eyes are glowing lightly as he hisses at the shadows, making them rear back and settle down once more. 

As if given permission to reveal themselves, more shadowy figures and strange movements in the shadows emerge, surrounding them. 

“Danny, I don’t mean to alarm you, but—”

“I know,” Danny says. “I thought you might be able to see them too. Which is not good.”

“Sorry, man, it’s not like I can turn it off.”

“It’s fine. Just be more careful. They like me because I’m like them, but you just register as a threat. Either that, or prey.”

“Great,” Duke replies weakly, “Those are my favorite things to be. Are we… are we safe to move?”

Slowly, Danny steps back, no longer pressed right against Duke. Nothing moves to attack him, but it might be due to the glare fixed on Danny’s face, eyes still glowing.

“They’ll leave me alone, so…” He reaches a hand out, looking away. The hoodie isn’t able to hide the way his cheeks go red. “Don’t let go and we’ll be fine.”

“I hope this isn’t to lead me to my doom,” Duke jokes nervously as he accepts Danny’s hand, holding it tightly. 

Danny wiggles his fingers, making him loosen his grip, and then their fingers are lacing together. Duke stares down at their hands, wide eyed, and hopes he doesn’t look as flustered as he feels. 

“Not to your doom,” Danny reassures. “Just a coffee shop I thought you’d like.”

“Well, then, lead the way!”

“Allons-y,” Danny replies. 

Stealing glances at him as they walk, ghostly figure and shadow shrinking away from them, all Duke can think is that he doesn’t need to worry about Danny being evil. His immediate instinct to protect Duke has proved that. He’ll keep the investigation going, though, to make sure Danny is safe from others that could hurt him. 

Strange and unsettling as he may be, Danny’s also a smart, kind person who deserves more.

Duke is determined to make sure he gets it.

And if he gets a crush along the way, that’s his business and his business only. 

It looks like Step Two: Befriend Danny is finally complete. He’ll figure out the other steps later. For now, he has an evening of French in a coffee shop to look forward to.

[kingoftheu]

[malenjoyer]

CACKLING. The whole “spoilers are the least of your worries, NW solo runs are actual ass” thing is so true. My boy cannot catch a break.

Bruno Redondo, I love your art, but I canNOT for the life of me get into Devin Grayson’s Nightwing.

That last anon made me curious, do you have any favorite eras/stories with Nightwing in it? Obviously doesn’t have to be a NW solo run. I was thinking within the DC continuity in general (if that makes sense).

if we’re asking just generally, most of the comics that I prefer are where nightwing are more decentered and often the support/mentor of the story. Like when he becomes Batman in Batman and Robin or he comes back to gotham to bond with new robins. These are all one shots that fall into dixon’s nightwing, I think. Probably, idk. There’s that specific art style of the era where he looked kinda ugly.

Most of my favorites are early nightwing/disco wing. My reading preferences tend to be on the goofy comics side.

Off the top of my head, I was recommended Batman prodigal by an anon here. I liked the dynamic between Tim and Dick and it was a good entry for someone who didn’t really know Tim that well before this. When they did laundry together, it was really nice. I like that mundane closed off world stuff. I do like it more than Grant Morrison’s Batman and Robin (I know. Tomato, tomato, tomato. Damian traitor🍅🍅🍅).

I think my other favorite ones are the two stories of Dick riding on top of trains. Dick not only rode on top of trains once, but twice. Each time with a different robin. It should be under Nightwing but I don’t remember the numbers of the issue.

Here’s Jason:

And here’s Tim:

At least Jason wasn’t blindfolded. Tim was just like yeah, whatever.

I did like the era of shot in the leg dick (Nightwing vol 2, ~108) because he found a family outside of the bats and dealing with not being nightwing anymore. Then the story fell off…. many such cases. I’m not a big romance reader despite (waves) everything. Especially if they choose to throw brainless love interests at nightwing for plot. I’ve become some kind of single life activist for him. I don’t want romance!

[capr1pengu1n]

Man, I really throughly enjoyed your vigilante!reader x riddler story. I just absolutely love the way you characterize him. I’ve been thinking about it for days, no joke. It’s where my mind ends up wandering. So if you feel compelled, may I request a similar situation, a bat-family reader x reader, but with a more hmmmm antagonistic approach maybe? Banter, name-calling, taunts, curses, gibes. Idk, I need them at each other’s throats, to the point where they lift cannot stand each other, then…hate sex ensues! Maybe my girl fights for dominance, but is ultimately a switch-leaning sub, so when Eddie does ultimately overpower her, he’s down right giddy at how submissive she can be when she’s not a pain in his ass. (Also, if you could throw in a size kink for Eddie I’d die a happy women, but do what you want and what your comfortable with, or ignore this all together, I just really love your writing!)

I'll break your pretty face

Summary: After solving your rival's incessant riddles, you're face to face with the man who has been giving you a headache for months now. But with emotions bubbling to the surface, you find out just how much your rival hates to feel about you.

Warnings: 18+ smut, fem reader (no use of y/n), hate sex, dubcon (to be safe), dom!edward, fingering, spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, Edward being a condescending ass, insults and snide remarks galore.

Words: 5.2k

Notes: Thank you very much for the request anon! This was so much fun to write, and i'm happy to have finished it before going away with my family. I hope you enjoy!

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Running, your heels burn as you race to the back of the abandoned shopping mall, your cape billowing around your form as you sprint. The riddle you’d been given at the last location rattles around in your head, racing through the possibilities. ‘I shine like the sun, yet I'm cold to the touch, In the earth I am found, deep within as such. I clink and I clank, and I’m strong and steadfast, From coins to machines, through ages I last.’

All you know is that it’s located at the back of the abandoned shopping project in amusement mile, so you’d sped over on your motorcycle to beat the timer. This was all a game, his twisted version of a game. Right now, The Riddler had Officer Patel from the GCPD with a bomb collar around his neck in the middle of a pig pen; with glee he’d explained you had to do his stupid treasure hunt to find the code-word that would disarm the bomb remotely, letting the police know his location. While you know Gordon has his men searching any farm or slaughterhouse, simply solving his puzzles was quicker and more reliable to get the officer to safety. His demented scavenger hunt had taken you all over Gotham, your motorcycle practically out of fuel by now, as each location was another puzzle or stupid memory game that would lead you elsewhere. You slightly felt like a headless chicken, running around wherever he told you.

Getting to the back of the mall, you catch your breath as your eyes dart around the various stores that you can see, or maybe it’s in the employees only area? The riddle echoes in your head again…metal? But if that’s the answer, what does that have to do with-

Your gaze falls on the Hot Topic store, abandoned and derelict, but unmistakable with the sign out front. Metal music. It has to be in there, you think as you notice the security camera seemingly pointed right at you, red light on despite the supposed lack of power. He’s watching you, you know he is. Pointing your middle finger right where he’d be able to see, you enter the store and look around. God he infuriated you, his smug smile a constant picture in your head whenever you think about his riddles or his crimes. The way he talks to you is different than how he talks about your family, no with you he seems to be ten times more condescending. The patronising tone gets you more riled up than anything, with the falsely charming comments about your looks just seeking to make the anger rise up your chest like lava bubbling to the top of a pissed off volcano.

Sure enough, inside the store was an arrow spray painted in a metallic shade of green, pointing to a cassette player with a crude smiley face. You go towards it and press play, hearing the word ‘Venality’ screamed from a pained voice, presumably Officer Patel, along with a button flashing. Switching it on, seemingly nothing happens for a few moments, your eyes frantically looking around to see if you missed anything. Then your comms device crackles to life.

“Riddler just made contact, said you solved the puzzle. Gordon is sending his men for the officer, good work.” You hear Bruce say, causing you to smile a little. You’re glad you helped, and despite how shallow it makes you feel, you’re glad you got praise from your adoptive father. Hard to impress, you feel satisfied that you’re able to prove yourself, that’ll teach Tim not to doubt your intellectual skills again at least.

You’re just about to leave the store when static fills your ears again, this time from the old speakers hanging above the clothes racks. “Oh look at that, my favourite dimwitted little girl was able to solve my puzzles.”

Gritting your teeth, you leave the store and stand in the empty space outside before the speakers in the mall itself crackle to life. “Walking off are you? Oh are you having a tantrum? Poor girl, do you want me to call daddy to pick you up?”

His condescending tone was like nails down a chalkboard to you as you glare up at the security camera. “What’s wrong? Pissed off I beat you?”

“I’d hardly call that display beating me, a child could have probably solved those riddles faster than you. Still I suppose you saved the life of the corrupt cop, how lovely.”

“Oh? I thought I was a child according to you.”

“Dear, it’s called infantilization,” you can hear the smirk on his face as he continues to patronise you, “Besides, I know you aren’t a child with a body like that, no matter how much you try and hide it with such garish costumes.”

Fighting the blush at his crude comment, you shake your head. “I know you aren’t the one to talk about garish outfits.”

This elicits a throaty laugh from the criminal. “Oh I’m hurt darling, truly… Oh wait a second, I’m not! Why would I bother with an opinion from someone of such little worth and brain capacity!”

You roll your eyes, glancing away from the camera for a moment to suppress the urge to give him the reaction he’s clearly looking for. When you’d followed in the unconventional family footsteps of becoming a vigilante, Bruce was clear and concise with how he taught you about the different criminals that operated throughout Gotham. Both their modus operandi in terms of their various crimes and escapades, but also their psychological profiles. Edward Nigma was a textbook narcissist who thrives on the attention and validation of others, so you were determined to not give him what he craved.

“Leaving already dear?” he asks as you head to leave, “you haven’t even asked where I am.”

“You’ve rerouted your signal through seven different countries’ VPN networks, we’ll find you eventually.”

“I guarantee you will not. Well, maybe the bat or one of his many boy blunders who trail after him like deformed puppies will. But not you.”

Swallowing, you breathe slowly to calm yourself. Don’t rise to him. Don’t rise to him.

“No, but I’m nothing if not charitable. Why don’t I offer you something, maybe it’ll help you prove yourself to the other precious little costumed freaks.”

That makes you pause, as if he was aware of your internal complex to prove you earnt your place in your family as you glance at the camera.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you where I am of course. Provided you come alone. If you contact the GCPD, or any of the aforementioned costumed freaks, I’ll be gone and I’ll be sure that the next bomb will be around your pretty neck instead.”

You know Bruce would be telling you not to, to realise it was a trap, or another stupid mind game. But you can’t deny the temptation…to be the one to take down the Riddler, that’ll cause everyone’s doubts about you to dissipate, right?

“Fine…how do I know it isn’t a trap?”

He barks out another laugh. “Oh silly girl, you don’t know. But I still think you’ll come, such a hopelessly plucky thing you are.”

It’s like a blur, you find yourself nodding and listening to the address before getting on your motorcycle. As you drive through the city, the twinkling lights reflecting on the shine of your handlebars, your thoughts are scattered as you travel. This really is a bad idea, and you know it. You hate him, his stupid tone and stupid puzzles and stupid face…and yet here you are, pulling up to the abandoned building and making your way inside. Green graffiti greets you, messages like ‘can you defeat a mind such as mine?’ taunting you as you head down the hallway to a derelict living area. Flickering in the corner, you step over and see the monitor set up on the table was broadcasting the feed from the shopping mall.

“Oh good, you can follow simple instructions.”

You’re on high alert as you spin around, battle stance ready as he walks in calm as anything, question mark cane twirling in his gloved hand. With his trademark smirk etched on his face, he stands there with his head tilted.

“So what’s the plan, little girl? Knock me out, beat me up, make me repent.” He chuckles at his own words. “Or maybe just look at me.”

“You flatter yourself.” You snap at him.

“I know, it’s my favourite activity. A man with looks as well as an intellect are hard to find you know, even harder to find in a vigilante. Pity you only seem to have one of those.”

Barely suppressing the eye-roll, you bite back at him. “You won’t be so patronising when you’re in a straitjacket.”

“I’m so scared.” He says dryly, stepping closer. On instinct you lunge for him, knocking him straight in the cheek, but his reflexes are better than you thought, as a split second later his cane makes contact with your arm. The pain sends you stumbling to the right, bracing on the rat-bitten sofa as Edward grits out a laugh.

“Well well well, the brat really can punch. I’d say that was definitely in the…hm…top fifteen punches to the face I’ve taken? What an achievement.”

Despite his sarcasm, his hand is gently touching his cheek to assess the damage, and a bit of you smirks at the knowledge he’ll have a killer bruise in the morning. However so will you, if the dull throb in your arm is anything to go by.

“You hit like a girl, even with your cane.”

“Now dear, isn’t that a little sexist? Insinuating that girl’s punches are weak, I’m a little surprised.” He mocks you, smirking as he stands back to his full height. Having never been in the same room as him before, you’re a little taken aback by just how tall he really was. Sure he wasn’t the most muscular man you’d ever seen, but he clearly took the time to have a slim and strong appearance which matched his imposing stature. He rolls his neck, looking you up and down.

“Enough with the feeble attempts at brutality, you aren’t the batman.” He sneers at you, before you glare at him.

“Why did you invite me here?”

“Why did I invite you here..” he repeats your question, pretending to ponder it before his eyes grow cold. “Because I hate you. I hate how…stupidly you solve my puzzles.”

You barely have time to process his weird dichotomy before he continues. “I hate how I underestimated you, I thought you were just some silly girl who put on a costume and thought yourself a hero. But now, you’re an annoying thorn in my side.”

He pulls out the gun from his belt, the gun you foolishly missed in your blind haze of annoyance and hatred as you back away slowly.

“So perhaps I brought you here to kill you, to finally rid myself of my annoying problem. Maybe then I’ll stop thinking about you.”

You pause at his last sentence, but he steps forward and places the gun against your forehead. Swallowing, you look up at him, at how his breathing is deeper than before and his hair had fallen out of place so strands fall limply against his eyebrows. Running out of time, you gently move your hand and mess with the end of his purple tie, feeling the silk material. His eyes dart, confused and with a hint of something else entirely, down to the movement of your fingers.

Taking that as your chance, you move to hit the gun away from him, kicking upwards. He grunts in pain, as you push him to the floor, gun clattering out of reach. Landing squarely on top of him, he grabs your arms and flips you with an ease that took you off guard completely. Instead of the cold glare he gave you a few moments ago, now he just laughs.

“So naïve, you think I’m not used to getting a woman on her back?” he taunts.

“Yeah I do think that, I can’t imagine a woman wanting to be in bed with someone like you.”

“Oh you’d be surprised,” he smirks, leaning in closer as he pins you properly against the hardwood floor, “I think you’ll find I do quite fine with whoever catches my attention. It’s just that nobody can ever hope to match me.”

He punctuates his words by grabbing your neck, digging in to the sides and causing you to squirm and struggle. However, unfortunately it causes your cheeks to flush which doesn’t escape his notice.

“Are you blushing?” he says, eyes frantically darting around your face.

Embarrassed beyond belief, you try and use his momentary shock to once again gain the upper hand, pushing him off you and scrambling to get up. However he’s one step behind you, getting up from the floor and grabbing your arm, pinning you face first against the wall. His height means he has to lean down to talk into your ear, his grip harsh as he keeps you in place.

“You are blushing, oh isn’t this precious. The pathetic girl is attracted to me. Well I’m not surprised, I am a specimen.”

“Do you ever shut up.” You snap, trying to move but instead he presses his chest fully into your back, hand unclipping your utility belt so it falls to the floor with a clatter.

“Not when I’m having fun. Finally you’re actually worth a damn.”

You turn and spit at him, the saliva only succeeding in creating a small stain on his white shirt, to which he tuts.

“You really are stupid, aren’t you? Spitting at me like that.” He starts as he grips your neck from behind. “I could just choke you right here, right now. You wouldn’t be able to stop me now, without your little toys, or without backup from your dimwitted friends. No I think you should show a bit of respect to the man who holds your life literally in his hands.”

You still, the situation really dawning on you as you’re pressed against the wall. He uses his other hand to tug your hood down, before pulling your hair so he can look at you.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked this.” He mutters, his hand gently stroking the strands now and giving you whiplash from the tonal shift. “Is that true? Do you like being dominated?”

“No.” you lie, gritting your teeth as he laughs.

“No? Then why are your pupils dilated? Why is your chest moving rapidly with your frantic breathing? Either you like this, or you’re a truly pathetic hero to be this scared.”

You know deep down he’s right, and you hate it. You hate it as much as you hate him, and you hate him as much as you’ve always been secretly attracted to him. Seemingly, the twisted feeling is mutual as he pushes his knee between your thighs.

“What are you-“

“Use whatever limited cognitive abilities you possess to come up with an educated guess.” He taunts, as his knee presses against your clothed cunt. You bite back a gasp, lips parting as your hips buck forward without warning. “See? I think you’re finally starting to understand.”

It’s sick, it really is disgusting how turned on you feel as the murderer you’ve been trying to catch is currently helping you move over his knee and thigh, grinding against him. Your pussy clenches around nothing as you rock against the material of his suit trousers, the green being practically the only colour you can focus on. “I hate you…”

He smirks at your admission as he leans in, warm breath tickling your ear. “And I really believe that you believe that.”

You shudder at the whisper, as he grabs your upper arms and spins you so you’re facing him. Gripping your throat once again, his lips slam into yours in a brutal kiss, months of biting remarks and taunts accumulating into this dizzying moment of passion and desire. Not one to give up, you grip the lapels of his jacket and bring him closer, tongue trying to assert dominance in his mouth. You feel the grin he has at your antics, his free hand lifting your thigh so he can grind against you.

When he pulls away, a small trail of spit connects you both as you stare at each-other. You really hate how handsome he looks like this, his eyes softer but no less condescending as he looks down at you, large hand moving away from your neck to grip your jaw.

“Much more appealing when you aren’t running your mouth.” He mutters quietly, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. Feeling the cold leather, you bite down gently and tilt your head to pull his glove off, which causes his eyes to narrow in amusement.

“Oh I see, trying to get me to touch you properly? Are you that starved for affection? I almost pity you.” He taunts, but his hand runs down your cheek in such a soft manner that it takes your breath away. Fingertips dance down to your pulse point, then down to your cape, unclipping it so it falls to the floor with your belt. His eyes roam your figure, and you know you should just punch him hard and get out of there, but when his finger fiddles with the zip at the top of your suit, you jolt with a passion and spin him so he’s against the wall. Surprisingly he lets you, as he laughs against your lips when you kiss him forcefully. He grips your hips and brings you against him, having to crane his neck downwards to keep kissing you.

Your hands feel his chest through his expensive shirt, running over where his nipple is which causes him to jump a little. Relishing in that, you run your fingers along the same spot again to which he growls and pushes you quickly. Stumbling back, he pins you against the back of the sofa and smirks.

“You’re so easy to push around, some vigilante you are.” He teases, although clearly trying to deflect from the fact he himself was flustered from your outburst. To punctuate his words, he cups your clothed cunt roughly, causing a small whine to escape you. “See isn’t that much better? To just give in to the wills of your superiors.”

You try and bite back, but it dies in your throat when he keeps groping you, this time roughly pulling the zip down of your suit so it reveals your black bra. He takes his other glove off, placing it on the back of the sofa before groping at your chest with both hands, causing your back to arch.

“Oh sweetheart, if I’d have known this is what you were hiding under that stupid outfit, I’d have rid you of it long ago.”

Tugging your suit, you let him use your limbs like a rag-doll to get the top half of your suit off, before unclipping your bra and placing it with his glove. His hands grope your newly exposed chest, circling your nipples as he groans softly at the sight. He cruelly pinches just to watch you cry out.

“That’s it, let me use you. You just love it don’t you?”

You don’t answer, which clearly aggravates him. He pinches your right nipple roughly yet again, as his left hand comes up to tug your hair. “I said, you love it. Don’t. You.”

“Yes!” you finally cry out, hips bucking into nothing as your breath comes out shaky and stunted. His self satisfied grin speaks volumes as he pats your cheek condescendingly.

“Good girl.”

Impatiently, he tugs down the rest of your suit so it hangs limply around your knees, allowing your thighs to part just enough for Edward to fit his big hand between them. Feeling how soaked you are, he grits out a moan as he explores your folds. Letting out a soft moan yourself, you shiver at the villain’s touch as he circles your clit.

“You’re drenched…is this what you do to all the criminals you fight? Strip when you lose the upper hand?” he taunts, moving his fingers faster over your throbbing heat.

“No…of course I don’t…” you grit out, whimpering again at the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Good. I’d carve out their eyes you know.” He whispers darkly, and despite your conscience your pussy throbs at his words. “I don’t think I like the idea of anyone else knowing how slutty you are.”

“I’m not slutty.” You try and argue, but it’s hard for those words to carry any weight when you’re shivering and moaning under his precise touch. He has the audacity to laugh in your face.

“I think we both know that’s not true darling. Slutty for me, the criminal who you came here to stop. If only Gotham knew the truth about their prettiest hero.”

At your embarrassed noise, he brings his fingers down lower to play with your hole. “Do you want me here?”

Not having the strength to resist your desires anymore, you nod pathetically as he smirks. You expected him to make you beg or grovel, but instead he sinks two fingers into your cunt, your legs shaking at the slight stretch.

“You're prettier when you’re polite.” He says as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of you, curling them just right so you moan louder for him. Clenching around his digits, you hold on to his shoulder, his eyes full of concentration as you look up at his face.

“Fuck…I didn’t expect you to be so-“

“Good at this?” he taunts, continuing the steady pace of his fingers, “I’m hardly a blushing virgin dear. I know how to make a woman feel pleasure.”

“That’s surprising.” You can’t help but mock, which causes him to hum and reach his hand around your neck once more.

“Don’t be a brat. You were doing so well.” He hisses, pushing against your g spot. “I could just stop, leave you here all wet and wanting and pathetic.”

You think there’s a good chance he’s bluffing, but with how much your clit aches with desire you decide you aren’t willing to take that risk. So you shake your head. But that isn’t enough for him.

“Say sorry.”

You whine, but he stops the movements of his fingers, leaving them deep inside you without moving. His grip on your neck tightens slightly as he stares you in the eyes.

“I said, say sorry. Surely you aren’t that dumb that you don’t know how to apologise properly.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumble quietly, so he pulls out his fingers and gives your cunt a harsh slap.

“Is that it?” he taunts, reveling in how you cried out at the slap, “I could barely hear your little whisper. Say it again, say it properly. Say ‘I’m sorry Mister Nigma, sir.’”

Shame and embarrassment burn throughout your body like a wildfire, his words the match you’d practically lit for him. With a shaky breath, you repeat it.

“I’m sorry Mister Nigma, sir.”

He doesn’t respond, just forces his fingers back inside your dripping heat roughly. Moaning, you relax as best you can with your ass pressed against the back of a rather uncomfortable sofa and enjoy his slender fingers filling you up. His pace is intense but steady, his eyes firmly on yours as he watches your reactions to every little change in pace or angle. It’s like he’s operating a machine, pressing the right buttons and connecting the right wires to achieve his intended results.

When his other hand lets go of your neck to rub messily at your clit, you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your moans getting breathy and desperate. His smirk grows as he notices, feeling your thighs start to shake and your hips move.

“Getting close?” he asks, and you nod desperately. You can feel the pleasure nearly reaching the pinnacle, just a few more thrusts of his fingers and…oh god you’re going to-

He pulls his fingers out roughly, and his face is one of pure satisfaction as you whine pitifully at the loss of stimulation, not being able to cum as you gaze up at him. He laughs in your face, holding your jaw so he can look into your glassy eyes.

“Did you really think I’d just let you cum?” he chuckles again, squishing your cheeks together to further humiliate you, “oh you silly, silly girl. No, you aren’t getting that privilege until you earn it. And my dear, I think you’ll have to do a lot more than apologising in such a pathetic way.”

With a grin that betrays the fact he’s having the time of his life, he forces his wet fingers into your mouth so you can lick them clean. Not being given much of a choice, you suck them and look into his eyes from under your eyelashes. Once he deems them suitably clean, he pulls them out and wipes them crudely on your breasts, before gripping your arm and moving you to the correct side of the sofa. He pushes you down unceremoniously, before settling behind you as you get up on your hands and knees, not before he strips you of your suit completely and placing it with his gloves.

Hearing the sound of his belt being taken off, your thoughts are clouded by lust as you arch your back a little. He seemingly appreciates the submissive gesture, slapping your ass as he unbuttons his trousers.

“So eager.” He teases, and you feel his cock against your ass as he speaks. “Beg for me.”

With a shiver, you know that he’s being serious so you start to beg softly, not really used to it. In response, he pushes your thighs together and pushes his cock between them. Moving, he fucks your thighs as you realise your begging isn’t enough, moaning softly as your pussy coats him with your wetness. Each time you feel him brush against your clit, your breath hitches and your words stutter. But still you persevere, begging like you never have before, for him to fuck you, for him to make you his, for him to own you.

That word choice seems to be the right one, as he groans before positioning at your entrance and pushing in smoothly. Crying out at the long awaited feeling, your head hits the sofa cushion underneath you as he bottoms out, before pulling out and thrusting deep once more.

“So tight, bet it’s been a while, hm? If ever.” He taunts, moaning softly as he pulls out and watches his own cock disappear again inside your heat.

“I’m not a virgin.” You mumble, realising he’s doing to you what you did to him earlier, as you defend yourself rather pitifully.

He instead laughs and sets a rhythmic pace, gripping your hips to aid his movements. “Well you certainly act like it, acting like you’ve never begged a day in your life. Hard to believe from someone so…fuck…so submissive.”

You want to protest, really you do, but his pace just has you reeling from the pleasure as you let yourself be used by him. Moaning into the cushion muffles you, so he grabs your hair and tugs hard.

“Let me hear you, go on. Tell me how good I am.” He demands, his ego seemingly never satiated as he fucks you.

“You’re so good…so good sir.” You ramble, feeling yourself fall into the submissive head-space as your eyes grow more and more unfocused.

“Say the full thing dear…fucking hell…go on.”

You know what he wants, and the part of your brain that was telling you to resist, the part trying to remind you that this is a man who has brutally tortured and murdered people, who has terrorized your city, who has put your adopted brothers in death traps, it falls silent with every thrust into your cunt. So you do.

“You’re so good Mister Nigma, sir.” You whimper, your voice barely recognisable to your own ears. He seemingly is pleased with your words, letting go of your hair and fucking you harder. The pace and intensity make him sweat, quickly and clumsily tugging his tie off and shrugging his suit jacket from his shoulders, still finding the compulsion to place them neatly on the back of the sofa with your bra and suit.

“There, so much better when you listen to me.” He grits out, clearly struggling to keep his own composure. He’d never admit it of course, but he’s thought about this scenario more times than he can remember. Laying in his bed, not being able to sleep with a million thoughts and ideas running through his brain, but the most pervasively annoying being thoughts of you. Your voice as you snap back at his taunts, your body and how it looks on his screens as he watches you beat the robots he’s painstakingly made, or the men he hired to protect his assets. All of it usually leading to his hand down his trousers, furiously pumping his length to the thought of putting you in your place, of showing you that he is the greatest mind Gotham has ever seen, and you’ll respect it, as he’d cum all over his hand and torso.

Now here you are, practically putty in his hand as he thrusts into your cunt like a toy. He’ll never grow tired of this memory, no matter how debilitating it’ll become when he’s forced to work, or worse, confront you again. He channels all those emotions into spanking your ass, the gasp like music to his ears as he rails you.

You’re so desperate for the orgasm he cruelly denied you that you sneak your hand down to rub your clit, which of course he notices. But he can’t seem to stop you, as he keeps thrusting over and over again.

“So good for me, so good for the Riddler.” He says, uncharacteristically breathy and lower pitched. You just nod in agreement, little moans escaping you. Feeling his orgasm barreling towards him, he grips at your neck once more, desperate to feel your life in his hands again.

“How about I let you cum this time, wouldn’t that be nice? Yeah? Say thank you.”

Your clit throbs at the permission, getting closer and closer to the edge again as you moan. “Thank you Mister Nigma, sir.”

With that title, he moans and rails you without mercy, clearly chasing his own pleasure. That doesn’t matter though, as you’re cumming around his cock regardless, making a mess of the ratty sofa beneath you. In a couple of thrusts, he buries himself inside you with a guttural groan, and you’re so fucked out you don’t even have the energy to lambaste him for cumming inside you. That’s a problem for tomorrow, as both of your heavy breathing's sync up.

He pulls out of you reluctantly and with a soft hiss, looking at your ruined hole with a small amount of pride in his chest. In all honesty, he didn’t expect to get this far with you, so now seemingly you’re both a little out of your elements. With an uncertain hand, he brushes the hair out of your face, looking at you curiously, as if to gage what you’re going to do.

“I still hate you, you know.” You mumble halfheartedly, moving a little to lay back on the sofa.

He chuckles, soft and light. “I know dear.”

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[raineydays411]

My Fathers Daughter pt8

The Dinner

summary: It's finally time for the dinner you've been dreading since your arrival, awesome. At least you get to know some of the bat family better than before

Also I forgot if I put the ages for these characters if I did and anyone could tell me that would be awesome.

When you first arrived to Gotham, you weren't really sure what to think.

Like yeah, you knew it was gonna suck cause you were moving in with the woman who deserted you and your father, causing you to grow up faster than you were meant to and giving you trust issues.

And sure, Gotham seems to have some sort of disaster literally every single day of the week.

But at this point, you really would rather chance it with the clown or whatever than sit through this awkward ass dinner.

"ahem"

Everyone eyes shoot to Bruce, who cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence everyone was eating in.

"Y/n" He starts, causing you to groan internally. You were tired of being in the spotlight, especially when you knew half of this family doesn't fuck with you .

"I know I've said this before, but I know how hard sudden life changes like this are. If there's anything you need to be comfortable please let me know. This is your home now too."

You smile slightly, but before you could say anything Damian interrupts you

"Tch, father you say that as if she's a part of this family. We all know shes not."

"Damian, enough." Christine says sternly, " You've been difficult the whole day. Leave your sister alone."

"Oh please Mother, she's no blood of mine nor yours" he says absent minded

This was your chance.

"Well she actually pushed me out so..." You say taking a sip of your drink. You relished in the reactions from around the table

Jason snorted so hard his drink spilled

Dick looked disgusted and amused at the same time.

Tim looked disgusted but thats cause Jasons snort water managed to splash him from across the table. But the best reaction was from Damian and Cass. They just looked straight up angry.

Angry at the thought of their mother pushing you our of her cooch. Which was the most hilarious thing to you.

"How dare you speak about our mother like that? Have you no respect?"

"Dude, I'm gonna be honest I cannot take you seriously while you talk like an Asgardian. Get with the century Tiny Tim."

Another snort comes from Jason, " You know what kid, you're alright with me"

"I'm nineteen." You deadpan

"You look like you're twelve" Jason snarks

You pause for a bit before saying, "I'll tell you what you look like but you won't like it."

"Okay children, enough." Christine says, " Y/n, how do you like the room?"

"It's... very Addams family chic." You say, not really trying to be rude, " But if I'm being honest it's gonna take some getting used to."

"Well, you have free reign to decorate it anyway you'd like." Christine says, " In fact, we can make a day out of it!"

You physically have to stop yourself from cringing, " Um, yeah.. that sounds interesting, Or i can just order everything off amazon, no hassle."

" Oh it's no bother, it would give us some time to catch up" Christine says excitedly, " Oh we can make it a girls day, you and me!"

You feel someone glaring daggers into your head, as you turn you make eye contact with Cass.

Oh great, another Damian.

"Um.." You were never good in uncomfortable situations. Usually you would signal to your dad or Pepper and they'd find a way to get you out of it.

Even if you were good at navigating through uncomfortable situations, you doubt that anyone would know that to do in these circumstances.

"I mean some of the stuff I can only get online anyways so.." You say awkwardly.

You see Christine deflate and then more glares from the peanut gallery. Honestly its starting to get old.

" You know if you two keep glaring at me, your face will get stuck like that. " You say sarcastically, " Honestly doesn't it hurt to have such a sour face all the time? You're gonna get some crazy frown lines"

But before either Damian or Cass could respond, Bruce stood with a " Okay then! Y/n, how about you take my credit card and get whatever you need online, then your mother will take you AND Cass shopping"

Oh, this was a rich dads way of saying shut up.

"Great a whole day with Wednesday and Morticia." you mutter as Alfred takes your barely touched plate, " Thanks Lurch."

Alfred looks semi amused at the comparison. At least he appreciates your wit.

"Hey" A voice calls to catch your attention, it was Jason.

"I'll take you to your bedroom while Alfred cleans up, don't need you getting lost."

You look at him suspiciously, but take his offer wanting to be alone.

"If you kill me, there's gonna be a lot of pissed off superhero's on your ass." You say following him out of the room.

"Trust me princess, I'm not the one you have to worry about killing you." Jason scoffs.

"Yeah the little ones look like they might stab me in the shower." You say with a wince, " What did i do to them anyway?"

" Trust me its not you." Jason says, " They are the the easiest to be around, there's a wall there." He gestures to his heart.

"Ah"

"But if I'm being honest, finding out about you has been a shock to all of us." He says," I honestly thought Ma couldn't have kids."

You snot cruelly, " Yeah well finding out about all of you hasn't been easy for me either."

"I bet. You know, most of us haven't had much luck with mothers or families. That's why we're here."

"I have a family. A pretty good one too."

"I'm just saying I understand why you'd be angry. I was for a long time. I think sometimes I still am." Jason says before stopping, " Well here we are. If you tell anyone I told you that I'll deny it and they'll believe me."

"Thanks." You simply say, " It's nice to not hate one person that lives here."

And with that you go into the your room and close the door.

[mzminola]

Bruce sets up an elaborate mindfuck for Tim's birthday in an attempt to make Tim less trusting of even allies, giving him a mental breakdown. Bruce claims this will make Tim a better vigilante.

Tim, upon figuring it out, throws his Robin uniform literally in Bruce's face, cussing him out (like, actually censored swears, which Tim usually doesn't use), and quits. He talks with Steph about how messed up it was, and she empathizes out of her own messed up experiences with Bruce.

An unclear but short time later, probably a few days, Tim un-quits and states to Bruce that he doesn't expect an apology (not because it's unnecessary, but because he knows Bruce).

~

Stephanie returns from presumed death, finds Bruce, and accepts his orders to not reveal herself to everyone else & to take extreme actions to, once again in Bruce's estimate, make Tim a better vigilante.

This includes running around town in her original costume so Tim thinks his dead friend has a copycat, hiring people to attack him, working with a bomber, and even after knocking all that off, not sharing pertinent information about it with Tim, resulting in Tim being caught in an explosion.

Tim yells at Stephanie and says "Don't let me catch you wearing [the Spoiler] costume ever again." When she tracks him down a little later, he refuses to speak with her.

An unclear amount of time later, probably a few months, Tim is willing to work with Stephanie to stop a supervillain plot.

~

Some fans treat Tim's word-choice in the confrontation with Steph as him trying to control her. As him thinking he's got the authority to decide who can and cannot operate as a vigilante, at least in Gotham.

But. Like. One, aside from this one conversation, he takes no actions to stop her. He doesn't steal her gear (like Bruce sometimes steals people's uniform), he doesn't go and tell other people to stop working with her, he doesn't even go snitch to her mom.

Tim just. Tells the friend who got him very badly hurt while mindfucking him that he doesn't want to see her in the field again.

Two, it's a pretty dang similar response to when Bruce mindfucked him in the first example. Tim is the one who insists Batman needs a Robin. And here he is depriving Batman of Robin.

Yet if I tried to claim "Tim quitting Robin is his attempt to control Batman, is Tim acting like he has authority to stop Bruce from being a vigilante" you'd laugh in my face. Because that is a huge leap to make, with convoluted logic, and isn't supported by the rest of the text.

Bruce & Stephanie both screw Tim up really badly.

He confronts them and says he's breaking ties.

Then after a little distance, he goes right back to working with them.

And some people think this is...controlling? Don't get me wrong, Tim has some controlling tendencies, they all do, but it's usually teaming up with Alfred to stop Bruce patrolling while injured, and lying his ass off to everyone so he can do what he wants.

This? Is not that.